Happy something

If you're one of my Dutch or Belgian readers, you might have woken up this morning and thought about the cold you'll have to bike through, or the meal you're going to be cooking tonight before you even realized that today is Halloween. You might have decided to decorate your home with pumpkins galore, or thought of it as yet another ridiculous American holiday trying to make it on the other side of the ocean. If you're an American living overseas, you might have woken up this morning and realized that although you bought bags and bags of candy, you won't be having any trick or treaters coming to your door,and so you'll be left fighting the urge to eat all those fun-size Snickers and Milikyways yourself all night long.

In case you were expecting the next sentence to start with "If you're an American living stateside" and then state something generalized about the American Halloween experience, I'm sorry to let you down. Because last Monday I realized more than ever that there is no such thing as "The" American, just as there is no such thing as the typical American Halloween experience. In fact, if you live in the south, it is very well possible that you grew up believing Halloween is as evil as, oh, telling someone to shut up.

I always knew that there were Southern Baptists who objected to the celebration of Halloween. The fact that the celebration centers on kids in costumes who spend most of the night and the following days on a sugar high as a result of all the candy consumed on October 31st is irrelevant to them. In their opinion, Halloween has clear pagan roots, celebrates a spirit world unrelated to Jesus and God, and therefore reeks of idol-or in some more fundamentalist cases- devil-worshipping. Yes ma'am. Not to be persuaded by the argument that Halloween could be based on the Catholic "All Hallows' Eve" as much as it could be related to the Pagan feast of Samhain, they forbid their children from dressing up and going trick or treating. In their never-ending quest to save as many souls as possible, they usually refuse to hand out candy to other children as well. Instead, parents of little children dressed as princesses, Spidermen, or a milk carton are left to explain the signs posted on the doors of these unbelievers in Halloween, which usually sport supportive texts like "No candy here! God Bless You!", or "Halloween is not a Godly celebration!".

Instead of celebrating Halloween, then, many of these Southern Baptists attend "Harvest festivals" at their local churches, where bouncy castles, pony rides,  best costume contests, and the oddly named "trunk or treat" are available to entertain their children. It looks like Halloween, it talks like Halloween, it walks like Halloween, but since we're not calling it Halloween, the God of the southern baptists approves.

But this past Monday, when attending another life group session at a local church, I realized that there is yet an entirely different group of believers out there. People who reject Halloween as much as these southern baptists do, but for a completely different reason. These Christians, you see, use October 31 to celebrate Reformation Day.

Reformation Day, for those of you unfortunate enough to be Roman Catholic, Jewish, or heavens forbid, atheist, marks the day that Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the door of the church in Heidelberg. It thus marks the birth of today's protestant movement, and apparently there is an entire subculture of Christians who choose to celebrate this in lieu of Halloween or the Harvest Festival.

When responding to my question about what they would be doing on Wednesday, one of the husbands responded that he always used that day to hand out copies of the 95 theses to his Catholic friends and colleagues. Not understanding why he would do that, I asked why.
"Why, it's Reformation Day, of course!" The pastor's wife explained, and after a few moments, it clicked for me. Reformation Day. Of course.
The pastor's wife went on to wax lyrical about the little Martin Luther costumes they had made for their children. Since a day without sarcasm is a day not lived, and really, who needs friends?, I joined in with the very cynical and not-to-be-taken serious comment, "Oh, you should totally re-enact the nailing of the 95 theses on Wednesday night, that would be so cool".
Husband-dear, who senses the sarcasm, shot me a slightly warning look, but fortunately, the mom whom the comment was addressed to, didn't notice, "Oh wow, that's such a great idea! I think we'll totally do that!"
I smiled a Cheshire cat smile, and added I was always happy to come up with interesting ideas.

So, happy Reformation Day everyone, and make sure you check out the 95 theses today.

To all my Catholic, Jewish, Mormon, Atheist, Agnostic, or people with a sense of humor, rest assured, we will be lighting our pumpkins and handing out candy tonight. We'll just keep some copies of those theses on hand in case the pastor stops by.

Not that kind of doctor

"You need to breathe through the contractions, breathe, sweetie, you need to breathe."

I can assure you that in none of my wildest dreams, I would be the one to utter those words. Yet last Wednesday, I got to do just that. It started off innocent enough. One of my Intro students, let's call her Lea, came into my office five minutes before class started, "I was just wondering if I could have an excused absence today."

