Swearwords, Ouija Boards & Other Lessons From Grandma

I was in elementary school--maybe only second grade, when Grandma stopped me in the hallway at her house and explained that “you can say ‘blue smoke’ or ‘purple cow,’ but only God is holy.” I was confused because saying those apparently sinful phrases had felt so satisfying. “Holy smoke!” I exclaimed with great enthusiasm. My classmates all smiled when they said them. No one else looked like they felt bad or guilty. I twas a hard idea to reconcile, but of course, I stopped saying it. Grandma hadn’t threatened eternal damnation or even a spanking or a mouthful of soap, but her somber, certain tone must’ve brought to mind the sad-eyed painting of blonde-haired Jesus, and I never wanted to disappoint anyone.

Grandma was also the one who banished, with just a few words, the coveted ouija board. My sisters and I had all wanted one--everyone had one back then--and our atheist-agnostic neighbors (the ones who let us stay up just a little bit later than bedtime and allowed candy and pop) gave it to us for Christmas. Josie, Abbey and I had summoned up a dozen spirits there on the sunny floor of the playroom in our pajamas before Grandma found out. “That’s a tool of the devil,” she said, again not menacingly, not trying to scare us--just telling us the matter-of-fact truth about life (and the afterlife). I think she told us to burn it, but we hid it under the couch.

Though we kept it, every time thereafter, fingertips on the little plastic triangle, I’d feel my hands moving of their own accord and wonder if she was right. The risk of really communing with the devil took some of the fun out of it.

There was another time when I played, “Sand, Cement and Water” in her presence that ended with a fake demonic possession, praying and wailing to God and me once again left feeling confused about how something that had been so fun (and that I was so good at) could be bad.

(We were all in a station wagon coming back from our A.W.A.K.E. multi-generational theatre performance. I told the “Sand, Cement and Water” tale to a boy about my age, eleven or so. This was of the same era as “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board.” I told the story of how the boy was knocked unconscious, only to awake to feel a circle of skin and bone being cut out of his forehead. His captors then proceeded to fill him up with sand, cement and water, sand, cement and water, until he was as solid as a rock and couldn’t move. I had discovered my skill at this at summer camp, embellishing the gruesome tale and using a hypnotic rhythm as the sand, cement and water filled his body, layer by layer. If it was done right, and I was one of the best, the subject would be unable to move for at least twenty seconds after the story was completed.

So, I did this to a rather obnoxious boy while we drove through the darkness, massaging his temples and ignoring my Grandma’s comment about demons and evil spirits. Everything went as planned, but the boy got mad that it had worked on him and begin to thrash around, muttering gibberish and rolling his eyes back in his head. The other family in the car was a religious home-schooling mother and son who immediately began to pray, then weep and beg Jesus to call the demon out of him. The other girl started crying, too, even as I insisted he was faking it. When he finally quit it, I smacked him and started to cry myself. I think I only did “Sand, Cement and Water” once or twice after that, but as with the “holy smoke” and the ouija board, I never enjoyed myself again.

The last time I swore in earshot of my grandma--the only time--I was in traffic and suddenly afraid I was about to crash into the car in front of me. “Holy shit!” I cried with my cell phone pressed against my cheek. I immediately tried to backtrack, explaining to her what the situation was. In that same, simple way she countered my “I hardly ever swear,” with “you shouldn’t swear at all.”

But this was a few years after a life threatening accident and recovery that gave her the mantra, “it’s not my job to judge people--God judges people. It’s my job to love them.” I was older now. I had more wayward cousins who did worse than say “holy shit,” so I didn’t feel so bad.

Except, I sort of did. But this time it was clear to me that it was because I agreed with her. I shouldn’t say holy anything. Even if I don’t believe all the same religious creeds as she does, even though I keep this to myself so she won’t worry about the state of my soul or our reunion (or lack thereof) in Heaven, i do believe that the Holy exists, and just like I wouldn’t stomp on flowers or throw a painting in the mud, I shouldn’t smear shit on whatever this Holiness is, not even if I’m about to be in a fender bender.

Do I really worry that playing with an ouija board or saying ‘sand, cement and water’ are invitations to the devil? I don’t know. I didn’t do either of them with bad or harmful intent. But that uncertainty is what made me stop, and what has stopped me since. Grandma may be old and outdated, but she may also be right.

So I just say “Jeez Louise!” I let “shit” stand alone. And when I make my art, I try to tell not stories of how we die, but of how we live.