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A Noble Family TraditionOct 26 '02 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line I would suggest you read all the wonderful stuff posted for Granniemose's 80th Birthday Bash!
B*tch. Of all the epithets hurled at me in a lifetime (and these have been as many and wondrous, in their way, as the snowflakes in a blizzard), this is the one I’ve heard the most often. B*tch! It’s what people always shout at the end of the argument, when all hope of real victory is gone: dehumanizing the enemy is supposed to take the sting out of defeat. Calling a woman a b*tch is a great way to distance yourself from the points she’s trying to make. See, it’s not that you’re wrong, or stupid, or a schmuck--she’s only said these things to you because she’s not what a woman should be. But you know what they say: if the shoe fits, wear it. At this point, I’ve walked many years in this particular pair of shoes, and they’re nicely worn in. It doesn’t pinch or bind in the least to think of myself as a “b*tch; I’m very comfortable with the word, and I’ve made it my own. I AM a b*tch. All the women that I respect most in this whole wide world—including my mother, my mother-in-law, and my grandmother--are b*tches as well. B*tchdom runs in my family; I come from a long proud line of b*tches and I’m raising my two daughters to be b*tches when they grow up. It’s a noble family tradition! If you ask me, every woman on earth, unless she is a complete and total waste of space, is part of this great sisterhood; because as the world we live in stands, all women are either b*tches or slaves. There is no other option. It’s an obnoxiously patriarchal planet. Nonetheless, some of you out there still blanche at the use of this word, and if someone came up to you in the street and asked “Are you a b*tch?”, you’d deny it. Personally, I don’t think you should; being a b*tch is a desirable thing, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. There are worse things to be, believe me. But in the spirit of persuasion, let’s go over the dictionary definitions of this word, and then translate them from the King’s English into the far more useful language of B*tch-ese. 1b*tch \bich\ n 1: a female canine; esp.: a female dog 2: a malicious, spiteful, and domineering woman 2b*tch vb : complain Now, I have no real quibble with the first part of this definition (“a female canine”), because all b*tches have fangs and teeth, and all b*tches can bark as well as bite. Whether a b*tch is a gentle, loyal, giving beast or a snarling, snapping, untamed she-wolf depends entirely on her circumstances. You give a b*tch love, tenderness and understanding, and you will never know a more steadfast, peaceful, and affectionate animal. You give a b*tch reason to hate, on the other hand, and she’ll rip out your throat without a moment’s hesitation. Due to some erroneous social conditioning of late, some people actually believe that b*tches cannot enjoy successful relationships with men, or raise happy, healthy children. It’s widely believed that only docile slaves can make good wives and mothers, and that all true b*tches are confined to prisons, boardrooms and biker bars. In fact, just the opposite is true! No woman loves more fiercely or deeply than a b*tch. She-wolves will die for their mates, or in defense of the den. Any female canine raises her pups with great care and love, teaching them all she knows and giving them all they need to grow up strong, and survive a cold and often brutal world. You could not ask for a better mother, a better wife, a better friend than a b*tch. At any rate, I have no problem thinking of myself as a “female canine”. The she-wolf in me only grins when someone finally knows me well enough to call me a b*tch. But let’s look at the second half of the definition, shall we? The bit about spite, malice, domineering and complaining. “Spite” is defined as the wish to annoy, anger or frustrate someone. I can’t deny that this is often true of me; I find that other human beings annoy, anger and frustrate me on a regular basis, and I often wish to return the favor. “Malice”, of course, is the desire to cause injury or distress: mea culpa on this one too. