Kitty and the snake

Pussy to our children is the young cat, so cuddly, that we raised one in the den before we let it loose into the yard, and the wild. Children are fond of the “bunny,” the young rabbit that hops to their delight before letting it out to the field. The yapping “puppy” learns to bark and grow up to “woof.”

Among Germans, the word for the snake is “slange,” which in Yiddish is “shlang,” and among cab drivers in New York City, “schlong,” the short protrusion that is the male gender’s “thingy in the beddy.” Michael Jackson is known for grabbing his on stage, now a standard rapper gesture.

In one of The Donald’s rallies, a woman in the crowd shouted that presidentiable Cruz was a “pussy.” The Donald was delighted to repeat the characterization. That puts the former governor in the same league as Hillary in the mouthing range of The Donald. In 2008, after Hillary lost the primary to Obama, The Donald according to a Miami news, had the tycoon say: “She was favored to win and she got schlonged. She lost.”

“Pussy” and “schlong,” of themselves, are not particularly offensive words, but differing use in usage often gives it less than noble connotation. Which, of course, only confirms what we say all along (learned from the German Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein), that the meaning of a word is not in the dictionary but on its use.

A neighbor in Canada in the winter, when I lived there, waited for husband to come home as the clock already struck 2, fearful that he might have gone off the road in the blizzard. She watched as her husband staggered through the door drunk. Hands on waist, she stood up and hollered: “Will you get that damn door closed.”

The delivery of the line determined her meaning, not particularly the open damn door, or the coldness coming in, but her displeasure over the fact that she waited and worried that he might have gotten stuck on the road home only to see him drunk; evidently, he whiled the time away at the local tavern, presumably, with the boys, and by his clothes’ smell, not too distant from leaning perfumed ladies!

The Donald, with his colorful language, talks like a New Yorker from the Bronx, though in this case, Trump lives midtown on the Eastside, within easy distance to fanciful 5th and Park Avenues, Broadway, and the UN. That he sounds rude is without question; that he is rude by design is conceded, the political purpose clear.

I remember spending sometime on the Westside of Chicago in a predominantly black community engaged in a Human Development Project. Talking to the local residents, their responses were littered with the “f” word uttered staccato every other chance a speaker gets a turn to speak. It was just the way they talked, like, um-m-m-m, among students, nigga in China, and yong kuan in ‘Pinas.

The media is agog over The Donald for the quality of the language he seems to relish. He attracts a lot of folks as their familiar vocabulary is finally hitting the fan, and they are rebelliously satisfied. Something earthy in language is operative in the U.S. South and Inner Cities of the urban centers, direct and colorful, frowned by the guardians of propriety who seek the academic dictionary meaning of a word, but will not discern the context of its use.

There is something liberating about The Donald’s unapologetic use of English. Clinton’s roughness comes from a natural Arkansas earthiness that characterized his upbringing, getting him to the WH in spite of an inquisition. It culminated in a Lower House charge of “perjury” and “obstruction of justice,” acquitted on a second perjury charge that was a cover for “sexual behavior” and “abuse of power.” The Senate nullified the vote to impeach.

Some thought Clinton would resign, like Dick Nixon did, but Clinton jigged best when playing sophisticated redneck. Not The Donald. He talks a streak, and then some, his use of the language keeping media reports riveted in this presidential election year as the Presidency of Hillary is, by my reckon, about to be confirmed.

Meantime, are we going to see schlong hurled at Bill? Well, with former White House aides and interns coming out of the woodwork with charges (the trend got started on the other Bill, the Cosby) on the President’s sexual improprieties and waywardness, I imagine a play on suburban cats west of the city of Chicago, also on one named Hillary, can happen, with Fox News poised to carry it primetime.

When I lived at Oleai behind the San Jose Church in a motel (now dilapidated), I dubbed the place the House of Horus, naming it after the Egyptian god that missionaries of the West derisively called by the first syllable of the House’s name. Got it? Many found the telling of my stories recognizable, and the episodes easy to identify.

The residents were leftovers from the garment industry unable to earn enough to return home with what they were promised they could make. They hustled for it with services familiar to the male populace.

Words. Ah! Here, kitty kitty!