"What for?"

"Well, I've been having contractions.."

"You...what? You're pregnant?" (That, children, is why you go to school for 22 years, so you can ask if someone is pregnant when they claim they're having contractions).

"Yes, seven months." Lea grimaced, "Oooh, and there's another one."

Not quite sure what social protocol called for in this situation, does one look away? Pretend nothing is going on? Rush to aid the lady in question? I decided that the best course of action would be to just keep asking questions (again, kids, that is why you go to school).

"When did they start?"

"I've been having them since midnight."

"Midnight?! Why aren't you in the hospital?!"

At this point, Lea was distracted for a few minutes by more, eh, pressing matters, but her answer spoke volumes about my doubt that I had been becoming too lenient on my students, "Well, I didn't know if I would be allowed to miss class."

"Well, I would argue that having contractions, and possibly going into labor is a valid excuse if there ever was one."

"I also didn't want to miss anything, you know, with the paper due and all."

After telling Lea she was absolutely not going to class in this condition, I picked up the phone to call campus police. While Lea groaned and moaned through another contraction, I requested that the police call an ambulance. When that was done, I asked Lea if she wanted to stay with me in my office. 

"No, let's go to class, I can wait there until the EMTs show up. Whether I sit there or here, makes no difference. I might as well learn something"

Quiet Lea was turning out to be quite the dedicated student

As we waddled to class (how could I not have noticed she was pregnant?! Again, you can have had too much schooling, honestly), I asked a passing student to get the cushy chair out of the waiting area and place it in my classroom. Although I assumed the EMTs would be there any second, I figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

And sorry I was. Ten minutes later, Lea had had one contraction, and was wailing through the second. And when I say wailing, I mean wailing. Abandoning all efforts at taking roll, or normalcy, or cool cucumberness for that matter, I instructed the students slowly trickling into class, "She's having contractions. Yes, Mike, she's pregnant. You, get some wet paper towels. You, get some cold water, you two, find the nearest cop, and figure out why the ambulance isn't here yet."

My students rose to the occasion as one, while I (with one lamaze class under my belt as the buddy to a pregnant friend with a deployed husband) and another student who had a baby, sat with Lea, and tried to get her to breeeeaaaaaathe.
"I haven't taken Lamaze yet, " Lea explained after one contraction abated, "I thought I had time."
"Well, you're getting a crash course now."

Finally, finally, the EMTs showed up. I have never been happier to see the men in the logoed t-shirts, not even when I was the one in need of help. They took Lea to the labor and delivery unit, while I continued my class as though dealing with pre-term labor was just another course objective.

And Lea? She showed up two days later, explaining she was on bedrest and some serious medication.
"So why are you here?"
"Well, I didn't want to miss class. And I wanted to make sure you had my excuse for Wednesday."

I'm telling you this baby's middle name is going to be dedication.

Why Dutch books make me cry: code-switching and husband-dear

I have a confession to make. Well, three actually: 1) my husband barely speaks Dutch, 2) this is my fault, and 3) I don't care all that much.

Having said that, I do envy Dutch women whose American husbands can speak Dutch. Who can join in on conversations, watch Dutch movies with them, and who, subsequently, have no problem holding a conversation with various elderly relatives who may not speak English. Who, when you try to discuss something about the kids in front of the kids, can switch back and forth between English and Dutch as though it's a piece of cake, and who understand why "Shall we but" truly is very funny. To me, it just seems to add another layer of ease to one's daily life.

Interestingly, I know of people who believe that being fluent in a spouse's native tongue is a lot more than just an added bonus to daily life. The other day, in fact, I read a blog that posited  that unless you speak someone's native language, you don't truly know them. A fact that would imply that, since husband-dear's Dutch doesn't go beyond "Een kopje koffie klinkt erg lekker, ja.", he has yet to meet the real Dixiechick. In general, this idea appears to ring true. After all, if you were raised speaking one language, grew up immersed in its culture and discourse, then that language (and its subsequent cultural, social, and ideological implications) has defined who you are. And although expressing yourself in your spouse's language might become second nature after a while, it is still that: second nature. You can be as fluent as humanly possible, unless your significant other speaks your language, there will be a cultural gap between the two of you, no matter how minor.

