Let's Start Again (ii)

My name is Toby Jones and, for now at least, I am teacher. Tomorrow I may well be suspended, a little way down the line I may perhaps be sacked, but for now I am most definitely a teacher; it says so on my “Face Book” page.

It also states on there that I am a thirty-five year old Londoner with a penchant for sitting of an evening in front of a real fire drinking semi-expensive wine whilst ruminating on the day that has gone before. That is where you find me now; drinking wine and ruminating.

The reason my status may be in some doubt is due to the fact today I took a chance. To my mind good teaching involves an element of risk taking. Just think of Professor John Keating in “Dead Poets’ Society”; he broke away from the perceived norm that students are in the classroom not to think for themselves but to swallow whole the formulaic rhubarb laid before them by stilted, unimaginative pedagogues devoid of new ideas.

As was the case for Robin Williams’ character in that admirable movie, my risk taking may also be about to blow up in my face.

* * * * *

Regardless of how it may ultimately end, today started much like any other; bang on 8.50 I entered the classroom, briefcase in hand and a pile of marking cradled somewhat precariously under one arm.

‘Good morning everyone, I hope you are all well this fine day!’

I never address the members of my class as “children”; they are all fifteen and sixteen years old after all. Nor do I call them “kids”, I feel that would say more about how I want them to see me rather than how I see them. “People” I definitely steer clear of; it makes me sound like the camp, albeit stereotypical, choreographer of a fictional stage musical.

Instead I just say “everyone”; and in microcosm everyone is more or less reflected in the group of thirty-two individuals who were seated before me. This mixture was more apparent than is usual as for this one hour lesson each week the students are taught in their form groups, not in the academic streams in to which they have, over time, been sorted.

At the back of the class sat Trevor Dixon, the embodiment of rebellious youth; if the scribblings on his ruler are to be believed, if pigs could fly I, Mr Jones, would be squadron leader. Two seats over was Claire Figgis, her only aim in life to have babies and be on benefits. At the front of the room, dead centre and full of earnest yet misplaced endeavour, sat Amy Woodthorpe, intelligent but conceited, eager to prove herself academically superior to all those around her. Behind her was Satwinder Gill, intelligent, quiet, thoughtful… and a fantastic footballer; I fervently hope the university to which he is headed has a good soccer team as well as a high academic standing.

I will not weary you with biographical insights into any more of my pupils, I think you get where I’m going with the “everyone” thing. As for “I hope you are well”, I truly do wish the very best for all of them whatever their desires and personality traits and regardless of their opinions of education in general or me in particular.

Having opened up with my customary salutation I went in immediately for the kill:

‘Today I’m going to talk to you about the “c” word.’

It is testament to the power of the word in question that every man jack of them new instantly to which ordered assemblage of letters I was referring.

Let’s face it, many words begin with the letter “c” and many of those may have some meaning that leads us to shy away from them. To me, stuck on yet another failing diet, the word “chocolate” could certainly fit the bill. Just saying “chocolate” brings the taste to my mouth, I can hear the delicate yet satisfying snap as I break a segment from the bar, I can feel its creamy deliciousness melting on my tongue, I can see the next chunk crying out to be eaten even as I savour its sibling… “Calories”, in my mind the natural enemy of chocolate, could also qualify as a “c” word. But not THE “c” word, the other BIG “C” itself, the dreaded word…

“Cunt!” cried Trevor enthusiastically, quick to take advantage of my seeming permission to utter this most cursed of curse words.

To say there was a “universal reaction” to Trevor’s cry would be to sum up immediately what I hoped the class would eventually see as my view of the problem the word in question can cause. Yes they all reacted, universally reacted, but the reaction they experienced was not in fact universal.

Several of the class smaned. Others, Amy Woodthorpe prominent amongst them, registered disgust. A few, like Satwinder, looked confused by the open usage of such a taboo-laden expletive.

‘The word itself,’ I began, ‘is believed by some to be of possible Germanic origin derived from the prehistoric “kunton” or “female genitals”. Others link it to the Latin word “cunnus” meaning pudenda, or “cuneus” meaning wedge.’

‘Pudenda is also Latin,’ piped up Amy. ‘It means “shameful parts”. ‘

‘Indeed it does Amy,’ I replied; I’d had to look that up in the dictionary. ‘Around 1230,’ I went on, ‘records show there was a street in Oxford actually called “Gropecuntlane”. But enough of its history, I’d like you to tell me what the word “cunt” means to you. It’s alright,’ I reassured them. ‘No one’s going to get into any trouble.

‘Except me perhaps,’ I added silently.

‘That’s what I call my shitty little brother when he rats me out to my dad,’ said Trevor.

