Essay: carey shreve
Bitch
Bitch. Beyond indicating a female canine, Merriam Webster defines it (when used as a noun) as “…a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman”, or that “bitch” can be “…used as a generalized term of abuse and disparagement for a woman.” M-W’s interpretation doesn’t align in any way with what bitch means to me. Personally, I’d rather be called a bitch than many of the other slurs slung towards women – slut, whore, tramp, pussy, cunt. To me, bitch implies a certain female bite – a fierce mama dog willing to fight to her death to defend what’s hers.
The first “bitch” in my life was my mother; born in 1927, she carried none of the baggage her generation was groomed to bear – no submissive “little woman at home” mindset ever emanated from my mother. She was highly intelligent, fiercely opinionated and harbored no fear at sharing her “thoughts” with others. My father possessed an equally strong personality and reveled that my mother was as strong-willed as he was. Theirs was a marriage of love between equals – an unusual partnership in the early 1950s. Because they were so well-attuned, both of them felt free to be themselves with one another and with the population at large. They were both gifted with wit and great humor, so their combined tour de force was tempered with much laughter. As my parents, they were tough - tough to live with and tough to live up to – especially my mother. I wanted nothing more than to grow up to be exactly like her.
My grandmother wasn’t at all like my mother; she appeared quiet, rather shy, and worried a lot about what others thought of her. I adored her (for shamelessly spoiling me), but my mother held great disdain for what she saw as her mother’s inability to stand up for herself. My mother never talked much about her childhood, but when she did, she shared that she determined at a young age to never be like her mother. She said my grandmother fretted about everything, often crying and pacing around the house, never believing that life was happy or safe. My mother groomed herself to be the opposite, and nothing perturbed my mother more than a hint of a nasal, plaintive, whining tone from others. Sassiness was tolerated, cultivated even, whereas whining was cause for a sharp reprimand and a stint in our bedroom. My mother portrayed self-control, steely strength, and owned a look that could silence anyone, and she expected the same in her offspring. She wasn’t one to tenderly kiss a boo-boo or offer up a hug following a childhood battle; her favorite expression was “buck up and get over it.” I learned, from an early age to follow her lead and I expected others to do the same.
As I got a little older and started going to friends’ houses, I noticed other parents didn’t act the same as mine. Mothers would cry sometimes or yell, and so would fathers. Emotions were on display – and unlike at my house, I witnessed fear, anger, sadness, frustration, confusion, and even loneliness in the homes of my friends. I frequently felt those emotions, but didn’t realize they could also be shown - and without consequence. To me, one’s power was keeping emotions underground and away from public view because that indicated vulnerability. When others’ emotions ran rampant, I’d stifle the urge to yell, “buck up”; their emotiveness sickened me. Watching my peers beg or whine for a desired item or outcome, and then receiving said item or outcome as the result, seemed a glaring failure of character to me for everyone involved. I developed a rough edge, a callousness that I equated with being superior to others. When I attended my first funeral – for my favorite grandfather – I prided myself on being the grandchild who didn’t cry – who stood stoic and stiff-backed at ten years old throughout the service and graveside prayers with nothing revealed in my expression about how desperately I’d miss this man who’d loved me so wholeheartedly.
I first heard the word “bitch” in junior high school and I liked it. Even the sound of it – the hard “b and the concise “itch” at the end. I liked being called one and I frequently was one. Being a bitch meant that no one could get to me, and I wore that title as a protective cloak. I cultivated an attitude of indifference to prevent anyone from seeing how much internal pain I was experiencing; rampant insecurities were at the ready to expose the real me at any moment. Putting on my bitch face allowed me to shut down my emotions; I became adept at dissociating from whatever I was feeling, especially if it was painful. I started seeing emotional displays- especially of women crying- as indicative of weakness. A bitch could silently rail, gnash her teeth behind closed lips, and seethe internally, but never publicly shed tears. Men didn’t, so neither did I.
(To be continued)
about the writer: carey shreve
Carey recently sold her home in the woods to move into a second-floor apartment (now her nest) in the village of Paw Paw, Michigan. This has made her life infinitely simpler, and every window looks out on a variety of trees. She divides her time between working with Special Education young adults, supporting other women in recovery (which in turn supports her!), and spending time with her granddaughter, Maddi, who is wise in the ways only an almost five-year old can be. Carey plans to retire within the next few years and is looking forward to the adventures that transition will bring.
