If you’ve read my first book, Rise of the Truth Teller, you might remember my story about Mrs. Lester and the YMCA, where I think I learned to use the f-word. Call it fifth-grade cool (although how can you be cool when you are the student body organizer for food drives and best friends with your guidance counselor) or total indoctrination, but I wasn’t about to be the only one at the Y who didn’t cuss.
I slipped up in my teacher’s class when I made a mistake (probably on fractions) and said “fuuuuuu” (pivot Mrs. Lester is looking pivot) “uu-aaarrrrtttt!” Her long black skirt swished slowly to my desk, and she cocked her head to one side, messy bun spilling wispies on both sides, and said, “Ashley, do you know the meaning of the word flatulence?”
Of course, I didn’t. So Mrs. Lester gave me detention, and I had to write across the blackboard 100 times: flatulence: the accumulation of gas in the alimentary canal.
I want to tell you this cured me from cursing, but you already know that didn’t happen. I quit for about ten years from 25-35 because I thought this might be a top concern to Jesus, but then we moved to the East Coast, and the folks on the prayer line were like, “I told him to f— right off, and we might be getting a divorce - can you pray for me?”
Brutal city life makes cursing the absolute bottom of the Babylon sin totem pole. Anyway, my other favorite F-word is forgiveness.
The choice to forgive is a decision to pierce the bitter with the sweet.
The folks I’m forgiving don’t deserve it; they are enemies of progress. But the choice to let them live in my head and control my life is mine. The people who’ve hurt us might not deserve forgiveness, but they don’t deserve any more power either. So let’s not give it to them, okay?
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