Eugene's F Bomb

5th Grade Longfellow Elementary San Francisco

In my fifth grade class at Longfellow Elementary in San Francisco, a boy named Eugene sat behind me. I can’t remember Eugene’s last name but it was something like Smith or Brown.  Eugene had reddish-brown hair and brown eyes, some freckles and an unremarkable look about him. His unique distinction- and we  all have one- was that he would let the F-bomb fly about twenty times a day. In 1962, in 5^th grade, that was unusual.

I was a Safety Patrol. I took my safety patrol job seriously. I would wear my white belt and hold back the pedestrians until it was safe to cross the street. I obeyed the rules and I enjoyed enforcing them. I remember taking care of that white belt as if it were a living thing. I was proud of my job.

Eugene annoyed me. In addition to his cussing, he picked his nose. Since I came from a family that smacked you if you picked your nose I made an effort to never look at him because I knew I would hit him.

As the school year neared the half-way mark, I found myself hating Eugene. He started to look rat-like to me. I’m pretty sure he hated me too. Mrs. Renstrom, I have no doubt, was sick of me telling on him as much as she was sick of him swearing and finally moved me to a different spot. How she handled him, I don’t remember.

Now though- some 50 years later I think I was a little too harsh on Eugene. The F-bomb is my favorite word. I use it when I am happy, mad and sometimes sad.  It’s descriptive, it’s definitive, and it makes me feel better. It’s a little mini stress reducer in an extremely stressful world. It’s just a little word- yet it carries enormous impact. I get it now- I really do.

I would like to officially, apologize to you Eugene.  You may have grown up to be a nose picking creep, or maybe you are in the FBI or CIA or a politician somewhere. Maybe you died in some war or from some drugs or maybe you are happily married now, with four kids and six grandkids, all running around dropping the F-bomb for you.  I just want you know I get it- and Mrs. Renstrom probably got it back then. She probably felt the same - being in charge of 30 plus 5^th graders when the world was changing faster than she could learn about it- let alone teach us.

Now, I can say I see the need for rules, but I break many of them. I’m loathe to make others follow any rules, too many years of herding cats to want to do that anymore. Now- I just say fuck it- and move on.