Lady in the House: Hanna Andrews

This month, Bitch Magazine has provided us with questions for our Lady in The House feature. The Editors.

 

When was the first time you remember being called a bitch? What were the circumstances?

The first time I heard the word bitch I was about four years old on vacation with my family and another family. The other family’s daughter, who was my age, told me she heard about some bad words. I was intrigued. Later that night, she tried saying the word to her mother and her mother was shocked and told her it was a “strong word.” My friend asked, “Like a swear?” and her mom said, “Sort of like a swear but very insulting.” I didn’t have a sense for what the word meant at that point, but I was immediately aware of the the power behind it. The first time I was called a bitch was when I was 14 at summer camp–I wasn’t interested in a boy that thought we should be “seeing each other” (or any boys, for that matter) and his friends decided that I was, of course, a bitch.

 

What is your own definition of the word?

This word “bitch” has had a complicated history for me because, in my experience, it always emerged when a woman wasn’t doing something that a man, or group of men, thought she should be. I learned, via summer camp, that you didn’t have to “act bitchy” to be a bitch–you could simply be shy, withholding, afraid, disinterested, firm, strong, or any other adjective that makes up one’s character. The bottom line was that if you were not submissive, cooing, flirtatious, relenting–you were a bitch. Later, I would go on to have internships in corporate environments where I’d hear men talking about female supervisors both onsite and afterhours as “bitches”–for a variety of reasons. Maybe one of the men received a negative performance review. Bitch. Maybe the boss was silent about her personal life and was (gasp) businesslike at work. Bitch. You get the idea. I have male friends who are amazing, enlightened, sensitive beings who will use the word when they don’t like a woman. We all complain, get frustrated, and confide in our friends. But there have been occasions where I have said to a couple of these friends, “I have no idea what you mean by that or why she offends you. All I know from the word “bitch” is that you are talking about a woman. That word communicates nothing.” That may seem over the top in casual conversation, but it has become infuriating to me that the word ‘bitch’ gets tossed around as a lazy stand-in for “woman doing something I don’t like.”

The word became more interesting and nuanced to me as I discovered poetry a few years later. I will always remember the first time I read Anne Sexton’s “For My Lover, Returning to His Wife”, and came across the lines:

 

I give you permission —

for the fuse inside her, throbbing

angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her

and the burying of her wound —

for the burying of her small red wound alive —

 

How fascinating to read a woman using that word to describe another woman—and to describe a type of power, no less! In fact, power is paramount in this poem—the man with a wife and a mistress (a typical patriarchal structure) has the obvious cake/eating it too complex, but in Sexton’s poem, the wife, wronged, also has power–she is strong, fiery, the bitch a FUSE inside her. And then, of course, there is the moment where the speaker, the mistress, declares that she gives her lover permission. Suddenly, it is not so easy to reduce the moment to historical power constructions. And so bitch, here, takes on a new context.

I also can enjoy how “bitch” has been reclaimed almost playfully in language outside of heterosexual power complexes. It’s complicated, of course, because those instances co-exist with instances where it is still a lazy, derogatory designation. And, of course, it’s contextual— and laborious to unpack. What are the implications when the drag queens on RuPaul’s Drag Race call each other bitch? What are the implications when leaders of girl groups in movies like Pitch Perfect refer to their members as bitches? What are the implications when Drake, on his emo-esque “Take Care” (an album I admittedly love), almost exclusively refers to women as bitches? What are the implications when Azealia Banks, on the track “212” does the same, while declaring she herself is “the beacon, the bitch that wants to compete” ?

Language is shifty. All of these instances seem, to me, more nuanced than the scenario where I was directly referred to as a bitch at 14 for not having an interest in a boy. Some uses of “bitch” are obviously catty and humorous; some simultaneously assert power and serve as a smokescreen for loneliness or lack of a meaningful connection; some are sharp-edged, cutting, and reek of institutionalized sexism. And lots of things in between or beyond.

