by Ralph Keyes
This setting has been the subject of some truly inspired euphemisms. My favorites include a place of general interest, where you cough, and where the Queen goes alone. For reasons that aren’t clear, during the Elizabethan era and for centuries thereafter, outhouses were commonly called jakes. In Shakespeare’s King Lear, Kent says he’ll “tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him.” Nearly two centuries later, Benjamin Franklin charged that the English practice of sending prisoners to settle its colonies was tantamount to “emptying their jakes on our tables.” In the colonies, Cousin John or simply John rivaled jakes. A 1735 Harvard edict warned that “No freshman shall mingo [urinate] against the College wall or go into the fellows’ cuzjohn.”
Like their forebears in England, upscale colonists sometimes called the setting where “necessary matters” took place a necessary house or simply the necessary. (A Latin-inspired alternative was the necessarium.) In a 1747 letter to his son, Lord Chesterfield noted with approval the example of a man who made good use of time he spent there:
I knew a gentleman who was so good a manager of his time that he would not even lose that small portion of it which the calls of nature obliged him to pass in the necessary-house; but gradually went through all the Latin poets in those moments. He bought, for example, a common edition of Horace, of which he tore off gradually a couple of pages, carried them with him to that necessary place, read them first, and then sent them down as a sacrifice to Cloacina [the so-called Goddess of Sewers]… I recommend you to follow his example. It is better than only doing what you cannot help doing at those moments.
When a newfangled indoor toilet was installed in the White House during John Quincy Adams’s presidency, Quincy enjoyed a brief vogue in America as a euphemism for this convenience. (“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go visit Quincy.”) The word “toilet” first appeared in the mid-sixteenth century. It was based on the French toilette, which referred to a sack that held clothing and meant the same thing. Over time, the meaning of “toilet” expanded to refer to the cloth covering of a dressing table, then to the activities that took place at such a table. (“She made her toilet.”) By the nineteenth century, this word’s application expanded some more, now being used for dressing rooms themselves. It then became more specific yet, referring to rooms that also included bathing facilities. Such bathing rooms were accoutrements of better homes at this time, a setting with sinks and tubs where wealthy homeowners washed up. A separate room housed commodes. This word originally referred to a woman’s headdress, a chest of drawers, or a cupboard in a bathroom. Later, especially in the United States, “commode” referred to a toilet that resembled a piece of furniture. Eventually, the two settings were combined as “bathrooms” that began to accommodate commodes as well.
After the Civil War, public toilets in the United States were first called washrooms, as they still are in Canada, then restrooms. Public comfort stations was another euphemism for such facilities, as was public convenience, and, most circumspect of all, facility. (“I’m going to use the facility.”)
Bathroom remains the most popular American euphemism for the place where we urinate and defecate. It is now so ubiquitous that backcountry campers who are about to squat behind a tree talk of “going to the bathroom.” Others talk of animals doing the same thing. (“That damn dog is going to the bathroom on my lawn!”) But even this antiseptic term has proved a bit gamy for some. When architect Alexander Kira first published The Bathroom in 1966, an American newspaper referred to it as a book about “the watchamacallit.”
Another widely used euphemism for this room is based on its modest size. As Queen Victoria once inquired, “Has the railway carriage got a small room to it?” This more common form inspired John Pudney’s 1954 book about such facilities titled The Smallest Room. “When you’re throwing a party,” advised a newspaper feature half a century later, “the smallest room in your house can be the most important.” Even the euphemism smallest room can be dodgy, though. At one time, it was considered disreputable for a male host to direct a female guest there. Doing this service for a member of one’s own sex was also questionable. “Would you care to wash your hands?” was much preferred, or “May I show you the geography of the house?” or simply, “May I show you the geography?” Eventually the geography became a euphemism for smallest rooms. In mid-twentieth-century England, geography was considered an upper-class euphemism; WC (for water closet), one used by members of the working class. Lavatory was another alternative.
