B-Word

One thing I love about our nursery school is that it's a cooperative. This means for all intents and purposes, we all have our hands in it. We each have a stake deeply dug into the place. And this also means that we work there. So you end up reading stories, cutting bananas in to one-inch rings, wiping noses and zipping coats. I have a firm belief that the more you serve, the more you come to love. In this way, I have come to see my children's friends as my friends and this I hate to say, my kids' tensions and conflicts as my tensions and conflicts.

Manny graduated from three years of this nursery school and after a year of homeschool is now at Plymouth Friends. For his intents and purposes, Plymouth is a cooperative where he feels open to dialogue about injustices even when they don't directly involve him. Yesterday, my friend whose family belonged to the nursery school with us, warned me that she witnessed some conflict in Manny's classroom which involved Manny being outraged that one boy called another boy a name.

In the car, Manny told me that gym class was "stressful" because some boys were accusing another boy of cheating. His description came to a crescendo, "Mom, I got so mad because they called [friend] a B-word!" B-word? What? My mind spun-- bitches? Seven-year olds calling eachother "bitches?" Seven year-old boys? What? "Bitch" is a word used by more ego-wounding situations, unheard of and grievous to hear at this age and isn't it used more appropriately for females? Words, as you know, mean everything to me. So it began to possess me, this need to know if in fact first-grade name-calling had come to this grievous point. My dear friend who serves as my eyes and ears in the classroom (We both think in the style of the co-op-- I feel for your kid like he is my own.) tells me that she's blown away at Manny's sense of justice. How he wanted a resolution and it was beautiful and sad to see him enraged. How the teacher was trying to help him let up on some of his anger.

I, however, was stuck on the B-word. "Manny, honey, what was the B-word, was it bully? Was it bone-head?"

A curt retort, "Mom, I can't say it. I don't want to get in trouble for saying it. It's too mean. You wouldn't want me to say it!"

I put Benicio on the case, who was as riveted as me, "Oh, I know. Was it a potty-word?" Manny said no.

I let it go, knowing I would just blow it out of proportion but I brought it up at knit-night. Out of three of us, one of us voted definitely no, it was not "bitch." Not at this age, at that school. However, there was a yes vote, which was backed by the most hilarious and fervent monologue I have heard in months. I won't embarass her but she has a beautiful penchant for swearing and it comes out at the funniest times. The monologue went something like, "Oh, you can't even run, your so girly, you bitch." The crassness and the imagined scenario I found wildly funny.

Geoff, who does not have the cursing-gene and is generally non-plussed by movies with great cursing (scene from Knocked Up, when the older sister is described as "old as F" makes me double over with laughter), asked me to drop the subject before bed. However this morning, I called back my insider-friend, "Are you sure you didn't hear what the B-word was? Would you see if your daughter knows? " No dice. She suggested that maybe the bad word was literally "B-word?" I had not thought of this.

Finally, casually, I said, "Yeah, I can't believe they called him a 'B-word! How do you spell that again? " Benicio suggested, "B-U-T-T?" Manny said, "No, B-R!"

That was it. The horrible, unspeakable word was BRAT. I wrote it on a scrap of paper, held it out to Manny. He nodded fervently, lips pursed tightly.