 

Carolyn Kizer once wrote of “a bitch” inside her. What lives inside you?

To answer this question literally, right now, I have a daughter inside me. She’s present when I’m writing, reading, and thinking now in ways I couldnt have imagined. I think constantly about the language she will grow up with–what terms will be empowered in her youth, what widespread messaging she will receive from her family, friends, media–and of course about her own private engagement with language. How will she make sense of an unjust world? Where will she see the indescribable beauty that also exists, and how will she transcribe or communicate it?

.

 

Many women suffer from the affliction of “Bitchy Resting Face.” http://www.happyplace.com/24440/resting-bitch-face-psa-funny Have you ever been asked to “cheer up!” when in reality, you’re just thinking? 

Hahahaha, I am so glad this condition now has its own designation. I’m pretty expressive, but when “resting” (i.e. walking down the street, waiting at a bus stop, window shopping, etc.) I’ve been told my face is very “serious.” Which is fine, but I cannot explain the rage I would feel when out of nowhere, interrupting a thought, daydream, or even the beginnings of a poem, some dude would call out, “Smile!” Yep, I have heard ALL the BRF comments, with surprising frequency: “Who hurt your feelings, gorgeous?” “You should try smiling, you’d be so much prettier” “Cheer up!” “When a man gives you a compliment, you should smile.” When this happens, I go to a very specific place in my mind–when I was 23, and working for a literary agency, I was walking by Gourmet Garage in the West Village. There was a man in a small delivery truck yelling things at me as he drove–mostly of the “Cmon, give me a smile” variety. The more I ignored him, the more insistent he was. Until he was leaning out the window, yelling that I would have a lonely life if I couldn’t smile when asked. At that point, I turned the corner just in time to see his truck plow into a double parked car. True story.

 


If you had to choose between being perpetually angry or perpetually fearful, which would you pick?

Congratulations. This is an extremely difficult question. I immediately wanted to find a reason to say “perpetually fearful.” What does that say about the way I am socially conditioned? And yet, I couldn’t find a way to rationalize fear any more than I could find a way to rationalize anger. In thinking about fear as a stopping force and anger as a driving force, I’d probably rather be perpetually angry. I don’t think that anger has to be synonymous with aggression–it can instead be a call to action, to some kind of act, even if internal. I’ve been angry about injustice in ways that have taught me to find deeper modes of empathy. I’ve been angry about my own helplessness enough to want to understand it in productive ways–mostly through writing. But anger can only really be the first part of the equation for me–it can become its own stopping force when other emotions and strategies don’t mitigate it. And worse, it can be isolating, which feels antithetical to the work I’m trying to do, which is largely about how we are all in relation to one another. The bitch inside me is an interdependent bitch.

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Lady in the House: Hanna Andrews

Foreign Study

by Sara Quinn Rivara

The house in Parchment was the nicest on the street, nicest in the whole neighborhood. White siding, blue shutters, green roof. When we looked at the house, which had been recently rehabbed for a flip, there were toads everywhere in the lawn. There were new fiberboard cabinets, almond ceramic tile, cheap Berber carpet.

It was a billion times better than the house that had no toilet, just a hole in the floor on Howard Street. Or the house made of cinderblocks across the street from the house made of tarpaper and plywood. Or the house in Cooper Township next to the shuttered Congregational Church that had termites crawling over the kitchen floor.

It had a bullet hole in the kitchen window. The neighbors across the street had duct-taped a trailer to the side of their house, cut a hole. An addition.

We paid Cooper taxes, though our address said Parchment. A mile up the hill, gracious homes flanked Kindleberger Park. Even those cost less than 200K. Even those looked down upon the hulking shell of the shuttered paper mill where dozens—maybe hundreds—of turkey buzzards roosted. Where an osprey had made its nest near the river, over the humpback of the toxic landfill. PCBs and sludge. The Kalamazoo River swung slowly past, dammed to an extreme, flat and wide and smelling sour and foaming at the mouth. Cedar waxwings darned the sky above the slow-moving brown water.