Now, although there (I'm sure) plenty of gaps between husband-dear and myself (I mean, if someone can tell me why he thinks it's acceptable to get up at 6:30 on a weekend, that would be great), a cultural-language gap isn't one of them. Although my parents raised me speaking Dutch, I grew up in countries other than The Netherlands, and not only quickly became fluent in English, but also became an expert at code-switching. I learned that there was a language used for school, for home, and for the outside world. The Netherlands, its cultural values, social beliefs, and popular culture became something restricted to vacations and care packages filled with drop and the latest gossip magazine. And when we moved back, I never felt at home the way I did before we left, and in fact spent the better part of the next few years trying to get away again (and mostly succeeding at it too).

So when I met husband-dear, speaking English was something I never even thought about. I had always thought of English as my second native language (as evidenced my mounds of drama-filled, woe-is-me-teen-angst-riddled, English-language journals), husband-dear didn't speak Dutch, and so I just spoke the language that had always come easiest to me anyway: English. When we argued, we argued in English. When I cried, I cried in English. When I had nightmares, they were in English. There were no "this comes easier to me in Dutch" moments for me, ever.

In spite of all of that, though, I really did want husband-dear to learn Dutch. I'm not sure why, but I did. Perhaps I really wanted him to be able to talk my 90-year old grandfather. Or perhaps I was worried about getting  dementia, and, like so many others, reverting to the language I learned first. Or, and this is just a teeny, tiny possibility, but perhaps I figured that since I had moved halfway around the world for him, the least thing he could was learn to speak Dutch. Whatever the reason was, husband-dear threw himself into it with his usual vigor. He purchased Rosetta Stone, and for weeks harassed me with questions about prepositions, conjugations, and other things I, due to my own lack of education in the Dutch language, didn't know. He would pick up the phone with "Het paard eet een wortel", and "De man staat op het dak", and we would instate "only Dutch" afternoons at our house. We really tried. We did. But at the end of the day, I would always switch back to English. Not him, nope, me. It was just easier than trying to speak Dutch with someone who is just learning. Especially when there was no dire need to speak Dutch fluently yet (my grandmother is still able to translate for him, and I have yet to show a sign of dementia).

So once he picked up the basics, and I stopped showing a real interest, husband-dear put his considerable energy into other endeavors. And I was OK with that. Still am, really. I can express myself in English just fine, and don't really see a need for my poor overworked husband to spend hours per week studying a language his wife doesn't even care to speak.

But then last night I suddenly uncovered a reason why I maybe should have pushed the matter more. I was organizing some of my old Dutch children's books. Books that are destined for other Dutch-Americans with children who do speak Dutch. And with each book that passed through my hands, I remembered reading it. I remembered twirling my hair and losing myself in each novel, whether it was about crusades, world war II, boarding schools, horse farms, or an imaginary place called Thule. I remembered how lonely I used to be as a child, and how these books became my friends, and helped me create my own fantasy-world where I would retreat to when things were not as easy as they could have been. And then I realized: because my husband cannot read Dutch, that is a part of me he would never know. In spite of all of my language skills, the immersion in cultures other than the Dutch one, there was one part of me that was undeniably Dutch. It was a sad thought.

Of course, when I told husband-dear, he said three things: 1) You can tell me about each and every book, 2) If there are movies made about these books, we can watch them together, even if they're in Dutch, and 3) I will start learning Dutch again, if you'd like me to.

And that is why he rocks, both in Dutch and in English.

Bike versus car: bills, bills, bills

Whenever most Europeans hear the words "America" and "health care" in one sentence, they'll most likely add "trouble" in their heads. Funnily enough, although we spend a lot of time talking about health care, no one in my circle of friends and family has experienced those three things simultaneously. In fact, most of us are happily (if not expensively) insured, and in those few cases where people aren't, one usually doesn't hear a whole lot about it.

Now that didn't mean that when I lost my bike v. car battle, I didn't worry just a little. After all, although Tricare has been incredibly fair and helpful over the years, this was America, and who knows what kind of fine print Tricare had hidden away somewhere that would preclude health care for people dumb enough to ride their bikes on Georgia roads. And even though husband-dear told me that I would be fine, and Tricare would cover the ambulance ride, the care I got in the ER, and pretty much everything else, I wasn't so sure. I asked around about other people's experiences, and heard all sorts of horror stories. From insurance companies refusing to pay because the expenses were the result of an accident, leaving the person to battle with the other party's auto insurance, to insurance companies promising they would pay, not following through and not telling their customer about this, leaving them to deal with charming collection agencies, to auto insurance companies refusing to reimburse the victim's health insurance, which led to all levels of bureaucratic hell.

