In the last few decades, it’s become something of a political statement for people groups to reclaim derogatory statements or slurs. “Fag”, “slut”, even the word “gay” is now being reclaimed by certain members of the community as a term one uses to describe something stupid, which is in itself about as stupid as it gets. Obviously, it’s a pretty controversial conversation, and for obvious reasons, not everyone is interested in getting on board. That being said, one of the most intriguing terms to fall into the ranks of reclaiming has been, in my opinion, the word “bitch”.
Being bitchy has become inexplicably cool again, though this isn’t necessarily anything new. The beloved song Bitch by Meredith Brooks hit the scene in 1997, over twenty-five years ago, and I think it resonates with practically every woman to this day. It’s the most accurate portrayal of what it’s truly like to wear any of the dozens of personas a woman must don in order to thrive, while still seeking out an avenue to remain true to herself. Being first and foremost a bitch lays the groundwork for the rest of these personalities to be built upon, and it’s agonizing in its relatability. Who among us hasn’t flung our wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror as we put on the solo performance of a lifetime for no one but our weeping ancestors?
Boss-bitch, silly-bitch, sad-bitch. Any and all personalities have room for this newfound attitude that I myself am happy to pick up from time to time. It’s the word “bitch” that I have a tough time coming to terms with and not because I find it particularly offensive. It’s just lazy.
It joins the ranks of other lazy terms that really shouldn’t have a place in the English language such as “dude,” “dick,” and “spirituality”. They have no meaning and are therefore applied in any and all circumstances. I’ve been called a bitch more times than I can count, and more often than not, it wasn’t even framed as an insult. It’s been offered as something like a compliment or greeting. I’ve even heard it as a term of endearment with an arm draped across my shoulders. “I love you, you beautiful bitch.”
There is a load of argument surrounding the term, and more than a handful of women find it so offensive they’ve taken stands against it in the name of feminism, freedom, and God herself. And I don’t blame them. The fact remains that the majority of the time when we hear the word “bitch” in general public, it’s nearly always being said by a man, to a woman, in an effort to degrade her. It’s even the word other women reach for when looking to cut down a female counterpart, and it’s this that makes me sad. Language is one of the most creative tools at our disposal and yet this ancient put-down continues to hold its place at the top of the derisive hierarchy.
In today’s world of endless information and infamous roasts I’ve come to expect more. I’m tough to rattle, so on the rare occasion someone does come at me with a verbal blow, I have a hard time getting upset if it’s well-thought or at least a little bit creative. Which is why, on a pleasant October morning, I found myself grinning from ear to ear after some random in a grocery store parking lot called me an asshole.
With my shopping and my son packed safely into the back seat, I had pulled out of our parking spot and was about to turn into a through lane that would take me to the main road, and standing near the curb was a young woman. She wasn’t rushing out into the street or even looking at me, really, so it wasn’t clear whether or not she was planning on moving forward into the lot. I waited for a brief moment before taking my turn, but when she didn’t take her opportunity, I followed through and cruised by at a reasonable pace. The lot wasn’t busy, and since she hadn’t bothered to use the crosswalk less than ten feet away, I didn’t think much of it. I had the windows rolled down and was soaking up the early fall sunshine when I heard her call out, “watch where you’re going, asshole!”
I whipped my head around to look over my shoulder and realise that she had her middle finger held out in the direction of my bumper. But far from the intended effect her actions no doubt held for me, I could only feel an immediate sense of elation. I can’t recall ever being called an asshole. It was a novel experience, similar in a way to sitting down at one of those restaurants where you pay extra for lousy service and a waitress that’s rude to you before forgetting your order. A sort of wild thrill at being so bluntly mistreated by a total stranger.
Is this how people discover their kinks? One moment an average Joe is picking up a prescription at the pharmacy and the next a woman in Stilletos and a cashmere overcoat is thretenting to kick him in the balls. But rather than fear or outrage winging through his veins, he’s enamored with the thought and immediately races home to look it up on the internet and confirm that he’s not alone in this desire.
That’s not to say the interaction I had was sexual in nature, far from it. But I can’t deny the sense of elation.
When men are insulted, they’re bound to recieve any number of just accusations that accurately describe exactly what kind of fool they are being in that moment. Idiots, dumbasses, playboys, and egomaniacs all have their own special assignments. Being a bitch tells us nothing of the crime being committed. She could have snapped at a puppy or she could have been the woman kicking the unassuming shopper in the balls at the pharmacy.
I much prefer this new title. It suggests an air of ignorance with a sprinkling of unearned superiority. Regardless of whether or not I deserved this label, I wore it with pride that day. It was like stripping off a tired sweater and being offered something new. It may have been itchy and a little tight, but that’s nothing that can’t be worked out with some wear. For now, the threads are bright, announcing to the world that I am more than a basic bitch. I am, undoubtedly, an asshole.