When I was going on 7, my Irish Catholic father, the master sergeant, made us all watch the inauguration of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
He said the president of the United States was going to swear an oath.
I was pretty excited about getting to hear a president swear on TV in front of the whole country. I knew swear words. My mom used those words when she got mad at me all the time.
Once, I “accidentally” let her canary out of its cage. It was fun to watch it flutter around inside the house as she frantically chased it, like Sylvester trying to trap Tweety. Once the bird was trapped, she turned her attention to me. Actual flames flew out of her mouth. I’ll never forget her glowing red eyes. Fortunately, all my hair and both ears grew back.
One morning mom caught me in front of the bathroom mirror. I was unaware she was just standing there, her thick arms crossed, watching me, as I teetered on a step stool, trying out different obscenities for impact.
Fortunately for me my entire rump grew back, and I eventually learned to walk again.
Out in the alley behind our house, my pals Jesse, Chuck and I took turns shouting aloud our favorite forbidden words. Jesse was first to overcome his concern that hell would swallow him up. He shouted, “Damn.” We freckle-faced devils cackled. Chuck scanned the sky for lightning bolts and decided his God had other fish to fry. He shouted a common vernacular term for a certain anatomical feature at which point the three of us heard Mrs. Goldberg shout at us from behind her backyard fence, “What are you boys doing?”
We’d been caught. In terror I whispered my dad’s favorite expletive and we ran from the scene of the crime.
While I played with my toy soldiers in front of the Magnavox I wondered what curse word President Kennedy was going to say. But he just went on and on about “freedom” and “doing what’s right’ and “bearing any burden’ and “asking not what you can do for your country.” He didn’t swear once. I was so disappointed I cursed under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Pop.
“Hey, Dad, what does ‘asking my country to do not’ mean?”
“Ask not.”
“Ask not what my country can’t do?”
“No. Ask not what your country can do for you.”
“What can’t it not do?”
Mom glared at me. “Ask not any more questions.”
Oaths matter.
This sounds hypocritical coming from me, a guy who’s been married multiple times. My friend Elliot Glicksman had a bumper sticker printed that read, “Honk if you’ve been married to Dave Fitzsimmons.” Yeah, promises matter. Bill should have resigned when the Lewinsky thing broke because Mr. Clinton had broken his promise to his wife to be faithful. My belief that vows matter doesn’t spring from any great moral character but rather from my inability to conceal guilt.
Mom did not cotton to lying or breaking promises.“Did you steal that chewing gum from the store?”
“Um…I found it.” My face was scarlet with guilt.
“Are you lying to me?”
This question always caused my sinful head to disintegrate into a blubbering glob of tears and my knees to buckle. Both of my butt cheeks applied for passports so they could flee the country immediately.
“Every word that comes out of your mouth had better be the truth. What you say matters.”
I couldn’t lie for the life of me. Unlike other folks we know, for whom lying is second nature. Easy as breathing or tweeting. I always confessed.
Yesterday I imagined the ghost of my mom standing on the inaugural platform, looming over our president-elect as he placed his hand on his own Bible, and Lincoln’s Bible. Two Bibles means you mean it twice as much, I guess. I imagined Mom crossing her arms as our new commander-in-chief stopped texting long enough to repeat the words the Chief Justice had just spoken. “I, Donald J. Trump, solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
I imagined my mom whispering into our president’s ear, “Every word that comes out of your mouth had better be the truth. What you say matters.” Mom believed everyone had a shot at redemption, no matter their past. Not me. I whispered my dad’s favorite expletive, figuring like Chuck, in the alley behind our house, that God on this fine January day had other fish to fry.
