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One of my one-to-one students is a seven-year-old boy who has recently been testing the boundaries of acceptable behaviour with me. His behaviour is frequently the subject of comment from other teachers who see him in group lessons where the focus is, necessarily, on the progress and experience of the group as a whole, rather than on the individual, but his time with me is his time for his benefit and only his benefit, and I feel strongly that he should have the widest possible scope to express himself whilst not: endangering himself or others; causing offence; or straying so far from the topic of “cello” that we can no longer call his half hour with me a “cello lesson”.

My usual response to his boundary-testing is to ignore it, act like it’s no big deal (he’s looking for a shocked reaction or a telling-off which I’m trying to avoid giving him), or to intervene in a low-key way when he’s doing something I feel needs to stop (asking him to put the elastic band he is chewing in his pocket and explaining that I can’t continue the lesson when I’m concerned he might choke on it, or handing him a tissue without any comment when he is waving a snot-coated finger at me), but last week he found an area in which I have a conflict between my personal world-view and my need to act in a way that is considered “professional” and “appropriate” by the majority.

His boundary-testing subject for the day was swear words.

“I know all the swear words,” He said.

I didn’t respond, waiting for him to get bored with the lack of reaction so we could get back to singing the piece of repertoire we were working on.

“I even know the ‘C’ word. It’s C-U-N…” He paused and looked at me uncertainly, surprised by my lack of reaction or attempt to shut him up. “I’ll point to the last letter,” He said, pointing to a letter ‘T’ in the book on the music stand.

Here is where I started to experience conflict: the fact that “cunt” is such a taboo word that a seven-year-old is so afraid of it he can’t even spell it out, never mind say it, upset me because, unlike theorising about how cuntphobia and the taboo around “cunt” oppresses women, witnessing an actual incident of cunt-fear* from such a young person bought home to me how ingrained cunt-fear is; but in the role of a “teacher” representing the music school I was working for at that particular time, that three-hour-a-week piece of freelance work and perhaps even all my work with children, was at stake if I said what I wanted to. His parents come across as the liberal, left-wing, non-conforming types, but I haven’t ascertained their views on reclaiming an anatomical description from a misogynist insult designed to oppress, and I really didn’t want to have to defend myself against an allegation of misconduct, so what I did was say “That’s a very horrible word to use as an insult,” leaving “But it’s fine as a label for a body-part” unsaid, but — I hope — implied, and left it at that.

Here’s how I imagine events unfolding if I hadn’t been constrained by the idea of “professionalism” or feared losing some or most of my work…

“Cunt’s just a word,” I say, negating the taboo by saying it.

“What?” My speaking such a taboo word is unexpected.

“Cunt is just a word,” I repeat, “Nothing bad happens just when someone says it. Go on, try saying it.”

“But it’s a bad word.”

“No,” I say, “Words aren’t good or bad, they’re just words. Why and how we say them and the meaning we give them can make them good or bad. Another word for ‘cunt’ is ‘vagina’. It’s just a word for part of the female anatomy. You can say it.”

“Cunt,” He says, small, nervous, and uncertain.

“See? Nothing happened. Say it again.”

“Cunt.” It’s stronger this time, more assertive.

“Again. Over and over.”

“Cunt, cunt, cunt”.

I join him, our voices rising to shout “Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, CUNT.”

The shouting wears itself out naturally when we reach a point where we can’t shout any louder, and we slump back in our chairs in relieved silence. We look at each other and giggle, releasing the tension.

After catching our breath, I say “Sometimes people use ‘cunt’ as an insult. That’s very nasty because it reduces women and girls to just one part of their body and it’s used to say that women and girls aren’t as important as men and boys. Because of this people sometimes get upset when someone says ‘cunt’ and it’s important that you know this so that you know you might get into trouble by saying ‘cunt’, especially if you use it to insult or hurt someone.”

In Sally’s Fantasy Land, when his mum comes to collect him at the end of the lesson I recount the incident and she thanks me for handling it in a way that made it clear that “cunt” is hurtful when used as an insult but didn’t reinforce the taboo. In reality, I wasn’t brave enough.

*Inga Muscio’s Cunt: a Declaration of Independence (2nd Ed.), published by Seal Press in 2002 has many valuable things to say on cunt-fear, reclaiming the word “cunt”, “cunt” versus “vagina” as an anatomical description, and the misogyny of “cunt” as an insult.