Journée Internationale de la Francophonie

French swear words have very little corporeal effect upon me. Putain, fait chier, bordel, ta gueule! are all words and exclamations I hear quite regularly and might even be inclined to use in translated frustration, among friends or co-workers. (Okay, not ta gueule - I reserve that for nights out with the rugby team, after two or three Ricards.) To my ear, salaud and pétasse and va te faire... voir sound just as melodious as chatton, mirabelle, and enchanté, eliciting equal parts thoughtful interpretation and linguistic curiosity. I'm more interested in cerebrally decoding the symbol than worrying about its emotional punch on me, no matter the situation or expleter. And writing those words does not send rebellious chills up my spine the way using the "f" word on a web site would. I can't even type the damn "f" word, and yet I rattle off its French equivalent in a cavalier manner that may be misguided and has, on occasion, gotten me quizzical looks from strangers.

I'm sure it's the same for anyone speaking a language they were not punished, threatened, or teased with during their formative years. As a child, no one ever screamed at me, "Putain, tu fais chier, Aralena!" when I inevitably started wearing on nerves. The impact of such an irked outburst today would not prove gut-wrenching or tear-jerking - just French.

Long-held, emotionally trying images do not accompany many of the sounds that come flying from French mouths in the métro, in a bar, on the street, or at work. The term bordel still conjures up an old Dolly Parton movie or a commerce legal only in Nevada.

My cognitive pathways do not throw up red lights and flares when I overhear an enraged person spouting off profanities in French; I'm more likely to crane my neck and tip my head in the heated direction, mining for undiscovered syntax or accents on the delivery.

But then - leaning on anecdotal evidence here - I get the feeling that the French do not censor their panoply of jurons as severely as my American compatriots. I can't speak for all Anglophones - the British cuss lexicon is of yet not my own- but on a very basic level, four-letter words are potential firecrackers, highly charged and dangerous, though sometimes really fun and exciting to watch fly. Americans are discouraged from indulging in Tourett's syndrome-induced tirades at work; if I mutter an irritated "et merde!" at my computer, not an eye will bat. Case in point: at lunch the other day we went around the table sharing our first learned swear words and when I offered pute as one of my first encounters with French cursing, I got heckled, "Allez, you can do better than that!" followed by a mind-boggling list of rich expletives, which I will not inventory here.

...French dirty talk is more likely to illicit peals of laughter from me than an increased heart beat or a sudden, ravenous desire. In fact, a private joke that never concludes in anything but me and a friend bent over in abdomen-toning laughter revolves around an otherwise innocuous question, "t'aimes ça, hein?" I'm giggling to myself as I write it, remembering Cori, lip curled, eyelids lowered, imitating a mutual French friend who once posed that very question, coupled with a slap to the rear. Oh putain!

Nancy Huston wrote her Master's dissertation on swear words under the tutelage of Roland Barthes. O! to have been a fly on the wall of their meetings.