Rebecca  Birkman. I can still see her holding court in the elementary school playground, her pale pink sweater clinging to her already well-developed breasts, her hair teased tall like a tiara on top of her head then falling in tousled brown waves just past her shoulders. Back in 6^th grade, she was the queen bee. She knew it. We knew it. We allowed it. Yet behind her back, we called her “Bitchy Becky Birkman.” She was one of those girls with no filter, needlessly saying every mean thing that entered her brain – things we other girls may have been thinking about each other but had the common decency not to say aloud. She was spoiled, selfish, and arrogant.

I am nothing like Becky Birkman, so does everyone think I’m such a bitch?

My theory is that it is because I am aloof and seemingly lacking in compassion. I say seemingly lacking because anyone who really knows me knows that it is in my Cancerian nature to be quite empathetic; however, much like the crab that represents my birth sign, I have a tough shell that belies my true, tender nature. So when outwardly my response to someone’s tale of misfortune is a cool “bummer,” it is only because my delicate, depressed self would go insane if I allowed every ill in the world to seep in and affect me. So what seems like a cold, hard, indifferent persona is really just a defense mechanism for my overly-sensitive soul.

I am polite but unfriendly. I say “Good Morning” when I walk into the office each day, but I don’t ask how your weekend was or how you are doing unless I really care to know. (Huge pet peeve: people who use “how ya doin” as a greeting without even bothering to wait for the requisite “fine” let alone actually caring to know how you are really doing.)  I loathe small-talk. I suck at it. I’m shy and backward around new people and tend to keep to myself. Somehow that reads as being “too good” to talk to people. Therefore, I am a stuck up bitch.

I’m honest. I don’t say needlessly cruel things to others. I’m not going to tell you your dress is hideous, but if you ask me if I like it, I’ll tell you I don’t. I’m a real bitch.

I don’t sugarcoat. In my job, I am in a supervisory position. I assure you that my standards aren’t extraordinarily high. I don’t expect proficiency, but if you can’t at least perform your job competently, you will know I am displeased. I’m an uptight bitch.

I have no poker face. If I’m angry, you’ll see it. Same if I’m sad. And I am a very emotional, moody person. I’m a crazy bitch.

I have no tolerance for stupidity. As they say, you can only make a mistake once. The second time it is a choice. My compassion has limits. If you keep making the same stupid choices, you deserve whatever negative consequence befalls you. I’m a cold-hearted bitch.

I’m not afraid to say no when others try to impose upon me. I’m a selfish bitch.

I’m not afraid to speak my mind, stand up for myself and others, share differing opinions. I’m a loudmouthed bitch.

And I’ve already established that I’m a fat bitch.

And much like the word fat, I, like many feminists, decided to call myself a bitch so that the word would have no power when someone else levied it at me — to, in fact, give it a new and positive connotation.

As my contemporaries over at Bitch Media (a nonprofit feminist media organization) put it “When it’s being used as an insult, ‘bitch’ is an epithet hurled at women who speak their minds, who have opinions and don’t shy away from expressing them, and who don’t sit by and smile uncomfortably if they’re bothered or offended. If being an outspoken woman means being a bitch, we’ll take that as a compliment.”

So though I may be nothing like Rebecca Birkman, I am a bitch and proud of it.