2. Bury My Head 🗿

To bitch, or not to bitch?

I feel uneasy using the word ‘bitch’ because of its lingering misogynistic connotations. Yet it does have a punchy ring to it: ‘Sayonara, bitches!’

Sitting in the window seat on the first leg of my journey, I gaze out of the small plane window. Below, the grey runway stretches out, and beyond the airport boundary, the city’s silhouetted skyline rises. As the engines start, a loud rattling sounds beside me. A sudden unease as I notice one of the two plastic screens of the window is missing a couple of screws and is hanging loose. Soon, there will only be one thin sheet of plastic between me and the outside air, 30,000 feet above the ground.

I press the call button, and when the flight attendant comes over, I inform her of the state of the window. She dismissively brushes me off telling me to keep my belt on for take-off. I let her know I'm uncomfortable sitting next to a broken window. Though no aviation expert, I'm a firm believer that aircraft shouldn't have broken windows, especially if they happen to be near me. If something were to happen to the other flimsy-looking piece of plastic, it would be my body that plugs the hole. And then, as I'm sucked slowly and painfully out of the plane, the pilot will have just enough time to bring the plane to a safer altitude for all the other passengers and crew members, though I plunge through the air, no doubt already dead, a hero.

The flight attendant huffs, rolls her eyes, and for certain thinks I’m being overly dramatic. Someone else can be a hero, I think to myself, as she eventually shows me to another seat, muttering under her breath as she does so.

I feel uneasy using the word ‘bitch’.

I securely strap myself into my new seat and settle in with a book that has been described as a “dark modern gothic classic”. But as the cabin crew start to go through the safety procedures, I'm distracted by my previous train of thought, my mind wanders, and I recall an old neighbour, the owner of two female dogs. The Staffie was named Bitch, and it was quite unsettling for me to hear him call her by that name, even though, technically, she was a bitch.

- “Sit, Bitch,” he would command. “Come, Bitch… Leave it, Bitch… Bed, Bitch.”

Bitch was adorable, the Bichon Frisé, called Karen, not so much. Despite being half the size of Bitch, Karen would snap at the bull terrier, hungry for attention, and often steal her food.

People, however, are different from dogs. And while those with XX and XY chromosomes are, in a categorical manner, different to each other, the inequality of sexism is not grounded in science. Yet, our language, beliefs, concepts, and actions have perpetuated its existence.

Language evolves, ever vibrant and colourful. These days, the slang ‘bitch’ has a broader definition. It’s no longer reserved for women who are dominant, aggressive or unpleasant. It’s also used to describe a man… behaving like a wussy woman!

In some quarters, the B-word carries the connotation of a slutty dog-in-heat. But within my circle of friends, there are those who have transformed that version into something affirmative and affectionate. Shout-out to all my ho-bags.

Slay, bitches!

Take it back, shake it up

I don’t know how this reclamation of derogatory names or insults works, but it seems that as long as you have been the target of such abuse you get a pass to use that term. I don’t know the fine details, as racism is simply too complex for me to grasp. It seems it is for racists too. A case in point was when I heard someone on the street shout, “Go back to China, you fucking Paki!”. At least it was in the ballpark of the same continent.

Indians living in the West, typically wouldn’t self-identify with ‘Paki’, even if they’ve been called it all their lives, and likely the actual Pakistani people there wouldn’t either. I could be wrong, though. It wouldn’t be the first time.

- “I’m a proud Paki. After lifelong animosity towards the word, I’m now happy to reclaim it from its pejorative usage, but, more importantly, there isn’t the bother of two extra syllables when referring to myself or my people. We're all proud Pakis now!”

Having said that, racists no longer use derogatory terms—they just say the nationality of the people they don’t like in a certain tone or context and the racist rhetoric is quite evident. Racists, you know who you are. You, too, shithole countries!

Like sexism, racism isn’t grounded in any real science; it's a social construct rooted in power dynamics, so even the words ‘racism’ and ‘racist’ are blunt tools for talking about prejudice, bias, or oppression, as they fall short in capturing the full complexity of these dynamics.

I, for one, can’t talk about how a person should or shouldn’t react to abuse and oppression. For example, ‘Nigger’ is uniquely steeped in historical trauma and systemic violence for those now called African-Americans. Some reclaim it as an act of defiance or solidarity, but others wouldn’t dream of using the N-word—a reflection of the personal ways people navigate oppression.

