I visit a lot of blogs.

Some of the bloggers cuss and curse and drop F-bombs in each post. I shrug when I read them because naughty words don’t offend me very much. They are just words. Not particularly creative words. I wonder if their Christmas letter describes the effin’ loss the soccer team endured in the quarterfinals, due to the effin’ coach’s Camaro breaking down on the effin’ highway on the way to the game. Everyone got an effin’ trophy, though! And effin’ Aunt Sadie took another effin’ trip to effin’ Jamaica and of course she had those effin’ tourist braids when she got home. An effin’ 75-year-old should effin’ know better.

Most people are socially savvy enough to know when a stream of obcenities isn’t appropriate in daily life. Some? Not so much.

But I’ve noticed there is a dirty word lurking on the internet and in real life. So dirty, in fact, that even people who curse and cuss like Naomi Campbell won’t say it. That word is judge.

Judging is the worst thing you can do.

People who have never cracked open a Bible suddenly turn into Vicar Knowitall and trot out “Judge not, lest you be judged” when they are under the weight of another’s scrutiny. I find it ironic when a person who would normally consider the Bible to be a good doorstop or maybe even a passible book of mythology suddenly invokes its authority when it is convenient. But I digress.

Do not judge. It’s short, memorable, and easily emblazoned on 100% white cotton t-shirts from Cafe Press.

I won’t wear one, though.

I am a judgmental witch.

I saw a roaming bunch of elementary school kids smoking. Something is wrong with that. Seriously wrong.

I saw a 4-year-old drinking a baby bottle with Coke in it. Not cool. Mom/dad/aunt/babysitter who allowed that: you are insane.

I saw a third grade girl dressed like a prostitute at Halloween. I saw a mom dressed like a prostitute/leopard kitty at the Kindergarten Halloween party. I questioned that decision.

Some geniuses buy beer for teenagers and serve it in their homes. “They’ll do it anyway…” they are fond of saying. Well, to the serial killer lurking in the woods: I know you are going to murder me anyway, so may I sharpen your axe for you? I’ll leave the door unlocked so you don’t hurt yourself while trying to break in. I hate to think of you cutting your hand on the glass. How may I further assist you in your law-flaunting?

What is so wrong about being judgmental?

I am not talking about judging a woman for bottlefeeding or breastfeeding. That is silly. I’ve done it too and fully recognize how much energy I’ve wasted worrying about that baby over there drinking from a bottle or that mom hiding in her car to breastfeed. I should simply be glad, in this day and age, that they are actually feeding their babies. I’m thankful we live in a country of prosperity where moms have a choice. Many places in the world there still is no choice.

But too many people take the non-judgmental “it’s all good, bro” attitude too far. Sometimes you must take a stand, put on the black robe, and pound the gavel.

Judge that.

They could break dance.

A group of seven or eight boys, who had reputations for being tardy homework shunners and mischief-lovers, who knew rap music before it was called Old School, who were from neighborhoods near the rivers and their junction—these boys owned our junior high on the nights of school dances.

One boy’s name was Orlando. He was the understood leader, the tallest and best dancer with a ghetto blaster the size of a Mini Cooper. He could do a helicopter with his legs in the air as his shoulders rotated on big sheets of cardboard. His joints would pop and lock rhythmically, then they’d appear to liquify as the rest of the boys in his group made a chain of arms, linked in a wave around the dance floor.

During their spontaneous demonstrations at regimented dances, the kids circled and watched in meek awe, outshone.

When Nancy Reagan brought her “Just Say No” tour to our town in 1983, the break-dancing boys were invited to entertain the crowd which assembled in the high school gym.

I went with my mom, not to hear about the evils of drugs but to see a First Lady in person. Secret service looked in my mom’s big purse, which was slightly embarrassing because there was a tampon right in the open for everyone to see. We sat on the gym bleachers, recited the Pledge of Allegience, and someone sang the national anthem. I don’t remember anything specific about her speech. My memory dresses her in red, because that was her signature color.

As her speech ended, the breakdancing crew joined Mrs. Reagan. She smiled and laughed as they took her hands, interlaced their fingers with hers, and did the wave. I thought I was witnessing history, but I wasn’t. News of Nancy’s antics never made it out of the high school gym and into the newspaper. Peter Jennings didn’t report on it—and I made sure to watch just in case he did. It was a yawn, a sigh, a whistlestop on a whirlwind tour of small-town gyms and community centers. Countless other groups were foisted on stage next to her day after day, and I’m sure she played along like a good sport.

I wonder if Orlando remembers holding her hand.