By Renee Saunders, Staff Writer

About two years ago, I was the only 19-year-old female working with a group of fully grown men, who, for the majority, also happened to be ex-cons.

I developed a very colorful vocabulary.

After a year of doing heavy-duty work with these guys, such as unloading trucks, and dispersing heavy boxes from one end of a building to another with the use of a power jack, I figured I’d earned the right to use these four-letter words as I pleased.

Besides, after dropping enough boxes on my feet, or having glass containers and their contents break and spill all over concrete as I have many times, such dirty little words were bound to start running out of my mouth.

Eventually, I quit that job, and as the Fates would have it, I ended up at another institution much like it.

Only not.

Recalling my first month there, I was sitting outside under the tent with a few of my new colleagues, who were discussing the issues of the job and what had to be done for the day.

It all sounded so much like what I had grown accustomed to with the group that I worked with before — minus one thing.

The language was completely different, though I didn’t quite notice at the time.

Eventually, I was forced to talk to one of my co-workers.

I say "forced" because in a general situation, I pretty much stay to myself.

However, one day I was involved in a miserable situation, which will not be elaborated on at the moment. It was very apparent to one person I worked with that I was going through a tough time.

He offered to lend an ear.

Being accustomed to the gutter English at the other place of employment, as I was describing my predicament, this person (whom I now hold in very high regard) stopped my incessant rambling, and said, "First, we need to clean up your mouth."

After that, my little personal problem was over.

For the duration of my break (and a bit beyond), I listened to the older man tell me about how unladylike it is to cuss and swear.

And he told me a bunch of other things, too, like how to earn respect, and to watch what I wear.

Basically, the old philosophy major taught me how to act like a girl, something I had forgotten.

Of course, that first lecture really didn’t get me to clean up my act all at once.

It took many sharp comments and dirty looks from the old master to really get me to behave. And really, I’m thankful for it.

As a matter of fact, my mentor visited me at my job just the other day, as he has been relocated.

I was telling him that he should come back, and basically giving him the low-down on what was happening in the store.

As I was working my station, and having this discussion with my friend, I accidentally let something slip.

"This place sucks," I said, as my mind drifted from the conversation to what I was doing.

When I looked up, I saw him walking away from me.

For a second, I couldn’t figure out why he just left like that.

Then it dawned on me.

Though the old man doesn’t work with me anymore, he’s still my teacher.

Yet again, my hand was slapped for not watching my mouth.