In what seems like another lifetime, my exquisitely erudite
mother introduced me to the legendary line from Shakespeare wherein the
ill-fated Juliet declares that “a rose by any other name would smell just as
sweet” regardless of what words we might use to signify it. Not moved to push back against my mother, or the Bard, I recall that I agreed.
But if we’re going to import that
reasoning to suggest that names of things don’t matter in the real world, I’d
withdraw my support. Names do matter,
and the words by which we call things really do impact our sense of what they
are. The utterances that we assign to objects, artifacts, places, and people are
pivotal in enabling our understanding of our relationship to them; in a very
real sense, then, the language we attach to things shapes the reality that we
experience every day.
So… every once in a while someone in a group I’m speaking
with mentions talking with her/his children about their so-called “private”
body parts. “Great,” is my usual and enthusiastic response. “I’m so glad you’re
having that conversation!” And truly, I really am thrilled when people tell me
they’re beginning what I hope will be an open-ended, candid and thoughtful
discussion about human sexuality that will continue for as long as the parties
involved are alive; since the role that our sexuality plays in our lives is
both pivotal and ever-evolving throughout our time here.
Still, I’ve got to admit that I find myself rendered
slack-jawed sometimes at the sheer numbers of folks who make the conscious decision
not to use the correct names for male and female genitalia when talking with
their children. And let me also admit that I’m certainly not suggesting that a
kid’ll grow up to be a serial killer based on the happenstance that her/his
parents referred to his penis as his “po-po”
or his “tee lee” (or is that tea
leaf?) or his “bing bang.”
