In our family, swearing was the norm, a stark contrast to my two very different ancestral lines. My mother’s side was liberal, while my father’s came from a strict Reformed background. Once, my paternal grandparents visited, and we showed them our drawings. My grandfather exclaimed, “Asjemenou!”—a Dutch expression of surprise akin to “Well, I never!” We all laughed, especially since we’d been warned to mind our language. Words like “jeetje” (a mild “oh my!”) were forbidden, and any casual use of “God” was off-limits.
“Asjemenou” seemed harmless, yet it packed a punch for my conservative grandparents. It made me wonder what they could say. “Potverdriedubbeltjes” perhaps? But no, that’s a minced oath for “God,” and just as taboo as any stronger curse.
My grandfather was a man of few words, which made it easier for him. He had a talent for prayer and scripture reading, his voice a comforting rumble. “Lead us not into evil,” he’d intone, and I’d ponder the nature of temptation. That fear of straying from the path was absent at home, replaced by a sense of freedom.
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