“I think we should start treating the word “bitch” as seriously as other slurs. Though the knee-jerk reaction might well be to reject this statement, just how much truth does it hold, and is “slurification” the way forward?
To equate “bitch” with other bigoted language may seem a far-fetched comparison. Slurs, particularly racist ones, have particularly violent historical associations that when repeated seemed to instantiate situations of oppression. It would be ludicrous, therefore, to suggest that “bitch,” with no similar links to violence, could merit the same treatment. Not only that, but to hear “bitch” in public hardly causes an eye to bat.
And so it begs the question: is there a modicum of truth to this equivalence, or rather the larger idea behind it? Is our unflinching, non-reaction to that public utterance a sign that something is wrong? Is “bitch” indeed that bad, and if we don’t think so, is it because – however shamefully – part of us thinks women are – perhaps – bitches?
To ask this question, one must begin with the word itself. “Bitch,” its precise etymology unknown, is commonly agreed among academics likely to originate from the Old Norse term “bikkjuna” (“female of the dog”). However, the pejoration of the word – i.e. the shift from neutral to derogatory – in the English language occurred sometime in the 15th century. The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue states that “bitch” is “the most offensive appellation that can be given to an English woman, even more provoking than that of whore,” a comparison that has since changed.
“Bitch” is, among the profanity applied to women, unique. Unlike other sexist language, it is not in any way a sexual term. It refers neither to genitalia, nor to prostitution. To call a woman a “bitch,” however spitefully, is the one name that doesn’t minimise her to a sexual object.
Yet this argument is ultimately weak: she may not be a sexual object, but she is instead reduced to an animal. Is it worse to degrade someone to one of their human parts, or to degrade them to something that is neither parts nor human: a dog. But not just any dog, a “she-dog”: that which remains, in all her inhumanity, female. Women are then not the worst of our species: when bitches, they are no longer women at all.
“Bitch” in all its colours, is more than one noun, and more than one verb. A bitch is an unpleasant woman, a bitch can be a thing – “life’s a bitch” – and we can turn something into a bitch: “I made that test my bitch” – an act of domination. A person can “bitch,” about something or someone. In all these cases, the female is negative, unpleasant and disagreeable, a pain, submissive, or simply “nagging.” This trope is a bottomless pit, into which seemingly any woman with an opinion is thrown into. It’s the classic archetype: the nagging wife asking you to wipe the counter; the mother always pressing you to put your plates away; the “Karen” who says her coffee isn’t the one she ordered.
But what if the counter was indeed filthy, what if the wife, exhausted from her full time job, already cooked dinner for the whole family? Her labour is unappreciated, and yet it is a minor contribution from her child and husband that she values more than any recognition. What if that woman — whose name shockingly is not Karen – did order a flat white and not an americano, rightfully complained like any man would. But we never seem to ask these questions; instead we can simply shout “bitch”. Even whispered, “bitch” seems loud enough to drown all these women’s stories out.
Language reinforces existing power structures through fear. How many women are scared to argue their opinion, what they know to be right, for fear of being perceived as a “bitch”? How many girls have spoken to their friends, under their breath with total uncertainty: “but I don’t want them to think I’m a total bitch!” The power of the word “bitch” to frighten women into submission must not be understated.
“Bitch” transforms a woman into a dog, and a valid opinion into a useless complaint. It is reminiscent of Amy Dunne’s famous monologue in Gone Girl: “Cool girl never gets angry at her man, she only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner, and then presents her mouth for fucking,” or as Flynn’s original book version goes: “Go ahead! Shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the cool girl.” It is this “Cool Girl” who is the antithesis of The Bitch: the “Cool Girl” who we should all aspire to be. Language forces women to choose between archetypes; in reality left without a choice, silenced.
What all this points to, though, is a pattern echoed throughout society. It is her 83 cents for his every dollar; it is in the way we talk to our children, talk to our mothers; the way the textbooks are written, and how the world is run. Are we so naive to suppose that the language is what tells the greater story? In our meaningful campaigns for feminism, is “bitch” – or any word for that matter – a worthy target? It seems any discussion of this topic is some iteration of what empowers, and what disempowers.
A fair amount of literature seems to advocate for the “slurification” of the term, but this seems a short-sighted approach. To designate a word a “slur” implicates inclusion and exclusion: those who may, and those who may not. Do we suppose, if only women were bestowed the power of the word – a ruling which in all practicality, never works – that then misogyny would not find some other way to exist in language? Do we suppose that women are only loving to one another, that one woman won’t find another woman to be a “bitch,” and say it out loud, with the same chest, hatred, and spit, as a man? Better than cutting a word out from a vocabulary – a ridiculous and unachievable task – we should aspire to give it new meanings. To disempower the word is to empower the speaker.
Queer communities offer an excellent example of this, where “bitch” is a term of endearment, of affection – note that “queer,” has been reclaimed. This is semantic reclamation. This is empowerment. Instead of saying “bitch” less, or limiting who has that privilege, perhaps us women should use it more. To take something back that has bruised us, to give it the significance of solidarity. It makes the term more regular, less abrasive; it moves the meaning from the word to the speaker: the speaker is more powerful than the word that is spoken. “Bitch” would be less venomous, more quotidian; men would not have such power to so easily reduce a woman to a caricature, women would not be targets to a term so defining.
The more we use it, the less it hurts. So say it like you mean it, bitch.
Illustration by Kirstin Bone for The Student
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Don’t Call Me “BITCH”!
