Growth and Development

When I was in the sixth grade and Ken Roberts called me a "ho" I didn't know what to do. He sat behind me in Mrs. Cathcart's Algebra I class. I was, even then, a literal sort of person. In Growth and Development (my junior high’s euphemism for Sex Education) I had learned very little of use to me, but somehow I knew that "ho" was short for "whore" and that "whore" was slang for prostitute. I had never even kissed a boy. I wore studious, purple- framed glasses, had a mouth full of braces, and a collection of Dittos bellbottoms I was careful didn't cling. I could not bear to be called "ho."

I consulted my friend Kathleen in hopes she could come up with a suitable response – and I knew that she, like me, drew the line at actual cussing. It wasn't that we were prissy – on the contrary, Kathleen and I were in the habit of recording ourselves singing Top 40 tunes in which we replaced key words with our favorite expression. One of our cassettes featured me performing an earnest solo of "You Fart Up My Life," with Kathleen making ever more explicit noises in accompaniment.

My own parents sometimes - though rarely - swore. "Well I'll be goddamned" was utilized only when something serious went awry. But I was no mimic, and Kathleen and I only cussed using initials. But we needed a powerful word; for me to call Ken Roberts a jerk or a dork or even a farthead would not suffice. Kathleen pondered the dilemma. "You could call him," she said thoughtfully, "a dildo."

"A dildo? What's a dildo?"

"It's a vibrator," she informed me. “Like, duh.”

The year was 1977. Kathleen's family had been through EST, plus she had an older sister who was to me synonymous with everything sophisticated in the world. While I was only vaguely aware of things of a sexual nature from Growth and Development class (where I'm certain a dildo never came up), it's likely Kathleen knew about the libidinous uses of a vibrator, and might've understood just exactly what it meant to call an 11-year-old boy a dildo.

I did not. My parents had something called a vibrator; it was kept in a cardboard box that said "VIBRATOR." It bore a picture of a smiling woman with a bouffant hairdo and referred to aches, pains, and relief. I sometimes applied it to my father's middle back while watching television. It had several attachments and made a lot of noise.

To one with my limited experience, the word didn't have much power, but I was eleven. I liked how it sounded – dildo – the way it sort of rolled off my tongue – dildo – and I could easily imagine the next time Ken Roberts spat "ho" at me, turning around and hurling that back at him. "Shut up you stupid dildo."

Which is exactly what I did. Right within earshot of Mrs. Cathcart. Her shock and awe led me to Mr. Adams' office faster than you could say personal massager. My junior high principal was a reclusive alcoholic who rarely interacted with students. His office: a dark cave. You had the idea he would have done well as a small-town headmaster at the turn of the century, but as principal of 1,000 11-to-13-year-olds in the East San Jose of the 1970s, he was completely at a loss how to reign.

He blinked at me through red, rheumy eyes and cleared his throat. "Do you … ahem … know what that word means?"

"Sure, Mr. Adams," I answered, eager to clear up the misunderstanding. "It's a vibrator. My parents have one. We use it all the time."

That had to have been difficult for him to hear – considering my mother was his secretary at the time.

That evening, my parents sat me down for a stern heart-to-heart.

"Where did you learn that word, young lady?" I knew I was in serious trouble – but why? "It's just a vibrator," I explained, rolling my eyes and gesturing toward the closet where ours was kept. What was the big g.d. deal?

Years later, living in San Francisco, I found out while visiting a specialty store in the Castro that a dildo and a vibrator were two entirely different mechanisms. But back in 1977 folks just decided it best to sweep it under the rug... or back in the closet. Ken Roberts and I got good at avoiding each other. Kathleen and I finished out the school year like every other tween in the late 1970's. We clipped pictures of Leif Garrett and Sean Cassidy out of Tiger Beat Magazine, we grew expert at blowing a bubble inside a bubble chewing Bubblicious Bubble Gum, and fretted over our stunted physical development.

And, perhaps unique to us, we went on covering pop tunes, eventually recording a 60-minute cassette that included our hits “Da Doo Fart Fart,” “Fart Around Sue,” and, most spectacularly, “Farty and the Jets.”