But after having followed the required "call your PCM within 24 hours after having received emergency care", I decided there was little I could do about anything, and let it go. No, really, I did. I was too busy pondering the future of my tri-career to worry about pesky little things such as medical bills. I know, I know, thousands of people go bankrupt over medical expenses every year, and I'm more concerned about whether or not I'll be able to beat my 6:26 half-iron record next year.

Anyway, until the EMS bill came in, that is. A grand total of $500 for a ten-minute ride. Since I was expecting an amount closer to a thousand, the amount itself didn't do much for me (except lead to a whole lot of speculation about why Georgia ambulance rides are so cheap). The fact that I was receiving a bill in the first place was, however, a lot more alarming. Although I don't know about other, possibly fancier, health insurance companies, I do know that when you're with Tricare, you don't usually see a bill. Unless someone screwed up, in which case you're in for a lot of lengthy and potentially blood-pressure increasing phone calls. And that was the last thing I was looking forward to. Since the bill had the ominous "You are responsible for making sure your insurance company pays this bill, and will be responsible for any late payments" warning on it, you can imagine that I had immediately determined that Tricare would forget to pay, and I would end up owing the EMS company thousands and thousands of dollars in fees and interest, and would end up going bankrupt.

What can I say? I have a very creative mind.

Anyway, the bill came in on Thursday night, and that week was a particularly busy one for me. So busy, in fact, that I forgot to call the EMS company or Tricare, and when I remembered the bill on Sunday night, I was so worn out, the prospect of bankruptcy and financial ruin just didn't do it for me anymore. Of course, how these things work is that the Tricare notification of payment came in the next day. They had in fact, in a burst of efficiency, paid all of my bills: the EMS, the ER, the pharmacy, everything. It was awesome.

But not as awesome as seeing what Tricare actually paid. For those of you not familiar with Tricare, it's basically a government-run program (which makes the notion of military members opposing universal government-regulated health care a contradiction to say the least, but I digress), which means that if you go to an off-base facility where the patients will be charged, they like to control what something costs. Although they cover almost everything (well, except IVF...yeah, I know, very ironic), that doesn't mean they'll pay full price for it. Your doctor may charge you $100 for a test, but if Tricare will not pay more than $50 for that test (they like to call this the "approved amount"), then that is what the doctor will get. And to prevent doctors from rolling the remaining amount over onto the patient, Tricare also lets the doctor know what they're allowed to charge the patient. So even though I thought that the $500 for my ambulance ride was reasonable, Tricare apparently didn't think so. The amount they paid? $114. Yes, that would be a little over a hundred dollars. Call me strange, but I almost feel bad for the EMS company. With all the military folk and their dependents around here, there's no way they're even close to breaking even with amounts like that.

After about five minutes, however, that sense of guilt disappeared, as I realized that my bills had been paid, and the fight about who would pay for what was off my plate. People have been telling me I should call the driver's auto insurance company and demand a settlement for pain and suffering, but you know what, I'm not going to. Personally, I'm just happy to know that all this has been taken care of. And for all those times during baby-gate that I cussed out Tricare for not paying a single dime? I'm sorry about that Yeah, nope, still not cool with that. Sorry.

Chintz and curves: The doctor will see you now

Paintings of flowers, plants, or open windows overlooking something natur-y (a pond, the ocean, woods, or an English garden). Chintz wallpaper, or if you're in a particularly hip one, striped wallpaper. A chair rail. Plush carpets, or possibly a shiny hard wood floor covered in fake Persian rugs. Winged chairs with curly feet. Or if the room is a little smaller, high-backed curvy chairs covered in chintzy fabric. Fake plants. A television set, and stacks of outdated magazines about horses, golf, and if you're in the hip one with the striped wallpaper, a few People magazines.

No, this is not your grandmother's living room (or my grandmother's living room for that matter). Nor is it the waiting room in a nursing room. None of all that. This would be what your average southern doctor's office looks like.

After spending most of Friday in either my own dentist's office, the kids' orthodontist's office, and a variety of other waiting rooms, I couldn't help but marvel at how completely Miss-Marplified all these waiting rooms were. Perhaps I'm just signed up with all the wrong doctors, and all other southerners get to sit in sleek, modern waiting rooms outfitted with wifi and free espressos. However,  considering the variety of doctors we have had the pleasure of seeing in the past few years (orthodontists, pediatricians, a variety of baby-related doctors), I am going to go out on a limb and argue that I have a vague notion of what your average non-metro southern waiting room looks like. And they all pretty much look like the description above.