We’d been married for two years. I’d been cervical cancer free for a few months. I’d just gotten a tenure-track job at the community college where I’d been teaching for pennies, part time, since I’d quit my job as an assistant librarian at a small town library where everyone had Jesus in their heart. Where women went to college to be kindergarten teachers or to drop out to get married at 20.

I’d gotten married at 24. I’d been diagnosed with cervical cancer at 21.

I called myself a feminist, or had—had grown up in Chicago and had such ambitions! And now I was here. Married, 26, happy to be making 40K a year— tens of thousands less than my male colleagues, I’d learn years later, the college not recognizing my MFA because, Jesus, I’d been so happy to not be making 10K a year and didn’t know to negotiate, didn’t know it was my right.

*

I’d gone to an exclusive private liberal arts college in the Midwest. I’d spent my junior year abroad, I’d lived in the Women’s Resource Center and been a member of the Women’s Equity Coalition, co-founded a feminist theater collective. Taken mostly women’s literature classes, creative writing. I spelled women womyn.

My husband had dropped out of high school. Had told me, when I was diagnosed with cervical cancer—which, if you didn’t know, is only the result of HPV, a sexually transmitted disease which I only could have gotten from him, having lost my virginity on Devil’s Night my senior year—didn’t want me to tell anyone. He was ashamed. I should be ashamed: an STD? I was raised a Catholic. I had done everything right: had him tested for HIV, herpes, the lot. And still. Punished. Or whatever.

I had grown up in Chicagoland, gone to school in Michigan, and expected to move, post-graduation, to the Southwest for a gap year with my best friend, before pursuing my MFA in vocal performance or my PhD in literature. I was an honors student in college, second in my graduating class of English majors. I knew I was smart.

And then I was in Kalamazoo, still. My then-husband telling me that my shirt was unbuttoned too much, telling me he liked my body despite my mind. He said it was a joke. Why can’t you take a fucking joke? I knew my body to be a shameful thing.  I was fucked but I learned to leave my body. I began to think I must be a lesbian—please, God, let me be a lesbian—because I couldn’t scare up anything that was attracted to my husband. I wrote poems. I went to graduate school, got my MFA in poetry. I began to publish my poetry in journals. The woman who drove home from work every day transformed herself into something else. She wore only black, blue, brown.

I taught women’s literature. I told my students that I was a feminist.  As if that was something that would save me.

*

At 20, sitting on the banks of the River Dee in Aberdeen, Scotland, I figured my life would be prescribed by travel. A man in every port. I was going to see the fucking world.

At 26, I was pregnant. Married. I hadn’t traveled since I’d graduated from grad school.  The horizons were so small.

No one wants to hear your poems about breastfeeding or bread rising on the counter, a poet (male, prominent, editor of a major literary magazine) had said in a workshop in grad school.

At 27, I was in a hospital room, 26 hours into labor, my then-husband telling me I was overreacting. I pushed my sweet boy into the world, and goddamn, it’s a cliché. But that night, my husband gone home to ‘let out the dogs’ and because he had to work the next day, I held that small boy in my arms and felt something: what was it? I was terrified. I’d never felt it before, and it was overwhelming and I realized holy shit, this is what it is to be in love. And I thought if this boy had my life, would I be okay with that?

And I’ll be honest: if I’m religious it’s an academic pursuit. But there was a voice that rose up in me and it said NO.

*

And there was my life. Blue light flickering beneath the door as the nurses walked past my hospital room, my Bird nursing and my nipples raw and I was crying and I knew:  I have to get out.

It took me almost two years. In those two years, my husband began to sleep on the couch because a crying baby all night made it hard for him to go to his shitty job, my son slept in my bed. I went back to my full load of classes when Jonah was three months old, teaching five courses on 2 hours of sleep a night. My ex called my midwife to tell her I was crazy and needed drugs because I didn’t want sex. Because I thought—he told me—I was frigid. My episiotomy had healed the wrong way. I couldn’t sit or walk comfortably for months. We took a vacation to Munising, Michigan, on Lake Superior. All I wanted was to slip into the crowd with my son, disappear. But I was terrified: if I told my husband I wanted a divorce, that I didn’t love him, never had, that I had stayed out of fear, he would kill me. He would take my son. He would kill himself. And what about the house? The dogs?

And then I got tenure. And then I read every poem I’d written and realized: I’d known all along. I was miserable and couldn’t raise my son to think that was okay.

I told my husband I wanted a divorce. He hacked into my email, accused me of having an affair with a student because I exchanged a list of books. He told me I was a whore. He got his GED, got a Breathalyzer on his car to get his license— which he’d never had—back. He threatened to kill me, chop me into tiny bits. He took every cent we had, and no one would front me the money for a lawyer. He got exactly equal custody because I was terrified he’d take my son from me forever.

At thirty, I was divorced. Tenured. I’d bought and sold a shitty house. I lived alone for the first time in my life. I got a tattoo. I published poems.

But I stayed in Kalamazoo. I desperately love my son. I started to attend writers’ conferences, found my tribe again. Became department chair, union agitator. Published my first collection of poems at 36. Filed with the courts to move across the country with my son. And even all these years later, I am terrified. My son has been with his father for two days; his father won’t allow any contact.  I am still terrified that he can bully me, that crazy always wins. That I am the crazy one, because I’m a woman. And emotional. And admit that I don’t know everything. And am small and female and he could kill me, he could.

How can I be a feminist?  A student asked years ago in my Women’s lit class. It’s easy for you, she said. Assuming, of course, that because I was standing in front of her as a professor that I must have had a different life than hers. I just want my boyfriend to love me.

Don’t write about domestic things, that poet said. Write about what’s important.

Okay.  I will.

Foreign Study

Lady in the House: Shelley Wong

This month, Bitch Magazine has provided us with questions for our Lady in The House feature. We have also asked each Lady in the House to provide a writing prompt for our readers. –The Editors.

 

When was the first time you remember being called a bitch? What were the circumstances?

I want to say that it was a stranger and that it was in reaction to something I did in retaliation rather than something I said. I don’t remember the details. The last time was last month in New York when my Queens friend called me a bitch because I insisted on paying for her dinner to return a favor. She’s one of my best friends so I know that she says it with love.

 

What is your own definition of the word?

It’s most often used as a slur against women who speak or act in ways that others find threatening. Others try to diminish these actions by comparing a woman to a wild animal, thus taking away her reason. But now we’ve reclaimed the word as an empowered, unapologetic woman. Bitches disrupt the status quo, break the silence, and talk back. Labeling won’t stop a bitch.

 

Have you ever had to explain the word to someone younger, like a child? What did you say?

I haven’t, but that would be an important conversation to have. If I knew what the context was, I would want to talk it through and say that people sometimes speak out of anger and fear and resort to name-calling rather than explaining why they are upset.

 

Carolyn Kizer once wrote of “a bitch” inside her. What lives inside you?

The creature that lives inside me is rethinking and carefully considering the options. She has a burning need to speak out against silencing, injustice, and oppression, as well as a passion to create something beautiful and real. In the past few years, I have been moving closer towards my unapologetic self. Things seem to fall away in your 30s and it’s deliciously liberating.

 

Have you ever written a “bad” character? Who was it?

Intriguing question. In response to a persona prompt, I wrote a self-portrait poem as an assassin so I suppose that fits the category of “murder-bad.” It was unsuccessful and rather cartoonish because I wasn’t able to tap into what would motivate this character. On a serious note, and taking “bad” to the extreme of genocide and war crimes, some of the most searing poems I have ever read features a historical figure involved in an atrocity as the central character: Rita Dove’s “Parsley,” Carolyn Forché’s “The Colonel,” and Srikanth Reddy’s collection Voyager.