Like “bathroom,” “lavatory” originally referred to a setting where bodies are washed. Its root is the Latin lavare (wash) and lavatrina (where washing takes place). When commodes were added to this room, “lavatory” came to mean a place for elimination more than cleansing, especially in England. There was a time when this term was considered vulgar. In a saga from early last century, a young Englishman who’d had too much beer asked his dancing partner, “Where is the lavatory?” Pushing him away, she responded, “On the right of the entrance hall you will find a door with the notice GENTLEMEN. Disregard the warning. Go right in. You will find what you want.”
For those of his countrymen who disdained “toilet” as a mealymouthed Americanism, Evelyn Waugh reminded them that “lavatory” was no less euphemistic. After Waugh made this observation in 1956, increasing use of the American term by middle-class Britons led to its use among members of their upper class as well. The Americanisms restroom and comfort station have never caught on in Britain, though, suggesting as they do boards laid across toilets to accommodate those who are weary, or a room filled with La-Z-Boy recliners.
There are various theories about why so many Britons call this room a “loo.” Does it derive from “Gardy loo!”—the exuberant cry of Scottish women emptying chamber pots to the street below (from the French gardez l’eau, “watch out for the water”)? Or is it a contraction of bourdalou, a portable commode resembling a gravy boat that was used by Frenchwomen three centuries ago? Or from the French lieux d’aisances (“places of ease”)? Or from James Joyce’s conflation of “Watercloset” and “Waterloo” in Ulysses, possibly as a clip of “Waterloo”? After considering all such possibilities, etymologist Michael Quinion concluded that none is definitive. Another alternative is that British soldiers during World War I mistook the numerical euphemism 100 on lavatory doors in French hotels for “loo.” The most intriguing suggestion of all, one noted by linguist Alan Ross, had to do with a Victorian era guest at a lodge in Dublin who was named Louise. As a gag, some lodge-mates moved the nameplate reading “Lou” from her door to the women’s lavatory. Word of this prank spread so widely that, in time, Louise’s nickname became a popular synonym for “lavatory,” respelled l-o-o.
Obviously, coming up with euphemistic names for a lavatory inspires remarkable creativity. As with euphemisms for elimination, many families devise their own names for the setting where this takes place. One Maine patriarch passed bagaduce along to his kids as a euphemism for “outhouse” (“I’m going to the bagaduce”), possibly because there’s a river by that name in Maine. Catherine Storr’s family called its outhouse a “euph.” That was because when a visitor to their home excused herself to “go outside,” Storr’s mother offered to keep this woman company and had to be told that “go outside” was a euphemism for “use the outhouse.” This incident became a family joke that eventually led to their calling any lavatory a “euph.”
FALLEN NAMES
Those of us named Ralph are none too happy about the many euphemistic uses of our name. We’re especially sensitive to its use as a euphemism for vomiting. We didn’t appreciate it one bit when talk to Ralph on the big white phone (i.e., toilet) showed up in a collection of college slang.
Those named John may not sympathize. American Johns must share their name with toilets (based on the phrase “I’ve got to go visit Cousin John”) and customers of prostitutes. Brits call condoms johnnies. In the United States, “John” combined with “Doe�
�� is the name of everyman and, therefore, no man at all.
In conjunction with other terms, “Joe” also suggests ordinariness: Joe Blow, Joe Shmoe, Joe Doaks, Joe Sixpack, an average Joe, GI Joe. The name “Jack” gets used in a similar vein, as something not worth very much (“isn’t worth jack shit”) or on the ordinary side (“Jack of all trades, master of none”). At one time, “Jack” was also a synonym for “penis.” More than a century ago, get Jack in the orchard was slang for sex, as was Jack in the box. Jack off is a remnant of such usage.
“Roger” once had the distinction not only of being used as a noun meaning “penis” but as a verb meaning “copulate” (“I Rogered her well”). In his published writing, James Boswell felt constrained to euphemize this euphemism as “R-g-r.” By World War II, the erotic connotations of “Roger” had declined enough that pilots felt safe to use it as a radio-transmitted acknowledgment meaning “Message received.” (“Roger!”)