“I think we should start treating the word “bitch” as seriously as other slurs. Though the knee-jerk reaction might well be to reject this statement, just how much truth does it hold, and is “slurification” the way forward?
To equate “bitch” with other bigoted language may seem a far-fetched comparison. Slurs, particularly racist ones, have particularly violent historical associations that when repeated seemed to instantiate situations of oppression. It would be ludicrous, therefore, to suggest that “bitch,” with no similar links to violence, could merit the same treatment. Not only that, but to hear “bitch” in public hardly causes an eye to bat.
And so it begs the question: is there a modicum of truth to this equivalence, or rather the larger idea behind it? Is our unflinching, non-reaction to that public utterance a sign that something is wrong? Is “bitch” indeed that bad, and if we don’t think so, is it because – however shamefully – part of us thinks women are – perhaps – bitches?
To ask this question, one must begin with the word itself. “Bitch,” its precise etymology unknown, is commonly agreed among academics likely to originate from the Old Norse term “bikkjuna” (“female of the dog”). However, the pejoration of the word – i.e. the shift from neutral to derogatory – in the English language occurred sometime in the 15th century. The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue states that “bitch” is “the most offensive appellation that can be given to an English woman, even more provoking than that of whore,” a comparison that has since changed.
“Bitch” is, among the profanity applied to women, unique. Unlike other sexist language, it is not in any way a sexual term. It refers neither to genitalia, nor to prostitution. To call a woman a “bitch,” however spitefully, is the one name that doesn’t minimise her to a sexual object.
Yet this argument is ultimately weak: she may not be a sexual object, but she is instead reduced to an animal. Is it worse to degrade someone to one of their human parts, or to degrade them to something that is neither parts nor human: a dog. But not just any dog, a “she-dog”: that which remains, in all her inhumanity, female. Women are then not the worst of our species: when bitches, they are no longer women at all.
“Bitch” in all its colours, is more than one noun, and more than one verb. A bitch is an unpleasant woman, a bitch can be a thing – “life’s a bitch” – and we can turn something into a bitch: “I made that test my bitch” – an act of domination. A person can “bitch,” about something or someone. In all these cases, the female is negative, unpleasant and disagreeable, a pain, submissive, or simply “nagging.” This trope is a bottomless pit, into which seemingly any woman with an opinion is thrown into. It’s the classic archetype: the nagging wife asking you to wipe the counter; the mother always pressing you to put your plates away; the “Karen” who says her coffee isn’t the one she ordered.
But what if the counter was indeed filthy, what if the wife, exhausted from her full time job, already cooked dinner for the whole family? Her labour is unappreciated, and yet it is a minor contribution from her child and husband that she values more than any recognition. What if that woman — whose name shockingly is not Karen – did order a flat white and not an americano, rightfully complained like any man would. But we never seem to ask these questions; instead we can simply shout “bitch”. Even whispered, “bitch” seems loud enough to drown all these women’s stories out.
Language reinforces existing power structures through fear. How many women are scared to argue their opinion, what they know to be right, for fear of being perceived as a “bitch”? How many girls have spoken to their friends, under their breath with total uncertainty: “but I don’t want them to think I’m a total bitch!” The power of the word “bitch” to frighten women into submission must not be understated.
“Bitch” transforms a woman into a dog, and a valid opinion into a useless complaint. It is reminiscent of Amy Dunne’s famous monologue in Gone Girl: “Cool girl never gets angry at her man, she only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner, and then presents her mouth for fucking,” or as Flynn’s original book version goes: “Go ahead! Shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the cool girl.” It is this “Cool Girl” who is the antithesis of The Bitch: the “Cool Girl” who we should all aspire to be. Language forces women to choose between archetypes; in reality left without a choice, silenced.
What all this points to, though, is a pattern echoed throughout society. It is her 83 cents for his every dollar; it is in the way we talk to our children, talk to our mothers; the way the textbooks are written, and how the world is run. Are we so naive to suppose that the language is what tells the greater story? In our meaningful campaigns for feminism, is “bitch” – or any word for that matter – a worthy target? It seems any discussion of this topic is some iteration of what empowers, and what disempowers.
A fair amount of literature seems to advocate for the “slurification” of the term, but this seems a short-sighted approach. To designate a word a “slur” implicates inclusion and exclusion: those who may, and those who may not. Do we suppose, if only women were bestowed the power of the word – a ruling which in all practicality, never works – that then misogyny would not find some other way to exist in language? Do we suppose that women are only loving to one another, that one woman won’t find another woman to be a “bitch,” and say it out loud, with the same chest, hatred, and spit, as a man? Better than cutting a word out from a vocabulary – a ridiculous and unachievable task – we should aspire to give it new meanings. To disempower the word is to empower the speaker.
Queer communities offer an excellent example of this, where “bitch” is a term of endearment, of affection – note that “queer,” has been reclaimed. This is semantic reclamation. This is empowerment. Instead of saying “bitch” less, or limiting who has that privilege, perhaps us women should use it more. To take something back that has bruised us, to give it the significance of solidarity. It makes the term more regular, less abrasive; it moves the meaning from the word to the speaker: the speaker is more powerful than the word that is spoken. “Bitch” would be less venomous, more quotidian; men would not have such power to so easily reduce a woman to a caricature, women would not be targets to a term so defining.
The more we use it, the less it hurts. So say it like you mean it, bitch.
Illustration by Kirstin Bone for The Student
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