First-year medical students are said to learn the sympathetic nervous system's role in the four F’s: fear, fight, flight, and sex.

The fourth "F" wouldn’t prompt a smile in medieval England, when everyday words for body parts or functions were no big deal. Children’s reading lessons might teach arse and fart. Street names might include Shitwell Way or Pissing Alley. Centuries later, Victorians separated the acceptability of a word from its meaning. Polite society could use Latin terms like fornicate or defecate, but not the Anglo-Saxon four-letter equivalents. That taboo continues with the aid of bleeps and asterisks.

The federal government in 2025 has multiplied the number of banned and trigger words for federal documents, websites, and grant proposals (see here and here). Latin substitutes no longer help; diversity, equity, and inclusion all have Latin roots. Could schools and colleges replace DEI with “education for all” programs for similar goals? Can you do better than “child-bearing adult” in place of woman or female? Endless revisions may offer editors and creative writers a new market for their talents.

Image: Jay & Trey Cartoon Swearing.

In the 1970s and early ’80s, I was too wrapped up in work and family to pay close attention to international events. One did catch my attention: the junta in Argentina and its vicious campaign to eradicate any opposition. The junta labeled all who criticized or disagreed with it “terrorists” and justified its deeds as a war, the Guerra Sucia (“Dirty War”). Picturing the suffering of the victims and their families gave me shivers. It still does.

Paramilitary forces in plain clothes snatched targets from the street or dragged them from bed in the middle of the night. The desaparecidos (“disappeared”) included students, journalists, union members, Jews, and anyone suspected of left-wing sympathies. I doubt the state-sponsored kidnappers had warrants, identified themselves, or read captives their rights. Victims had no constitutional right to due process, free speech, or habeas corpus. Some were held in secret detention centers. Tens of thousands were never heard from again.

Mothers of desaparecidos walked in the plaza every Thursday, demanding to know what had become of their loved ones. Few others spoke or acted in protest. I don’t know how many people held back out of fear, how many gave up hope, and how many didn’t care. Only after economic collapse and defeat in the Falklands compounded dissatisfaction over lack of civil rights did the junta and its Guerra Sucia come to an end.

Of course, that was not the first or last time such horror has been inflicted in one place or another. I took comfort in knowing nothing of the sort could ever happen here.

Image: Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, December 1982.

Mr. Popper’s Penguins by Richard and Florence Atwater is a childhood treasure I forgot until last week. It tells how a small-town housepainter unexpectedly finds himself responsible for a dozen penguins sharing his home.

What could be more irresistibly cute than a penguin? Its coloring and upright posture make it resemble a miniature man in a tuxedo. It waddles and struts like a toddler pretending to be a proud gentleman. Look here for many of its enchanting behaviors in its native habitat.

Years passed before I realized penguins and polar bears never meet in the wild. Polar bears live in the Arctic North, where they rely on sea ice as a base for hunting seals. Penguins dive for fish, squid, and krill from shores nearer the South Pole, including Antarctica; the coasts of South America, Africa, and Australia; and scattered sea islands such as the Galapagos (a province of Ecuador) and the humanly uninhabited Heard and McDonald Islands (external territories of Australia).

What calls to mind Mr. Popper’s Penguins lately is the penguin imagery on signs at rallies. It’s a whimsical reference to global U.S. tariffs extending even to Heard and McDonald Islands, home only to penguins, seals, and sea birds. Using good-natured humor to make a serious point promotes resilience and high spirits. What elicits more smiles than a waddling, tuxedo-clad, miniature gentleman held aloft on a stick? What could be cuter than a penguin?

Image: Photo by 66 North on Unsplash.

I’ve never done well with anger. It scares me. In times past, slammed doors and the silent treatment left me with something akin to fear of abandonment. I can be slow to recognize my own anger, for instance when castigated for something I didn’t do. Even being in the presence of anger not directed at me makes me uncomfortable.

Why get angry? I don’t mean, what is there to get angry about? Many people can come up with a ready list, especially in these tumultuous times. I mean, what purpose does anger serve? In the face of threats, it energizes humans to choose fight over flight. I’m glad there are fighters whose fury rouses them to battle injustice.

We don’t all have to fill the same niche. When I choose my battles, dislike of anger serves me well. Conflict averse but not conflict avoidant, I’m strongly motivated to raise issues in ways that save face for all, address problems rather than blame, and seek solutions rather than victory. I can’t always choose an emotion, but I can choose whether to wallow in it. Unless I need anger to fuel a necessary fight, I’d rather wallow in contentment and gratitude.

Image: Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash.