The night that I wore this shirt, a completely drunk and clearly idiotic man, approached me and actually called me a bitch. Despite his efforts to hit on me like we were in 3rd grade - the way boys use bullying and name calling to camouflage their flirtation - in this dingy, low-light, East Village bar, this man-child that will remain nameless, didn't expect this bitch... To have a response. Which, surprise! I, of course did.
I schooled him.
There is no recipe on how to appropriately tell someone to go back to the man-cave they just came from, but praise all women who know how to dish it out just as fast as the insult arrives. "No, you will not speak to me that way, I am woman hear me roar." You know the rest.
I didn't owe him, the man-child, an explanation of why I chose to wear this shirt. He didn't need to hear from me about how ironic it was for a woman with intellect or wit to wear it. And, certainly he wasn't looking for a laundry list of reasons why I had every right to wear a shirt that said, well, anything without inviting outside commentaries or implications.
We, women, we are not bitches. Unless, being a bitch means being strong, enlightened, and equal (understatement). In which case, call me a bitch again and wait for a brief history on womankind or the types of bitches I roll with. You know, poets, business woman, entrepreneurs. The ones who balance being mothers, wives, and working professionals. Signing business deals in one hand, spinning a hot plate in the other.
Ask me again about this shirt, won't you?