An equinox mishap, but with a bright side

On Thursday, Sept. 22, at 7:21 hours, the autumnal equinox occurs in San Francisco. This is when the sun crosses the celestial equator and, roughly, the daylight equals the night. The pagans call it Mabon, or second harvest. The Catholics turned that into Michaelmas, which was the time to pay the servants after the first harvest, then eat pecans and fatted geese.

In San Francisco, we mark the event with pumpkin-spice lattes.

We’re halfway between the summer and winter solstices, so think of this as the Hump Day for the Earth’s orbit.

I like the notion that this column comes out on Hump Day. We’ve gotten through half the workweek and the weekend is right around the corner.

Zane turned 13 this summer, the equinox of childhood. This week, he got his Best. Suspension. Ever. The Fisher-Paulson academic record is notorious, including more than 30 detentions, 10 suspensions, getting held back once and, depending on how you reckon it, three expulsions (I don’t count the expulsion from preschool because no matter how you look at it, “refusal to nap” is lame). Suffice it to say that the Fisher-Paulson boys are spirited.

We got through the first four weeks of this school year without so much as a detention. So when the note from the math teacher came announcing the suspension, I wasn’t surprised. Nor was I shocked that the reason was language, because, despite our efforts, Zane can embarrass a sailor with his piquant use of the vulgar.

But here’s how this was the best suspension ever. The teacher concluded the notice with this aside: “One last positive note, I found Zane talking with the boys on the yard. One of the boys commented that gay was ‘wrong’ and Zane replied that his dads were gay and that he loves you and you are great dads.”

The paradox: I’m not sure that when I was 13 I would have had the courage to stand up for gay parents, but I still had to talk with Zane about why the use of the word “ho” is appropriate only when said three times in a row by Santa.

Cursing is our family challenge. I myself have been trying to model better language, but giving up cursing is harder than giving up smoking. They have Nicorette and Chantix for chainsmokers, but there’s no product out there for chain-cursers.

Cursing is satisfying sometimes because it’s fun to shock people, but sometimes just because of the sound of it. Most of the good curse words have obstruents, the kind of speech sound formed by obstructing airflow. And the most satisfying of these are the plosives — letters like p, t, k, b, d and g — which are formed by occlusion of the vocal tract, followed by a release burst.

Cursing, then, is the vocal equivalent of punching a pillow, and the reason why so many of our fun curses end in a k or t sound. Since I started my refrain-from-the-profane campaign, I’ve found myself at stoplights shouting random plosives to other drivers: “PLANETS!” “BUCKETS!”

But Zane is 13, and progress with him is hard to define, as we go three steps forward, two steps backward and then a few steps to the side. He is much cooler than I have ever been.

“Zane,” I started the conversation, “What have we taught you?”

The eye-rolling began, “Not to curse. Not to objectify women.”

“And not to get suspended. Zane, I know you know the right thing.” And he knew the line, “Because the Fisher-Paulsons do the right thing because it’s the right thing. Even when it’s the hard thing.” “And when we don’t?” Zane sighed, “We get less things. Like allowance.” I handed him his weekly allowance, minus the dollar for non-pro-social language and $5 for getting suspended.

Brian was teaching at San Francisco Ballet, and so I was alone with the boys for dinner. We went with the easy default: the McDonald’s on Mission. (Do not judge. Pecans and fatted geese were not readily available.) We had just placed our orders for the happiest of meals when Zane noticed a homeless man standing in the corner, jeans torn, shirt stained, shaking a paper cup with a few coins. Zane walked over, gave the man a hug and handed him his allowance. “That’s what you taught me, Dad.” Maybe 13 is the hump year in raising a son, and maybe it gets better after this.

I myself have been trying to model better language, but giving up cursing is harder than giving up smoking.

Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s column appears Wednesdays in Datebook. Email: datebook @sfchronicle.com