‘It’s what my boyfriend calls my front bottom,’ offered up Claire, a red male face in the middle of the class giving an instant clue as to the current holder of the title “Claire’s boyfriend”.

‘Speaking as a woman I find it degrading,’ sneered Amy.

‘And that,’ I replied, ‘is the essence of what today’s lesson is about. In deference to Amy we will now refer to it, for the most part, only as “the c word”.’ Trevor for one looked disappointed.

‘There are many words for the “front bottom” as Claire calls it; fanny, twat, vagina, to name but a few. In that context the “c” word is no more controversial, it is merely the description of a female body part.

‘There are also many similar words that meet the usage Trevor so eloquently eluded too; prat, prick, dickhead, arsehole, it is merely an insult used to convey one’s opinion of another’s ideas or actions.

‘It is my contention, and also the contention of many others I might add, that it’s the third context in which the word is used that leads to such a feeling of abhorrence; it is its use, as Amy said, as a way of degrading women.’

‘He means “cuntext”,’ said Trevor, in what he doubtless considered a conspiratorial whisper.

‘If a woman says “my cunt is wet”….’ I began to yet more smans followed by the inevitable interruption from Trevor.

‘You said we wouldn’t say cu… the “c” word!’ he cried.

‘I also said “for the most part”, Trevor, and I mostly meant you. As I was saying, if a woman says “my cunt is wet”, why should that be any more offensive than her saying “my vagina is wet” or indeed a man saying “my dick is hard”?’ This was greeted by yet more muffled laughter from Trevor and his ilk and a sharp intake of breath from Amy.

‘If anybody, man or woman calls someone who cuts them up on the road a “cunt”, why should that be more offensive, to society in general as opposed to the “insultee” in particular, than calling them a “fucking idiot”?

‘The reason why a man calling a woman the “c” word is so offensive is because in his mind he is reducing that woman to nothing more than a piece of meat with which to have sex. He sees her not as a person, not as a breathing human being with thoughts, rights and emotions, but as something with no purpose other than to serve as a repository for his seed and as a provider of a service. He doesn’t even particularly care if that seed should bear fruit.’

‘Trees bear fruit, not seeds!’ huffed Amy.

‘In that instant,’ I continued, ‘she is nothing but a vehicle to satisfy his lust. But consider this; is a woman who views a man as nothing but a prick and a sperm sack, put on this earth merely to fertilise her eggs, any less offensive? While the word “prick” as a derogatory term may carry none of the weight, or indeed the moral indignation, of the “c” word, is the thinking behind its use in this very circumstance any less demeaning?

‘I offer you this thought, let’s start again; not by censoring without context the use of a word, but rather by ending the disrespect that exists between the sexes. Let’s start again by banishing the notion that either sex exists solely as an object to be used by the other. It is not the word itself that is degrading but the thought that lies behind it. Banish the thought, don’t censor the word.’

For a moment the entire class was silent.
‘Mr Jones?’ said Satwinder. ‘May I speak freely sir?’

‘That means he gonna use the “c” word’ Trevor opined.

Satwinder smiled at the interruption. ‘Not at all,’ he said.

‘Please go ahead,’ I responded. ‘This is an educational establishment, not a prison.’

‘Yeh right!’ interjected Trevor to a smattering of smans.

Unperturbed Satwinder carried on. ‘You say we shouldn’t censor the “c” word out of hand, but even if its use as a purely biological term is somehow acceptable, why should it be ok to use it as an insult?’

‘Go on,’ I prompted.

‘If I call you “stupid” that is stronger and more offensive than calling you “silly”. If I were to call you an “effing idiot” that’s even stronger. You allowed as much yourself when you talked about the angry driver. Why do we think it ok to say just what we want to people regardless of their feelings? You say “let’s start again” in society’s attitude to gender, but why not in our attitude to other people full stop?‘

I have to admit he had a point.

‘That’s an excellent point,’ I said simply. ‘And it’s one I’d like you all to consider in the essay you’re going to write on this very subject.’

This announcement, as was par for the course, was met by a chorus of groans as well as a few disgruntled glances in Satwinder’s direction.

‘Before any of you waste your mental energies on finding an epithet for Satwinder, let me assure you I was going to set the essay before he spoke up. Oh, by the way, and this is for your ears especially Mr Dixon, you may not use the actual word in your essays, if you do you will get an F!’

Unfair? Quite possibly, particularly as it might just be my career that is set to get an “F”.

‘Have a good rest of day.’ I said, dismissing the class, hopefully not for the final time.

* * * * *

That then was what transpired, and to whoever may be reading this I say also ‘have a good rest of a day’. As for me, I’m going to finish my wine… and this delicious bar of my own particular “c” word. Calories be damned!

COPYRIGHT D M PAMMENT 8th JUNE 2011