“Charlie” rivals “John” for its many euphemistic uses. At various times, “Charlie” has referred to cocaine, genitalia, breasts, policemen, homosexuals, and members of the Vietcong. It’s also been part of Checkpoint Charlie, Charlie Girls, a proper Charlie, and a Goodtime Charlie. In a 1936 story, Damon Runyan recast a Goodtime Charlie as a Hoorah Henry. In Britain, wealthy bon vivants subsequently became known as Hooray Henrys.
As with so many euphemisms, what names get repurposed and in which ways depends on where one lives. “Randy” is ruined in the United Kingdom, where it means “horny,” but is still a perfectly respectable name in the United States. (When visiting England, American Randys are advised to introduce themselves as “Randall” or “Randolph.”) During the late Clinton era, “Monica” suggested a younger woman involved with an older married man and lost favor as a name given to American baby girls. “Lolita” is completely ruined on both sides of the Atlantic due to its association with seductive prepubescent girls (to the mortification of staff members at Britain’s Woolworths who hadn’t heard of Vladimir Nabokov’s novel by that name and called a bed for young girls the Lolita Midsleeper).
That’s Disgusting!
Let’s return now to the question posed at the beginning of this chapter. Why are we so determined to euphemize words related to body waste?
The reasons seem obvious. They’re disgusting! Take shit. This substance smells bad, is sticky and slimy, and emerges from a hole in our bodies when we are in a very undignified position. What better reasons could there be to pussyfoot when discussing this subject? As if we needed to be told, studies of disgust have confirmed that body wastes are among the most revolting substances human beings confront. What disgusts us and why is a topic of some debate, however. There may be more than squeamishness involved.
Research conducted in different parts of the world by medical researcher Valerie Curtis has found a nearly universal sense of revulsion at feces, bodily secretions, rotten food, and slimy worms. Few subjects could tell her why their reflexive reaction to such substances was one of “Yuck!” however. Although many anthropologists believe that this is a learned response, Curtis concluded that a sense of disgust is an innate response to toxic matter and could have survival value. From this perspective, revulsion is a lifesaving reaction to disease-bearing materials, including ones found in body waste. This sense of revulsion led to taboos that promoted good health. Both the Bible and the Koran admonish believers to keep themselves clean. Ancient Hindu laws mandate avoidance of such body impurities as “oily exudations, semen, blood, urine, feces, the mucous of the nose, ear wax, phlegm, tears, the rheum of the eyes, and sweat.” We’ve seen how many euphemisms such substances inspire. As we’ll consider at greater length in the final chapter, this suggests an intimate relationship between euphemistic discourse and human survival. The need to avoid disease-bearing substances underlies constant verbal dodges, as do the topics of health, healing, and death in general. These subjects provide myriad opportunities for euphemizing.
6
Under the Weather and In the Ground
ONE OF MY least favorite euphemisms is “This may pinch a little,” murmured by a doctor or a dentist who is about to do something that’s going to really, really hurt. Alternatively, “You may experience some discomfort.” Or “A little pressure.” Obviously, medical personnel don’t want to announce boldly, “This will hurt” or “A little pain,” so they resort to pinch, pressure, and discomfort as euphemisms.
Medical conditions would be difficult to discuss without recourse to euphemisms. The very word “disease” began as a polite substitute for “sickness,” one suggesting mere discomfort. (Think dis-ease.) Many substitute “ill” for “sick.” Plenty of options have developed over the years for those who would rather not admit they’re sick or ill. Instead they might be indisposed, unwell, under the weather, out of sorts, or merely a bit off. Or, if they want to sound professional, have a malady. Nowadays, we’re less likely to suffer from a disease, sickness, or illness than a complaint, condition, episode, or event.
As baby boomers age and the field of medicine expands, so does the range of associated euphemisms. After spending enough time in hospitals, we begin to talk of meds rather than “drugs.” Instead of “treatment”, we get therapy. We may not undergo “surgery” but will have a surgical intervention. Yesterday’s “face-lift” is today’s aesthetic procedure. A heart attack becomes a coronary, a coronary incident, or a coronary event. Or, when we really want to toss the medical lingo, a myocardial infarction.
