Post 5: Cunk!
Cunk!
“Reuben has been using the C-word at school,” the message from his teacher read. We stared at the message, mortified. How can this be? Our 4 year old is calling kids cunts?!
We do think of him as a bright little guy, but even so it seemed premature for such advanced profanity. Furthermore we don’t use the C-word, but the message made us doubt ourselves for a minute - “Have we been casually tossing around C-bombs as though we are in England drunk at a Manchester United match?“ Then it hit us.
One of Reuben’s favorite made up words of the moment is cunk/cunky. This can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, really anything that suits him. All we know is that it is often snide in intent. For example, he will say: “There’s cunk all over the toilet.” “It’s so cunky in here.” “I’m gonna cunk on you.” Or my personal favorite: “ok…cunk,” with a sideways glance and air of superiority which may as well be saying “ok…douchebag.”
We began to embrace cunky as it had a certain charm. We were in a far off fantasyland with it’s own language. His previous newfangled dictionary included moosh, udu, ooonk, and shot-the-bang-store, all of which were similarly all-purpose words and phrases.
So here we were, the whole family calling each other cunks and cunking out on the daily. One day Reuben told me “cunk is a bad word” to which I chuckled, “no it’s not, it’s a silly word.” I patted myself on the back for my Mary Poppins parenting moment.
When I tried to explain the misunderstanding to the teacher, she responded that she was quite certain he was saying c- u-n-t, inserting dashes to protect her from joining our crude ranks. She went on to say other kids we’re picking it up so could we please talk to him.
We sat Reuben down and explained to him that he could no longer say cunk because it sounds like a bad word, which confused the cunk out of him, but he obliged. We cracked down hard on it in the beginning, sending him to time out every cunking time he said it. His teacher happily reported he was no longer saying c-u-n-t.
A month later, Reuben occasionally whispers his c-word to himself while playing:“and then he cunked the bad guy” or “so cunky so cunky so cunky.” He sounds maniacal. I have decided to allow it as it brings him a smidge of joy, as though he’s a recovered addict, head tipped back, eyes closed, taking in the scent of weed wafting over from his neighbor’s yard.
Like our tiny sailor mouthed son, I am often misunderstood. While his issue is due to normal articulation hiccups in development, mine is due to ALS weakening my mouth and tongue muscles.
I sound part drunk, part deaf, and part nasally. If the content and mood is right misunderstandings can be amusing. I say “can I have an iced tea please?” And my friend confirms “I am in the 80s here please?” I say “I like your shirt” and the neighbor replies “am I sure? I think so?”
Other times, when I have something important to say or am grumpy, misunderstandings are simply in frustrating. As one can imagine, losing your voice is devastating. It is the main way we connect with others and express ourselves.
Those who spend a lot of time around me or have keen listening and deciphering skills can understand most of what I say. They act as translators and bodyguards when around those unfamiliar with my garbled speech. Social anxiety jumps to the next level when you can’t depend on your own voice to to carry you through conversations or make excuses to exit them.
One time I tried to say the most juvenile of sentences, “I want a cat,” to someone new and without a translator around. My communication partners looked at me in confusion. I attempted again, saying as clearly and loudly as I could, but was still met with a confused barrage of 20 questions. As anxiety rose for all of us, I glanced behind me, desperately willing my husband to come back in the room and save me. I knew I could utilize my party game experience and pantomime being a cat, or meow, or use any other vocabulary besides the secret mystery word CAT, but I stubbornly wanted my voice to be enough.
Finally Eben returned, relayed my desire for a cat, and we all breathed a sigh of relief and moved on to why Eben won’t let me get a cat.
Three years into my diagnosis, I know I am lucky to still be able to talk well enough to get by. I don’t take speaking for granted. But cunk it’s cunking hard. ALS is a cunk and can cunk off.