Mom was forever telling us kids to stop saying “shut up”
and “oh my God.” So, one of us nine girls
must have found a secret French connection and “fermé la bouche” was born. Before you knew it, no one was yelling
“shut up” any more.
Of course, this was long before siri, the internet, or
iphone translator apps. Clearly, this
was not listed under “F” in our Webster’s
Dictionary and even more disturbing, it was nowhere to be found in our
edition of Funk and Wagnalls. So, no one really knew what it meant. Except
her, the sister who ‘knew’ French. I thought it sounded suspiciously like a feminine
hygiene product. But no one would
address that concern.
“Fermé
la bouche.”
She loved the way it rolled off her tongue and gave strength
to her meaning. Whatever it was. It made her believe in her own authority. Soon, we all needed to try it and feel for
ourselves, the power of a foreign tongue. We said it hard and fast. We said it
slow and soft. We declared war with it
and laid our dollies to sleep with it. We
stressed every conceivable syllable with as many intonations. There was a lot of “fermé
la bouche”-ing going on.
At some point, I tired of her puff-uppery and listening to
her “fermé
la bouche” this and “fermé
la bouche” that. She had met
her résistance. “Shut up!” I yelled, among other things. She swore to God I’d go to hell for calling
her a “fool” (but …”you are”… I added.) “Don’t
fools go to hell too?” If only I had
known how to say it properly… “Les
imbéciles ne vont-ils pas à l'enfer aussi?”
I knew she knew the Bible about as well as she knew
French. So, I put my sword down and
picked up my pen instead. Én
garde.
Funny, … to this day… she wields a gavel and I, a pen. C’est la vie.
