Two weeks ago, my husband and I went to visit some friends. We sat around a campfire in their yard and talked about how our kids are doing in school and speculated on when we might get our COVID vaccines. But since it happened to be January 6, we mostly talked about the horrific scene that had unfolded hours earlier at the US Capitol. I had brought a bottle of sparkling juice that was left over from New Year’s Eve, so we toasted Stacey Abrams and Raphael Warnock and Jon Ossoff. We stayed up way too late for a weeknight, and it was totally worth it for some adult conversation.
Before bed that night, I updated my Facebook status with similar sentiments to our toast: Hooray for Georgia, hooray for Stacey Abrams, shame about the right wing terrorists. The next morning I woke up to this as the first comment:
"You're a stupid bitch."
The author of this nuanced political discourse, who I'll call Rudy, seemed particularly offended by my use of the phrase "right wing terrorists" and claimed that I would pass on my "stupid bitchness" to my offspring. He used that nasty, gendered slur against me four times in six sentences. I guess he really wanted me to feel the hatred and grievance and bitterness that that word carries.
I guess I should have seen this coming. Should have known that political discussions on Facebook can turn ugly on a dime. It can be a cesspool out there.
But this is new territory for me. In my two and a half decades of being an adult on the internet, it's the first time another adult has called me a bitch to my face, real or virtual. It feels a bit like I've reached a rite of passage. I've been initiated into the club that virtually every woman in politics belongs to, including AOC and the rest of The Squad, plus a bunch of other women I know and respect.
Maybe we should start throwing a party for this. The first time someone calls you a bitch, a confetti bomb goes off and a group of singing waiters brings in a huge cake, frosted with a B and lit with sparkler candles. "Welcome!" says my friend Amelia, who teaches high school.
"We are so glad to have you, and by that I mean we are so sorry to have you," says my friend Emily, who has a rotten ex-husband and a couple of rotten ex-brothers-in-law.
"I joined a couple years ago," says my friend Jenna, a physician assistant who sometimes deals with disgruntled patients.
"I've been in this club forever", says my friend Bea, who works in online gaming and is therefore the wizened elder of the group.
"Not as long as I have," sighs my 82-year-old grandma.
I don't like the word "bitch." I mean, obviously I don't like it when it is used to denigrate and demean women, but I also hate when it is used against men as a way to insult them by associating them with women. I don't even particularly care for it when we use it in a joking or sarcastic way, like saying, "Bitch, please..." to your friend. I know that some women take heart at reclaiming the word, but not me. I just think it's a trash word, and I'm sorry that I've already used it five times.
But what makes it uglier is that Rudy was not just some random troll. We went to the same high school and then waited tables at the same restaurant when we were in our twenties. Once after work, Rudy offered me a ride from the restaurant to wherever it was that people were meeting up. An Alanis Morissette song came on in his truck, and we sang every word together as we rode along. (I'm pretty sure the song was "Ironic", which is kind of ironic...don't you think?) We were silent for a couple minutes as we pulled up at our destination. Before we got out of the truck, he said something like, "You know, that was really nice. Just listening to the radio and not feeling pressure to talk." I felt the same way.
Rudy and I were never close friends; we lost touch once we were no longer co-workers, and then at some point became Facebook friends, as you do. In the past few years I've had some interactions with him on my political posts that made it clear that our world views are miles apart. A vocal Trump supporter, he was annoyed when I said that we should use the proposed border wall money to support refugees. He bristled when I suggested that people call their representatives to advocate for the end of family separation. He jumped to Trump's defense when I complained that Trump was corrupt and transactional. His comments were usually sneering and disdainful, but never quite hostile.
Until now. What was it that pushed Rudy over the edge? Was it the loss of both Georgia senate races? Was it the fact that it was orchestrated by a woman, Stacey Abrams? Was he angry that all the "patriots" storming the capitol got such negative coverage from that pesky mainstream media? Anxious that there are only a few more days left until his man Trump is booted from the White House? Maybe it was inevitable that Rudy would call me a stupid bitch eventually.
There is an upside to this. I was able to show Rudy's words to my teenage sons as a perfect example of what not to do, of exactly how not to be a man, in the same way that I did when Representative Ted Yoho called Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez a "f---ing b----" on the steps of the Capitol. You remember Ted Yoho, right? You'll never believe this coincidence, but Yoho and Rudy are both from Florida AND they both call women b----es when they don't like what the women are saying. Wait, maybe Rudy learned from Yoho? Now I'm picturing the transcript:
"I'm Ted Yoho, and this is my Masterclass...
How to Put a Woman With Opinions in Her Place:
Step one: Call her a b----.
Congratulations! You have completed the course. Now go forth and shut those b----es down."
The other silver lining is that the responses to Rudy's comment had me feeling like Captain America in Endgame. You know that part where he's just gotten his butt handed to him by Thanos? He's alone and beaten up, but then he hears Sam say, "on your left." Those sizzling portals start to open, one fzzzt sound after another, and suddenly he has people backing him up. My people showed up, too, one after another, telling Rudy where to shove it.
Fzzzt. A friend I met on a train while backpacking in Europe. Fzzzt. My senior class president from high school. Fzzzt. The dad of a friend I've known since 6th grade. Neighbors. My cousin. Friends from church. In the vast range of human experiences, having people stick up for you is a really, really good one.
My favorite comment in response to Rudy came from my sister. She swooped in like Captain Marvel, and her sassy retort punched a hole right through that spaceship-sized troll:
"Bitches get stuff done, Rudy. Just ask Stacey Abrams."