Granted, I'm used to the no-nonsense waiting rooms more commonly found in Europe and New England. Waiting rooms that contain lots of stone and, if you're in a particularly hip practice, marble. Waiting rooms where rugs are an absolute no-no, and patients instead get highly polished floors, faux design chairs (that admittedly are anything but comfortable), and lots of glass all around, including on the tables. Rooms that definitely do not have a flat screen TV tuned to Dr. Phil or The View, or if you're very unlucky, The O'Reilly Factor. Waiting rooms that, to me anyway, spell, "I'm busy, professional, and am here to get the job done". A thought with which, for some reason, I'm a lot more comfortable than something that makes me think of the set from "Who's the Boss" or "Family Ties"

And here's my question: Why? I mean, really, why? Why do southern non-metro doctors of a wide variety of backgrounds feel that their patients would feel most at ease when they're kept waiting in a room that resembles something their grandmother might have appreciated? I suppose one could argue that this type of decor is what southerners are familiar with, you know, that southern homes are crammed with chintz, curved chairs, and pictures of dogs, ponds, and forests. But after having visited a large number of genuine (versus transplanted) southern homes, none of whom look as though they came straight out of the Andy Griffith show, I'm going to go with a blunt "no" on that idea. So familiarity isn't it. I briefly entertained the idea that perhaps every single doctor in rural Georgia employs the same, ancient, born in the 1930s interior designer, but then rejected that since I remember several doctors proudly telling me they designed their own offices. So then the only reason that is left (aside from a severe shortage of marble, faux-designer chairs, and glass) is expectation management. You see, whenever I see an office decorated in a way my great-grandmother would approve of, my expectations for the doctor's abilities dwindle a little as well. Call me superficial, but there you have it. So whatever state the doctor's office is in really doesn't matter after having been exposed to chintz, curves, and The View for half an hour or more, it's all good. Very, very smart, when you think about it. Perhaps Dutch doctors should consider throwing out their marble and designer chair for a few winged chairs and a fake Persian as well. If nothing else, it would be more comfortable for the patients.

Mijn wingman

Vandaag was het eindelijk zo ver: mijn eerste fietsrit na mijn ongeluk. En na twee weken waarin ik niet veel meer kon dan zitten, lopen, en liggen, en ontzettend goed klagen over mijn rug, werd het hoog tijd dat ik weer iets aan sport ging doen. Het was niet dat ik niet wilde hoor. Integendeel. Ik was drie dagen na het ongeval alweer klaar om op mijn fiets te springen. Alleen was was mijn rug het daar niet zo mee eens. Begrijpelijk. Maar ja, toen ik na een week nog steeds na de minste beweging plat op de vloer kon gaan liggen, was ik het ergens wel een heel klein beetje beu. En toen dat tien dagen duurde, was ik het toch wel een heel klein beetje heel erg beu. Mijn 'heating pad' draaide overuren, en in de auto werd het aanklikken van de 'bun warmers' net zo standaard als het aanzetten van de airco. Na twee weken, vandaag dus, was ik er echt helemaal klaar mee. En met mij, de rest van de familie, tot aan de honden toe, dus ook. Gelukkig werkte mijn rug vanochtend mee, en na een kwartier op mijn trouwe kameraad 'mr. Heating pad' gelegen te hebben, sprong ik samen met manlief op de fiets.

Het was geweldig. De wind op mijn gezicht, de zon op mijn armen, het ruisende geluid van de wielen, het was fantastisch. Totdat we de grote weg opdraaide, en de eerste auto me inhaalde. Lichtelijk in paniek wijkte ik uit naar rechts, bijna tegen manlief aan, "Hon, die auto kwam niet eens bij je in de buurt"
"Ja maar, hij ging wel mooi niet naar de linkerbaan." we stapten weer op de fiets, en toen een tweede auto naar de linkerbaan uitweek alvorens langs ons te razen, dook ik weer in een, "Dit is best wel eng."
De derde auto, die er voor koos om niet geheel naar de linkerbaan uit te wijken, kreeg een, "Are you out of your freaking mind?! Really?!" naar zijn hoofd. En toen moest ik toch echt tot de conclusie komen dat ik best wel eens een klein traumaatje aan het ongeluk overgehouden kon hebben. Een kleintje, maar een trauma nonetheless.
Gelukkig had ik manlief niet voor niks meegenomen. Na de tweede of derde auto ging hij schuin achter me rijden, zodat hij iets verder op de weg reed dan ik. Zijn redenering? Zo zouden ze hem eerder zien dan ik. En deden ze dat niet, dat zouden ze hem eerst aanrijden. Zo'n jongen wil je op zo'n moment toch gewon zoenen? Hij noemde zichzelf mijn wingman, en dankzij mijn wingman verliep het uurtje op de fiets perfect.