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to throw certain parties down a long flight of stairs, or say things that make them yell and sputter and turn purple in the face. Occasionally I’m guilty of indulging these little whims of mine; but hey, what can I say—I’m a b*tch! “B*tch” is also a verb, of course; it means “to complain”. And I’m afraid that I have no real problem with this definition of the word, either, because the refusal to shut up and do what one is told without grumbling is really the one most salient characteristic that distinguishes a b*tch from a slave. B*tching is what b*tches do, when they don’t feel like putting up with BS. Of course, when men do the same thing, it isn’t called “b*tching”: it’s called “voicing one’s concerns”, “protesting this great injustice”, “telling it like it is”, or “taking no guff”. But hey, we all know that the rules are different for men than they are for women, and the only thing that will ever change this state of affairs is the b*tching of b*tches…so don’t expect me to shut up any time soon. No, I guess when it comes down to it, the only part of the definition of the word “b*tch” that I really object to is the use of the word “domineering”. You see, “domineering” means “to be overbearing; to rule or control in an arrogant manner”. And when I see a woman accused of this particular misdeed, it doesn’t inspire anything in me but a bark of sarcastic laughter. My immediate response is, “Yeah, boys…so tell me, how do you like it?” Men have ruled over and controlled women in “an overbearing and arrogant manner” for literally centuries. In most places on this Earth, they still do. Saudi Arabian women are routinely beheaded for such cardinal sins as “driving a car”. Women in India are expected to hurl themselves on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands…because their value as human beings is less than zero, and their families consider them nothing but a drain on resources unless there’s a man around to define their worth. Because Chinese families prize boys and consider girls a burden, the government’s “one-child policy” has led to an unprecedented rash of female infanticides; signs have actually been posted at riversides stating clearly that “no girl babies are to be drowned here”. At any rate, given that I live in such a screwed up and incredibly misogynistic world, being called a b*tch can only make me laugh. Frankly, when someone throws that word at me, I can only think that I must be doing something right! The hostility toward women, especially strong and independent women, runs as deep in my culture as it does everywhere else on this benighted ball of rock; Americans in particular hate a woman who speaks her mind, or tries to get anything done. Just look at the way they reviled Hillary Clinton when she tried to bring them universal health care...whatta b*tch, eh? Translate “a domineering woman” from the King’s English to B*tchese and you get “a woman who acts as if she is the equal to any man”. That description fits me pretty well, to be honest, and I wouldn’t change it if I could. Why would I want to? What’s the great reward for being an ornamental slave? Marilyn Monroe embodied everything that was lovely, cuddly-soft and vulnerable in a woman: her submissive smile didn’t keep her from dying of an overdose of barbiturates, face-down and naked on top of her telephone. I’ve seen her morgue photo. Personally, I can think of better ways to go. Some of you out there are glorious b*tches, and you know it. Why the hell don’t you admit it? Why do you let your enemies own this word, denying it whenever it’s thrown in your face, going all angst-ridden and gooey when someone suggests you’re not everything a woman should be? What part of you is still longing for societal approval, dying to be that fluffy bunny that every man wants to protect? Pardon my French, ladies, but I say screw that! Daddy-love doesn’t get you anything but dumped on your butt when you get a little older, and your edges start to show. Y’see, Daddy can always find a younger, cuter bunny... It pays off to be a b*tch, when the day is done. Some people will hate you for it, but you want those people to hate you; they’re the enemy. On the other hand, the love and the friendship you get is of much higher quality, intensity and authenticity; what’s more, it wears better. B*tchiness is a quality that a woman doesn’t lose, as she ages. Unlike smooth skin and perky tatas, it’s nothing she has to clutch at frantically with visits to the surgeon. It’s all natural and all you, baby! Me, I’m looking forward to my days as an old b*tch...because I’ve mightily enjoyed my days as a young one. Pleased to meet you, folks. My name is Arinn Dembo, and I am a b*tch. I learned everything I know about the craft from my mother, who is the most magnificent b*tch on the entire eastern seaboard, and from my grandmother, who is the most dangerous kind of b*tch there is--a kind-hearted, gentle-spirited, sweet-spoken and Christian human being who sheathes her soul of iron and her relentless will to survive beneath a downy soft cover...like a cat's claw. I love my gramma dearly, and this is my chance to tell the world how proud I am to have her blood pumping through me on a daily basis. Happy birthday, Granniemose.  |
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