 

Who are your favorite bitches in fiction or larger pop culture?

1980s era Madonna, my first and last idol, who taught me how to dance it out and so much more. Key lyric: “I’m not the same / I have no shame / I’m on fire . . .” from “Burning Up.”

Catwoman, especially Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns. I love how she flips the damsel-in-distress dialogue to her advantage during combat (“How could you? I’m a woman!”) I just recently learned that it was written by Heathers screenwriter Daniel Waters. Talk about your classic bitch movies!

Beatrix Kiddo, O-Ren Ishii, Vernita Green, and Elle Driver in the Kill Bill films.

Sylvia Plath. She is often reduced to a tragic figure, but her work is terrifically alive— biting, surreal, tender, arch, and, above all, formidable.

 

Many women suffer from the affliction of “Bitchy Resting Face.”  Have you ever been asked to “cheer up!” when in reality, you’re just thinking? 

It’s possible that my at-rest face could be seen that way, but I don’t recall any specific encounters. I’m an introvert; some people may interpret a reserved attitude as bitchiness or aloofness. Or some may assume that I don’t speak English (yes, Asian Americans are still fighting the perpetual foreigner stereotype). For several years, I lived in New York and perfected my impassive look on the subway. I tend to walk fast, so that gets me out of awkward male-stranger conversations most of the time.

 

If you had to choose between being perpetually angry or perpetually fearful, which would you pick?

I would choose anger over fear and turn it into a force of action.

 

Writing Prompt

Consider a spectacle where there is a performer (or performers) and an audience (of one or many). How does the silence speak? Write one poem/prose piece as the performer and one as a witness/audience member. How does the speaker confront the silence?

Lady in the House: Shelley Wong

Being Bad: A Conversation with poet Cassandra Dallett and writer Karyn Polewaczyk

HER KIND: Bitch Magazine provided us with the following prompt for our BITCHES theme: In a May issue of Publisher’s Weekly, Claire Messud was puzzled by her interviewer’s remark that the main character in Messud’s The Woman Upstairs seemed like someone she wouldn’t want to be friends with. “Would you?” she asked Messud, who responded, “What kind of question is that?” and continued on to list a number of male fictional characters whose male authors, as far as we know, were never asked to account for their likability. Do likable characters matter? When you write, do you consider how readers will judge your characters—particularly female ones—according to gendered expectations of behavior?

 

Cassandra Dallett: I don’t write fiction, so I don’t create characters. My character is myself. I certainly do not write myself, or my family and friends, with any thought of likability. You will identify or not and I don’t really care. My younger self did a lot of stupid things—most people do—but I continued doing them longer and am probably more honest about the fool I am than most people would dare to be.

I am often published with a lot of men. Some of the content, in some of the magazines I have been published in, is pretty objectifying; but I like being the woman who talks about men as objects. It’s how we often talk between ourselves. But I talk about them out loud—about their small dicks and premature ejaculations. I beat them to it, and talk about my fat thighs and slutty behavior. Things that caused me enormous shame growing up—everything caused me shame in my life—now I’m happy to own it. I get a really positive response from men and woman, which is amazing, therapeutic, and free!

I do doubt that a male writer would be asked about the likeability of their characters—these are the mind frames we need to blast out of. With all the amazing woman writers in the world, it is absurd that we would be held to a different standard or expectation. Why should our characters be likeable? And more important, likeable to who? I am a fan of realness; I like to read things that ring true and I write truth, as I know it. My experience is only my own.

Sometimes in workshops, people say I can’t believe this narrator would do this thing and I say, I know, I know, but I did. I did do those crazy, stupid things, acted too tough and too weak, vulnerable and fierce. I shoot these tales out into the world and trust that somewhere, someone will identify with them.

