{"id":136189,"date":"2019-05-09T09:00:13","date_gmt":"2019-05-09T13:00:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=136189"},"modified":"2019-05-09T11:16:39","modified_gmt":"2019-05-09T15:16:39","slug":"one-word-bitch","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/05\/09\/one-word-bitch\/","title":{"rendered":"One Word: Bitch"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><em>In our column\u00a0<\/em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/columns\/one-word\/\">One Word<\/a><em>, writers expound on a single word of their choosing. For this iteration, we asked Danez Smith to write about the word that underpins their poem \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/poetry\/7395\/my-bitch-danez-smith\">my bitch!<\/a>\u201d\u00a0in our Spring 2019 issue.\u00a0<\/em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/1-1.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-136199\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/1-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"852\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/1-1.jpg 852w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/1-1-300x169.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/1-1-768x433.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p>I can tell who\u2019s calling me from across the room by the pitch of their <em>bitch<\/em>. Fati goes up on the <em>i<\/em>\u00a0so that it\u2019s almost a shriek. Hieu gets a little gravelly, dark and full, <em>bitch<\/em> as precursor to some good gossip. Blaire says it flat, matter-of-fact, like a name. Franny says it like a bell, a sweet call to fellowship. I love my bitches. I love being bitched by them. It\u2019s an insult we\u2019ve spun into coin.<\/p>\n<p>The femmes and queers I have known have saved my life. The deep wells of care from femmes; the ingenuity of queer love. <em>Bitch<\/em> is the passport to that nation. Or maybe it\u2019s the national anthem, how we sing our love to each other. Maybe it\u2019s our language.<\/p>\n<p>When I am bitched by the homies, there is no threat on my life. There is no car following me as I hightail it home, <em>bitch<\/em> flung out the window, <em>faggot<\/em> close behind. There is no accusation like back in high school when bitch was a charge made by a fellow boy who could smell the girl in you, or a boy who loved\/hated your girl-body or a boy whose only tongue was violence. I used to be scared of coming off bitch-made. You know: scary, sissy, punk, femme. All those words that I now wear as crowns lurked in the corners of boys\u2019 mouths. I was terrified, trying to exact my walk and perfect a boy-tongue, scared someone would see through my act and spot the bitch in me.<\/p>\n<p><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>I ran from bitch. I didn\u2019t want to claim what they said about me. It wasn\u2019t like <em>nigga<\/em>, a \u201cbad word\u201d I had felt at home in since I was small. On the porch with my granddad and his niggas, they spread that word among each other with love, it was a word that meant \u201call of us.\u201d But <em>bitch<\/em>? Bitch was the femme streak I knew I had to hide. I loved being a bitch in private, always more at home in the bad-bitch lyrics of Trina and Lil\u2019 Kim than the real-nigga poetics of Weezy. In my own little room with my own little boombox, my bitch strived, my body moved, knees bent, back arched, swinging an imaginary twenty-inch weave with no fuxs. I was the baddest bitch in the world. But only in private. Only a bitch by myself.<\/p>\n<p>I can\u2019t point to when it changed exactly. Outside of the theater of high school, I slowly started to play the role of myself. My circles became filled with women and queers of all kinds, real bitches who invited me into myself. I was puzzled at first, being called \u201cgirl\u201d and \u201cbitch\u201d with no malice, finding a home in a word that had meant danger. Now, I stand firmly within my bitch-nigga body and it feels like I\u2019ve always been here. How? This doesn\u2019t feel like an act of reclaiming language, because when was this word mine? I ran from it, drowned in it, but later, by grace, was knighted by it. Is that reclamation? Black folks are not the inventors of <em>nigga<\/em>, but we are the ones who turned it into endearment. <em>Faggot<\/em> is not of queer making, but we can find honey in that rock. I don\u2019t think I\u2019ve ever reclaimed a lick of language, but I\u2019ve made gardens out of my prisons. I\u2019ve found community among those who have been marked, damned, and hunted. Together, we have made prayers out of their curses, spun love from what they spat at us.<\/p>\n<p>Still, language is dangerous business. What is love to me is still a bruise to some. My friend Dominque would have my head if I called her the n-word. In a word like <em>bitch<\/em>, do I have any claim at all? I\u2019ve seen the looks I get when I answer my phone and \u201cHey, bitch!\u201d a friend right back. Who owns language? Does my man-shaped body have any hold on a word that is a violence thrown at women? Where do I get off using \u201cbitch\u201d to capture my love for my menfolk friends? This is the danger that I live for, the bad words with definitions forever in flux, words that show us how tonal and relational English can be. <em>Bitch<\/em>, in another man\u2019s mouth, a knife. In mine, sugar. In mine, a knife if some stranger hears it. And here is where I make an intention: to never use <em>bitch<\/em> the way it\u2019s been used against good bitches, to drain the poison from the wound until it\u2019s just another door to the body, a door from me to you, my good bitch.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><em>Read Danez Smith\u2019s poem \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/poetry\/7395\/my-bitch-danez-smith\">my bitch!<\/a>\u201d in our Spring 2019 issue.<\/em><\/p>\n<p><em>Danez Smith is the author of <\/em>Don\u2019t Call Us Dead<em> (2017),\u00a0<\/em> [insert] boy<em> (2014), and the chapbook<\/em> hands on ya knees<em> (2013). Their writing has appeared in <\/em>Poetry<em>,<\/em> The Paris Review<em>,<\/em> Ploughshares<em>,<\/em> Beloit Poetry Journal<em>, and <\/em>Kinfolks<em>, among others.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Bitch, in another man\u2019s mouth, a knife. In mine, sugar.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1761,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[45306],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-136189","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-one-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>One Word: Bitch by Danez Smith<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 9, 2019 \u2013 Bitch, in another man\u2019s mouth, a knife. 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