My bizarre encounters with the F word began in third grade when our teacher moved our seats. This new arrangement was my daytime nightmare, now Rodney’s desk touched mine- enabling him to copy from my papers.

One morning, Rodney suggested that I go up to Miss Merenic and say, ‘Duck with an F’ and ask her what it means. Hmm, maybe Rodney Delaney had some interest in school after all. My two goodie shoes led me to her desk.

“Miss Merenic, what does duf mean?”

“Duf, is not a word, Lilly; now please sit down.”

I reported back to Rodney that duf was not a word. Rodney put his head down. In retrospect he must have questioned the whole premise of his academic plan. The girl from whom he regularly chose to copy put the F on the wrong end of the duck!

Six years later I located my assigned study hall spot in the high school auditorium. Scratched into the back of the seat was Duck with an F on, shall I say, the ‘correct’ end. That was the first time I had seen it written. Staring at that day after day until suddenly it dawned on me that I had been set up back in the third grade!

On to college where I moved into what appeared to be a typical girls’ dormitory. Turns out it was a dorm of ducks. This is where, through the block walls, I was shocked to hear duck with an F spoken for the first time...also for the second, the third, the fourth ad nauseam. I lived in a profanity mine field. Here ducks displayed their versatility:  as verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and very improper nouns. Any sentence could include one and no description was complete without thee word. For example, the girl living in the next room routinely had trouble getting her key to open the lock. Several times a day she flung F-bombs at that door until it opened. Once when her parents were visiting, the key stuck and lo and behold, the raft of ducks was replaced with one puny ‘darn’ as in “this darn lock”! That was a good day. On most days, these students comprehended neither the concept of “overkill” nor that other one about expanding one’s vocabulary. How did I end up in this place where the loud and the vulgar ruled? I found refuge in the library where the silence provided the peace not found on my wing.  

I had had it with this gang of classless cursers having been bombarded with their noise pollution far too long. I was also a bit intimidated by these uncensored women. There were a lot of them and one of me and the year was almost over. I devised what felt like a simple but gutsy farewell and shared it only with my closest friend, Patty, across the hall. At the appointed time, right before I left to get the Greyhound out of there, I carried my suitcase down to the lobby. I climbed back to the top of the stairwell opening onto the second floor and in my loudest voice (almost drowned out by the beating of my heart) screamed “Goodbye all you mother duffers!” only I said it the common way with all the ducks in a row, if you will. Then I bounded down the stairs, grabbed my bag, zipped out the door and jogged toward the bus station. And that was the first time (and the last) that I said the big deal, stupid F-word. I’m not proud of it, but it needed to be done. My friend told me later that it got a stunning reaction. Doors were flung open all along the hall with people wanting to know who could have yelled that—because it sounded exactly like Lil. Really? Lil was gone; on her way to a decent place called home.

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.