 

Karyn Polewaczyk: I write mostly nonfiction—and to boot, a lot of the stuff I’ve worked on (pieces for women’s lifestyle magazines/websites) tends to be service-oriented, with the reader in mind. It’s not always about whether I’m likable as a writer as, it is whether what I’m producing is likable and relatable. There comes a point in every artist’s life, though, when she (or he) has to decide if she’s creating for herself, or for the public. The inherent wont to create something tends to be extremely personal, and doesn’t stem from the desire to please, but to make.

That said, though, I’ve published pieces on Jezebel and xoJane—two highly-trafficked female-focused websites that are as well-known for their content as they are for their notorious commenters (especially on the Gawker sites, where commenting is a sport), who will rip a writer to shreds. It’s why I often don’t read the comments, and it’s why I think anyone who wants to share their work publicly, whether it’s online, in print, or spoken aloud to a room full of strangers, needs to develop a thick skin (but not so thick that her vulnerability, which helps an artist connect with herself and her audience, is diminished). Writing for yourself is different than writing with the hope or intention of being published. Know what I mean?

 

CD: I do know what you mean. It is true, it depends a lot on the genre, and if I was writing a novel, say, I might want a character that more people could connect with, because as a reader, I like to fall in love with and miss the characters in my favorite books. You and I write in very different places, so of course yours is much more driven by what the magazine or site wants and needs.

I think staying away from comments on the internet is always a good idea. It can get very depressing reading how much racism, sexism, and general nastiness still exists when people can hide behind their computer. I really like what you said about having a thick skin and retaining our vulnerability—that is absolutely what makes a writer good and also successful, in my opinion. I agree there is a difference, but I would still say that I write for myself and hope to be published.

 

KP: Have you ever seen the TED Talk by Brené Brown? She talks about the power of vulnerability. Here’s the link, if you haven’t: ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

I’m really particular about my fiction reading. My favorite book, for a long time, was The Catcher in the Rye, but after discovering The Dud Avocado last summer—seriously, it’s so good, my heart beats for it—it’s since reached second-place contender status. Most of the books I love have a female character who’s strong, unnerving, unwilling to settle, fierce—and so on. I’ve always been able to relate to the bad girl, in books or elsewhere, and at the risk of sounding morbid, I get why Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven. (I’m sure my therapist would have a lot to say about that.)

 

CD: I’m glad you like bad girls because I am certainly one!

I have seen the Brené Brown TED Talk and I love it! I thought of it immediately when you mentioned the importance of vulnerability. I have also put The Dud Avocado on my reading list. I love a good recommendation. I have been reading mostly poetry and memoir because that’s what I’m working on.

But back to bad girls. My stories are about being a sexually promiscuous, alcoholic teenager in the punk scene of the eighties. Dabbling in drugs, managing to try most of them before the age eighteen. I had no adult supervision or direction, no goals or good education, so I floated through life landing where I did. I lived through some very violent situations. I didn’t know how to communicate without the physical and I found myself in some very abusive relationships.

It’s hard to know how your reader will react—admitting these things that are very vulnerable, but there is a toughness too. I’m the girl that buys a gun at the end of the story (which is of course the beginning of another disastrous story). I write about being the cheater in a relationship, which is not a likeable character by any means. And I write about things people don’t want to think about, like being a single mother working shitty low-paying jobs, and the pain and hopelessness of living in a community whose young men are getting shot and jailed at an alarming rate. These are things that should be talked about—I am no heroine, just someone who bumbles her way through, reporting on what not to do more than anything.

 

KP: I think it’s interesting that you affiliate, what some might call deviant behavior, with being “bad,” especially when you say you write about what not to do. To me, that signals someone who maybe just lost her way for a bit. Being bad, in my mind, is something inherent; it’s more about defiance than deviance. Bad can also be manipulative or seductive; at the risk of sounding like a misogynist, I also like the idea of a “bad bitch” (via hip-hop culture), which suggests a woman who owns her shit and makes no apologies about it.

