November 23, 2024 
By M. Regina Cram
There are certain non-negotiable rules in our home. No Yankees apparel allowed. If you show up wearing a Yankees cap, it’s off with the hat or off with the head.
You’re not allowed to call anyone stupid. No singing at the dinner table. (Yes, this rule is necessary.) No garbage talk.
Then there’s the forbidden phrase invented by our son. It all began with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Surely you remember the Teenage Turtles craze of the 1980s. Four animated reptiles named Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Leonardo roamed the sewers under New York, fighting villains, eating pizza, and shouting,” Cowabunga, dude!” If you’re unfamiliar with this form of entertainment, nothing I say will help.
Skip was a preschooler when Teenage Turtles came to power. For several noisy years, a Ninja in a green cape raced throughout the house shouting, “Turtle power!” Gradually, his repertoire of battle cries expanded to include his favorite epithet, “banana squat head!”
I’ve never known what a banana squat head is. To Skip, it was the ultimate insult, aimed with great force at anyone who displeased him. We told him banana squat head was garbage talk, but it’s hard to separate a 6-year-old from such powerful language, especially when dressed as a Ninja.
One day, we attended a birthday party for Skip’s distinguished great-grandmother. (You can see where this is going.) She was not acquainted with Teenage Turtles, nor did she care to be. She was, however, keenly interested in gentlemanly manners by her eldest great-grandchild. This cultured woman engaged Skip in polite conversation about kindergarten, arithmetic, and his baby sister.
Skip, looking dapper in gray slacks, a double-breasted blazer, and saddle shoes, politely smiled as she spoke. Suddenly, he erupted.
“You’re a banana squat head!”
The dowager swooned and clutched her bosom as Skip pivoted toward the maiden great-aunt. He swung his imaginary sword and hollered, “You’re a banana squat head too, and I’m going to chop your head off!”
Before we could intervene, the great-aunt had dragged the errant child to the kitchen, where she introduced him to the pungent taste of Ivory Soap.
I was deemed an unfit mother.
As the years passed, Teenage Turtles were relegated to a box in the basement. As a teen, Skip served as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion, visiting local nursing homes to bring communion. (the ladies loved him.) Not once did he holler “Turtle Power!” in the corridors. He didn’t even wear a green cape. The kid was becoming downright civilized.
Likewise, in adulthood, there are no documented reports of a caped crusader shouting, “You’re a banana squat head!” to the librarian or local farmer.
This remarkable change coincided with Skip’s discovery that girls are not, in fact, yucky. They might be even cooler than Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Perhaps these insights could be used as an evangelism tool to transform boys into gentlemen. The only stipulation is that they must not call anyone a “banana squat head.” It is, after all, a swear word.
M. Regina Cram is a published author and parishioner of SS. Isidore and Maria Parish.