Doctors are key carriers of euphemania on the health front. Their professional vocabulary serves the dual causes of medicine and obfuscation. Inevitably, some of that vocabulary seeps into common discourse, not only because patients pick it up from their doctors but also because they see it on the Internet and hear it on radio and television, especially in pharmaceutical ads that warn of “serious, sometimes fatal events.” In other words, death.
Using substitute words when discussing health matters is a long-standing practice. This is especially true when it comes to naming diseases.
There’s a Name for It
I was always told that my great-grandmother, Myrtie Lacey, died of consumption. Only as an adult did I learn that consumption was a euphemism for tuberculosis. In Myrtie’s time, tuberculosis was an incurable scourge, the AIDS of its day. The very name of this dread disease was taboo. Koch’s disease it was called, Pott’s disease, acid-fast disease, apical catarrh scrofula, king’s evil, the white plague, pleural pneumonia, and phthisis (Greek for “consumption”). Since TB was the leading cause of death in nineteenth-century America, killing an estimated 20 percent of adults and infecting as many as half of all city dwellers, such verbal coyness is understandable. Medical historian William Rothstein has suggested that during the nineteenth century a reluctance to discuss tuberculosis directly was even stronger than reticence about discussing sex.
In his 1827 novel Armance, Stendhal depicted the mother of a tubercular patient who refuses to call her son’s illness by its actual name for fear that doing so might hasten his demise. A century later, Franz Kafka lay dying of the same disease in an Austrian sanitarium. In a 1924 postcard to a friend, Kafka complained about how maddeningly vague doctors there were about his condition. As the Czech author explained, when discussing tuberculosis “everybody drops into a shy, evasive, glass-eyed manner of speech.” All Kafka could get out of them were vague references to “swelling at the rear” and “infiltration.” Two months later, he was dead.
In the case of Emily Dickinson, biographer Lyndall Gordon has concluded that the reclusive poet was a closet epileptic who could only refer to that affliction obliquely. During Dickinson’s mid-nineteenth-century era, epilepsy—commonly called “falling sickness”—was considered shameful for men to have and unmentionable for women. Gordon thinks that Emily Dickinson’s poetry included frequent euphemistic references to this condition, such as “I felt a Funeral / in my Brain.” At other times, the poet wrote of “Fire Rocks” in her body and a �
��Bomb” in her bosom. At no time did Dickinson refer to having epilepsy (which afflicted two of her male relatives) or even to suffering from an unnamed illness.
A reluctance to discuss diseases openly is part and parcel of the primitive fear that using the actual name of something one dreads, be it a bear or an illness, might summon what is dreaded. At one time, residents of the Solomon Islands near Papua New Guinea called virulent diseases such as leprosy and tuberculosis the chief or the pretty girl, perhaps hoping to tame their fury with flattering names. A century ago, anthropologists found that smallpox, the most feared disease in New Guinea, was seldom referred to directly. Instead, residents of that region referred to this malady in terms befitting something regal that ruled their lives. “Hence smallpox is spoken of as a king,” wrote James Frazer in the The Golden Bough, “—a pretty word to hide an ugly thing, and yet an appropriate image, since the disease visits district after district, village after village, like a prince making a royal progress.”
At a time when the causes of illness were mysterious and ways to treat them uncertain, renaming such scourges seemed as good a strategy as any. In a sense it still does. By using a mild word such as “shingles” for the excruciating condition herpes zoster, we try to temper its severity. “Flu” is a less ominous-sounding contraction of the dread “influenza,” a disease that has caused so many deaths during epidemics, especially the one in 1918 that claimed some forty million lives around the world. Due to a suspicion that it originated in Spain, that strain was called “Spanish flu.” It was actually less prevalent in Spain than elsewhere but received more publicity there because that neutral country’s press wasn’t censored during World War I. Since this strain of influenza appeared first in Kansas, “Kansas flu” would have been a more accurate label. But accuracy is not the intent when diseases are given point-of-origin names such as “Hong Kong flu” and “German measles.” Ethnic biases come into play. Depending on which way the political winds are blowing, such designations are subject to change. At the peak of anti-German hysteria during World War I, “German measles” became liberty measles (and “German shepherds,” Alsatians).