Edition: U.S. / Global

Hell-o! Catching Up With a Ban on Cursing

Published: January 26, 1997

IN Texas, where the syndicated columnist Molly Ivins recently lamented that the post-holiday return of the Legislature was ''depriving many a village of its idiot,'' things keep getting weirder. Two weeks ago, Kleberg County, home of the King Ranch empire, passed a resolution against the word hello. The commissioners objected to the word because its first syllable, they maintained, contains a satanic reference.

County employees must now answer telephones ''Heaven-o'' instead. Meanwhile, the Chamber of Commerce has started a campaign to spread the word.

If you're wondering what this has to do with a reasonably sensible state like New Jersey, you might recall the cursing controversy in Raritan Borough, the peaceful little town in Somerset County where swearing was declared illegal two years ago.

Mayor Anthony DeCicco certainly does, and fondly. But the good-natured Mr. DeCicco is quick to disavow any responsibility for what they do in Texas. A former marine who runs a downtown tavern, Mayor DeCicco chuckled and said, ''Hell-o? Hopefully, what we did didn't lead to that kind of thing.''

The Texas county's action was relegated to short wire-service articles placed on the back pages of newspapers, along with the storm-window ads. But in the autumn of 1994, Raritan and its Mayor were the subjects of animated national and even inter national coverage over the attempt to ban cursing under a new law aimed at reducing problems caused by groups of rowdy youths loitering outside a convenience store.

''I had my 15 minutes of fame, and I don't deny enjoying it,'' said the Mayor, a self-effacing man whose office door still has taped on it an editorial cartoon depicting a billboard with a smily face and the words ''Raritan Borough. Have a Nice Day. It's the Law.'' On a shelf behind his desk, Mayor DeCicco keeps news clippings from American and foreign papers in a bulging manila file labeled ''Cursing.''

The Mayor is still regularly interviewed on radio programs about the subject of public civility as a cornerstone of municipal harmony and safe streets. Reflecting on the 1994 furor, he explained that Raritan's anti-cursing provision, which was widely condemned as a clear violation of First Amendment principles, has yet to be tested in court.

Mayor DeCicco said that whatever its flaws, the law was intended to give a small-town police force ''a tool'' to address public harassment, not civil discourse -- although he concedes the line can be difficult to draw and impossible to legislate. To date, the anti-cursing aspect of the law has not been tested, partly because the ordinance was deliberately written to provide leeway in dealing with the troublesome free-speech aspects.

''We've had some people charged on it, but it's been plea-bargained down to a lesser charge'' in each case, he said.

Meanwhile, Mr. DeCicco remains a good sport about the ribbing he received over trying to ban cursing. ''Some people even took the time to write me letters filled with four, five pages of obscenities: 'You dirty blah-blah-blah.' Like I hadn't heard it all? They must have thought they were talking to somebody who just fell off some turnip truck.''

Raritan Borough, which has about 5,800 people, is an old crossroads town in a still semi-rural plain between major transportation nexuses, Bridgewater up north and New Brunswick to the south. It is the kind of place where people hold doors as others enter shops, and store owners decorate their own windows. Bobbi's Canine Coiffeurs, for example, has a festive window display of stuffed and ceramic dogs frolicking by a foot-high white picket fence.

At the Center Park barber shop, which still has a Wildroot Cream Oil sign out front, Frances Mastropasqua paused while working on a woman's permanent to remember how the publicity affected the town. ''I went out to Las Vegas, and people asked me about cursing in Raritan, like specifically what words could you say and not say,'' she said, laughing. ''I said I didn't know because I don't curse. Or at least I never get caught.''

''Nobody here ever curses anyway,'' swore Bobby Schenck, the proprietor of Uncle Bob's Cookies a block away.

As an ex-marine and barkeep, the Mayor said he was hardly a bluenose. But on his desk is a square plastic bank, a gift from a Dutch television crew, that admonishes visitors to keep a civil tongue. Violators are expected to drop in a coin.

The box, never emptied, now contains about $1.75. ''It's been there since 1995,'' Mayor DeCicco said. ''If I ever fill it, the money goes to the library. Maybe somebody will read a book, enhance their vocabulary.''

Drawing. (Nancy Doniger)