Here’s a question for you, then: do you think you can “create” a likable character, if you’re writing memoir with a focus on situations that may rouse readers’ judgment? Do you care?

CD:
I did come up heavily influenced by hip-hop culture. My relationships have been with men who were misogynist, that is probably where I get the bad label from.

I am defiant, and I am a “bad bitch” to be sure. I am not the “good girl” my ex had hoped I would be. I tried but I am, in the end, very rebellious and only like to do things for someone when it is not expected. I have certainly lost my way many times, but in the end, I write about it unapologetically. I am only sorry for the harm I caused myself—much of which, in hindsight, was unnecessary.

To answer your question, yes, you can have a likable character that rouses readers with their actions—absolutely, that is probably the most common outcome. But I don’t think you should write them with that in mind; you write with honesty and the honesty tends to be what the reader likes about the character.

I certainly have an inherent need to be liked, but I try not to think about that when writing. I stick to the facts: this is how it actually happened. I leave it up to the reader to take away what they will. Every time I read in public, people come up to me afterwards and say they loved the honesty and found it brave. I’m sure there are people who judge as well—they just tend to keep it to themselves. If it were a blog, I would probably get pages of nasty comments.

I recently read the book Tiger, Tiger: A Memoir by Margaux Fragoso; it’s about her and her molester. They had a very complicated relationship that continued well into her adulthood. I read it with a group of woman. Everyone loved the book; it was one of the rare times we all agreed. We loved the writing; it was very good and the honesty brutal. She owned her part in the whole dysfunctional situation. She said things most people wouldn’t dare to. It confirmed my belief that you should just tell your truth no matter.

 

 

Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA, she writes of a counterculture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Hip Mama, Bleed Me A River, Criminal Class Review, Enizagam, among many others. Look for links and chapbooks on cassandradallett.com.

 

Karyn Polewaczyk lives and writes in Boston. Her work, which focuses largely on women’s lifestyle topics, regularly appears in columns at Boston.com and Dig Boston, and has been published in Jezebel, xoJane, LearnVest and More.com, among others. Follow her on Twitter @KarynPolewaczyk.

Being Bad: A Conversation with poet Cassandra Dallett and writer Karyn Polewaczyk

Lady in the House: Natasha Marin

This month, Bitch Magazine has provided us with questions for our Lady in The House feature. We have also asked each Lady in the House to provide a writing prompt for our readers. —The Editors.

 

When was the first time you remember being called a bitch? What were the circumstances?

Honestly, I can’t remember the first time someone called me a bitch. I remember the first time someone called me a nigger though, but that’s a different kind of story. Bitch is the kind of word that isn’t as polarizing. Ultimately, there are worse things a person can call you, right? I don’t even remember the last time someone called me a bitch, because I’m not sure anyone I know would actually do that to my face, except as a joke, or perhaps as some acknowledgement of perceived fortitude, as in “bad bitch.”

 

What is your own definition of the word?
Bitch (noun) most commonly, a derogatory term for someone whose behavior is akin to that of a female dog—aggressive, entitled, spiteful, and reactive. Bitches are often regarded as either dangerous or volatile. From a biological standpoint, facing off with a female animal, especially any creature who may be protecting their young, should be done with caution. Non-animal bitch counterparts of any gender, should be approached with similar forethought. A bitch will do and say what others are afraid to and that particular brazen quality is often what signifies a bitch as such.

Personally, I’ve never really understood why humans are so sensitive about being compared to animals. We are animals. I’m sure if anything, calling someone a bitch (as an insult) is probably more insulting and abbreviating to the non-human party being referenced.