Nou alleen allemaal even duimen dat mijn rug dat ook vindt.

The S- word

Just a precaution before I begin: if you don't like cuss words, or if you are someone who actually uses the term "cuss words", you may want to skip this post. Not that I'm about to start bandying the f-bomb around, but there will be repeated use of the d-word. And possibly also the s-word. So considered yourselves warned.

For the past few weeks, husband-dear have been church-hunting. We have, among other things, joined a "life group" (i.e., an adult bible study) at a church right around the corner from our house. We're not committing that church just yet, and we're also not entirely sure about the life group itself, especially after last night, but we figured we'd give it a try. Today, as I walked in with my heating pad and extension cord, one of the other life group attendees asked the obvious question ("why?") followed up by a less obvious question, "So your back is still not OK?", to which I responded with a heartfelt, "No. I mean, damn, it hurts."

The silence punctured by a few uneasy giggles that followed that statement made me realize I had once again committed a serious faux pas. You see, proper southern Christians do not swear. Or excuse me, cuss. Jesus doesn't like it.

So I quickly made up an excuse, and muttered something about having to give a come to Jesus talk to one of my students right before I left. Now this did actually happen. A fellow professor had complained to me about one my advisees running his mouth in class, and so when I saw said student, let's call him Jack, I called Jack into my office. Jack's excuse was that the professor had "crossed the line" a week prior, and Jack wasn't having any of it. What line had the professor crossed? Well, he had had the audacity to cuss Jack out. More specifically, he had told Jack to "stop messing around in class, dammit." So I asked the student what the professor had meant by "messing around", to which Jack responded he might have possibly been chatting and napping during class. Well, I argued, you probably needed a good wake up call then, didn't you?
"But, professor, he cussed. Like, OMG, you don't cuss." Jack sounded very sincere. Unfortunately, for Jack anyway, I know him a little too well.
"You cuss yourself, Jack, you know that."
"No I don't. Honestly, professor."
"Dammit Jack, have you read own tweets lately? They're not exactly G-rated either, are they?"I shook my head, "How can you play all high and mighty offended Christian when your own tweets use more cusswords than your average hip hop song? Seriously?"
At this point, Jack got the idea.

Unfortunately, my fellow life group members didn't.
"Oh no, " on of them exclaimed, "And here I was, feeling bad that today, when my second graders were really pushing my buttons, I no longer had the energy to tell them "shush", but instead told them to shut up. Wow."
A collective "oooh" indicated that this was, apparently, very bad, a thought further underlined by a second member's response, "Yeah, I always have my kindergartners tell on each other when that happens, 'Hey, Mrs. C., so and so just said the s-word', 'what did they say honey? It's OK you can tell me', 'well, they told me to shut up'. It's so cute"

So besides not discussing armpit hair, apparently telling someone to shut up is also unacceptable now. And the funny thing is, none of this is in the bible. Yes, there is the commandment that tells you to not use the Lord's name in vain, one which would lead my Jewish friend to edit that last sentence to spell "L-d". But unless one tells someone to shut up in God's (or G-d's) name, I'm not seeing it. And then of course there is Ephesians 4, where Paul tells his readers to let nothing but wholesome talk come from their mouths. When "damn" is used to reflect a "wow!" or "man!", is that unwholesome? When you tell a bunch of rowdy kids to shut up, is that not wholesome? Is learning to be quiet not wholesome? Apparently, I'm missing something here.

On the other hand, it does explain why my student was so upset. Not only was he cussed at, he was told in no uncertain terms to stop doing something. And that's not wholesome, apparently.
But seriously though, and I'm quoting The Princess Diaries here (an overall wholesome movie)
Shut. Up.