The F-Word

Three weeks ago, on a Saturday night, I was flipping through Dutch tv channels for any noteworthy shows when I happened upon The F Word, a cooking reality show by Britain-based chef extraordinaire, Gordon Ramsay.

Mr Ramsay is infamous for his off-the-cuff yet curt treatment of fledgling trainee chefs (or minions) on the show, since its commencement in 2005. In plain speaking, he likes to swear a lot, hence the F-word title for his successful show. His obscenity-laden method seems to be a hit formula so much so that he was named the scariest person on British television in 2006.

Personally, I think it's all a publicity gimmick to rake in the ratings in today's ever competitive and cut-throat television showbusiness. But after googling him a few nights ago, I was floored by Ramsay's range of credentials and global successes. With restaurants galore in the UK, US and Japan, his television appearances seem to be only an icing on the cake to his innumerable list of accomplishments.

Ramsay aside, the casual usage of profanities reminded me of my collegiate years for it was during this time I had to confront the literal manifestation of the F-word.

As a freshman in college, I was assigned to two Mid-west American roommates, in a study room that had been converted into a dorm room for three people. We were actually the guineapigs (or pioneers) for this three's-company arrangement and oftentimes, random people would stuck their heads into our room, gawking at the 'floorplan' and the set-up of furniture and fixtures. The first few times when my 'seniors' showed their faces unannounced, I was fine with their healthy curiousity, but after the umpteenth times, it had become grossly annoying!

Back to my roommates - one is a self-proclaimed agnostic who proudly revealed her high alcohol tolerance level and whose parents are divorced, whilst the other is a curvaceous blonde lass with an air of importance and a weight issue, whose looks reminisced of those fair German Fräuleins.

We did get along initially but as time passed by, the glaring differences in our cultures and interests began to creep out. First, they like to 'ensnare' and check out the guys. Secondly, getting wasted on the weekend is high on the agenda.

Conversely, I was too shy and awkward to care about the opposite sex's opinion of me, and drinking alcoholic beverages - as a sport or otherwise - is firmly against my religious beliefs.

The breaking point in our so-called friendship (if you could call it one) was when they asked for my permission to host a party in the room. At first, I was disagreeable with the idea, what with all the freeflow of beers expected to be imbibed. They were aghast by my 'unsportmanship', particularly the German lass who gave me a cold treatment shortly after my initial protest. But subsequently, under the cold stare of my roommates' friends and the ensuing painful reality of being called a 'party pooper', I relented. In return, they promised to clean up any mess and make sure no drinks would be spilled on the floor. How naive I could be.....

Of course I was invited to the party but I declined and spent time instead with Amy in her room. When I came back, I was greeted by the foul odor of vomit. Worse, beer-smelly vomit. I was both sad and angry. They did their best to clean it up, even leaving the windows ajar to air out the smell but this inadvertently let in Fall's chilly draft. That night, amid the horrible stench, I tried my best to muffle my sobbing under the covers.

That moment was the clincher which unravelled our comfortable living arrangement. Thereafter, we remained on talk-only-when-needed basis. With the continued sarcasms thrown at me, I kept my distance, spending my precious hours in the dorm's study room, library and Amy's room (who conveniently lived on the same dorm - it's fate!). Being the only Malay Malaysian on campus during freshman year proved to be lonely at times, but I learnt to get by.

More often than not, I arrived back in the room at night when they're no longer around. One night, when I was already in bed with the lights off, the German slut (err, I mean lass) quietly entered the room with a guy.

They both sounded drunk, giggling as I heard they plonked on the bed beneath me (I was on the top of the bunkbed). I tried my best to go back to sleep, but the sound of people 'making out' hindered that effort.

Out of a sudden, I heard a struggle over the rustling of bedlinen with her voice repeatedly saying No, whereas he entreated in an ugly drunkard voice "I want to *toot* you," From up above, I could 'sense' he was becoming more forceful and aggressive. I turned panicky, wondering what I could do to help. With quick thinking, I quietly cleared my throat and immediately everything fell silent. The perpetrator scooted out of the room.

"Eliza, are you up there?" my roommate asked in between sniffles. "Ya, XXX, are you alright?" I shouted back. She responded in the positive before leaving the room to clean herself up in the communal bathroom.

A few weeks later, I was requested to attend a student disciplinary tribunal comprising some student reps and University officials. Apparently, my roommate has lodged a complaint of the attempted date-rape and I was asked to testify as a credible and only witness.

Wow, how surreal! I was flummoxed by the gravity of the situation. My first ever hearing and I'm THE witness? What if the guy seeks revenge on me for testifying? Do I have to be on the witness protection programme? All these possible scenarios raced inside my imaginative, Hollywood-soaked head.

I was escorted into this heavily-enclosed room, with the defendant, a student rep and some Uni guys looking down at me across the other side of a rectangular table. They asked me to recount the event, in a chronological order. I vaguely remember being prepped by somebody on the possible questions but when they told me to recollect, I took it as verbatim. I was as detailed as I could be. :)

After droning on for ages, I finally came to the part where the defendant spoke the forbidden, unspoken word. A straitlaced and 'unexposed' 19-year-old girl back then, I couldn't bring myself to say IT. "F---u---*--*" I elongated the disdainful word. Huh? Could you say that again? They shot back. Holding my breath - as if bracing for impact - I quickly uttered the exact sentence that I'd the unfortunate privilege of hearing. I felt as if I had transgressed the parameters of civility.

Now, looking back, I laughed at my shortsightedness and naiveté in dealing with the bawdy nature of speech. My simple-minded generalizations have been my own undoing by equating profanities only with perverts. I should instead look at it as a figure of speech or an expression of certain emotions, and not judge people severely based on their penchant for obscenities. In my case, I can be found exclaiming the S-word to express my delightful surprise, forgetfulness or anger (especially those errant, stupid drivers speeding along the narrow streets along Delft's many canals knowing quite well we are walking, baby in tow, on the fringes!!!).

True, life can be much more pleasant without the usual exchange of expletives, but I gather the Utopian characteristics of society won't prepare our kids for the harsh cold reality of lives. As elucidated by this tongue-in-cheek editorial on the usage of an off-color word in a children's book, perpetuating the ignorance or denial that such words exist will transform our kids into puerile, ignorant adults whose actions and choice of language are guided by rash judgment as opposed to thoughtful consideration.