 

Have you ever had to explain the word to someone younger, like a child? What did you say?
I have not yet had this opportunity as my son is two years old and my daughter, Roman, is only nine and spends half her school day learning in Mandarin—not a lot of time left over to practice swear words. Thankfully, her friends are quite tame in the diction department and she has other more pressing questions about her rapidly changing body, her interpersonal relationships, and the dynamic world around her. But, I’m sure when we discuss the word “bitch” it will be after the term has been carelessly lobbed in her direction, probably by someone who is supposed to be her friend. I’m sure I will have to explain the concept of jealousy once again. It’s really easy for people to forget how illogical envy and jealousy are and the moment you are injured, your mind wants to make sense of the injury, but some wounds cannot be healed with logic. She’s barely been on the planet a decade and I am certain she has already been exposed to too many people who are likely to diminish her into a stereotype than to celebrate the incredible (and multifaceted) person that she really is.

 

Carolyn Kizer once wrote of “a bitch” inside her. What lives inside you?
The bitch that lives inside of me likes to pull up electron micrograph images showing the X and Y chromosome side by side and casually include this as a visual rebuke to the regular tides of male entitlement. The bitch that lives inside of me has teeth, a keen sense of smell, and a taste for blood, just like a real animal. She has no tolerance for people who want to stay in that privileged place of neutrality, stubbornly refusing to engage, or take sides, or make change actually happen with their own hands. The bitch inside is most terrifying when she is silent, but when she speaks, she knows what you don’t want to hear and says it anyway—right to your face.

 

Have you ever written a “bad” character? Who was it?
I gave myself permission to get emotionally entangled with another artist this year and have been continuously stimulated—writing a good deal as a result. During the course of this nameless, category-less relationship, I created a synaptic cluster of idealized metaphorical selves that could be attributed to this individual. I gave him wings with delicately hollow bones and black telephone wires to alight on. I was proud of the work and the vulnerability I was manifesting until very recently, when I realized how unfair it is for me to place anyone in the upper echelons of the Ideal—what easily becomes a cage. You think you are paying respect and giving validity to a character by making him or her have traits that seem unattainable, but inevitably this character must risk the hobgoblin of inconsistency because anything else would leave behind a bloodless and truncated persona. After the shame subsided, I realized that it’s our very stink that makes us complete. When we put each other (and even our imaginings of ourselves) on a pedestal, we are in fact robbing ourselves of a fully pixelated rendering.

 

Who are your favorite bitches in fiction or larger pop culture?
The Downton Abbey Dowager gets two thumbs up from me—so much restraint. I admire that kind of control.

 

Many women suffer from the affliction of “Bitchy Resting Face”. Have you ever been asked to “cheer up!” when in reality, you’re just thinking?
When I’m thinking, my husband calls it “Johnny Depp-ing” (apparently I look quite zoned out, like Willy Wonka trying to remember the trauma of his parents), so I’m thinking that my “resting face” is rarely confused with my bitchy face. I’ve seen my bitchy face on video and it’s pretty unmistakable. But yes, in general, it seems that men think it’s charming to tell women to smile as they walk by on the street, as though we are dancing monkeys born to entertain and provide them with unending pleasure. You can’t see me rolling my eyes, but I’m rolling them.

 

If you had to choose between being perpetually angry or perpetually fearful, which would you pick?
It is far too dangerous to be either a perpetually fearful or a perpetually angry black woman in America.

 

Writing Prompt: Red Lineage
I’ve been working on a project for a few years now called Red Lineage. It’s a simple writing exercise, in that it really only requires filling in the blanks like a Mad Lib, but the work and thought that goes into the activity of recording and distilling your immediate family history is pretty intense. Many of the Red Lineages I’ve collected have been incorporated into video, sound, and performance work and presented around the world as part of Miko Kuro’s Midnight Tea. I’d love it if your readers would consider adding their own Red Lineage poems to the collection by submitting at www.redlineage.com. Here’s mine:

My name is Redbone.
My mother’s name is Staunch Red.
My father’s name is Red-eye Red.
I come from a people known for flagrance and survival.
Remember me.

 

Lady in the House: Natasha Marin