Merriam-Webster: providing helpful suggestions

It got me thinking of cultural appropriation, reparations, and the American Dream: Imagine a black market of N-word passes, traded by those with them and snapped up by white kids to rap along guilt-free to Kendrick, 2Pac, or whoever else is slinging it on their playlists. These kids may not understand the weight of the word, but they might feel a closer connection to the scenes and sentiments of hip-hop than to the bankrupt, broken system that was shaped by another trade altogether.

Or maybe, the N-word shouldn’t be in any song that can legally be sold to white people, because you can’t take people’s money and then tell them how to consume the product.

- “I masturbate to Kanye’s Gold Digger every night.”
- “Just make sure no-one catches you singing it.”

If ‘nigger’ is sung by a white person and there’s no-one around to hear, does it still cause offence?

Anyway, set adrift on an eight-hour layover in Taipei, I was enjoying some respite from the heat of the sun in a lovely little tea house, when I heard a couple of people on the next table speaking in, believe it or not, Chinese. Now, I don’t understand that particular language, and, for clarity’s sake, I’m not African-American, but their continued use of an N-word (nèige 那个), made me feel like I should be getting offended on somebody’s behalf.

Despite being in a Chinese-speaking country and able to understand less than three words of the language—and none of its nuance—and, as previously mentioned, not being an African-American person, it was still very disconcerting to hear these sounds coming from their mouths. I knew that if I, as the only other person in the place, didn’t speak up, nobody else would. That was the time to step up with the heroism and not be just a bystander, so I used Google Translate to confront them:

- “那个…那个…你刚那个事来着？”

Situations change, and certain things become no longer acceptable or appreciated—like my presence in that lovely little Taiwanese tea house. Other changes have seen many English speakers stop calling Indians ‘Asians’, as well as no longer referring to more eastern Asians as ‘Orientals’. It’s an inevitable shift when you consider the absurdity of lumping people together based on the continental classifications of the eminently white European Carl Linnaeus.

• Europaeus albus: European white

• Americanus rubescens: American reddish

• Asiaticus fuscus: Asian tawny

• Africanus niger: African black

And that’s in the order of how good they are!

Now, Linnaeus did say that skin colour was an external factor produced by climate, but he also attributed certain negative characteristics to the peoples of an entire continent. Can you guess which (dark) continent housed the ‘lazy, sly, sluggish, neglectful’ types?

Events have shown that humans haven’t needed much of an excuse to exploit or exclude other human beings. Even with our expanding knowledge of the world, whites stayed on top of the social hierarchy while blacks remained at the bottom. We did need a shake-up, regardless of what some Americanus albus might’ve argued in defence of the status quo.

As part of that upheaval, conversations about statues and their removal emerged. I’ve always believed—rightly or wrongly—that no human should be put on a pedestal. Kill your idols, and all that. So, in principle, I don’t have an issue with toppling a statue, especially if it serves as nationalist propaganda—images created by the powers that be to promote a narrative, and to be protected at all costs. Lest we forget who they’d have us believe we are!

Nazi Germany is often used as a stark example to show how nationalism was used to promote dangerous ideologies. Propaganda, including monuments and imagery, was used to win public support, while dissenting views were suppressed—books burned, history rewritten. Similarly, the removal of certain statues today challenges the narrative that was built along with these monuments, forcing us to reconsider whether they still serve a meaningful purpose in a society that claims to value equality and progress.

In Germany, all traces of Nazism have since been dismantled, yet nations still remember the dangers of fascism without the constant reminder. That’s why there hasn’t been any invasions or attempted genocides in modern times. Oh dear, my mistake! Perhaps a big old Hitler statue should have been left standing around the place to remind us of the old days of nationalism, and how it’s better to be allied together.

Another example of an interesting non-existent statue is Nelson’s Pillar in Dublin. It was completed in 1809 to honour the memory of Vice Admiral Nelson and his victory over the French and Spanish fleets at the Battle of Trafalgar (1805). The pillar was once a popular tourist attraction but became a symbol of British colonisation for many Irish. It was eventually blown up by the IRA in 1966, the decision to do so made in a pub over a few pints of Guinness. Nelson’s ‘head’ was stolen from the rubble by art students and was involved in various fund-raising shenanigans. The pillar is now a relic whose remnants, including the head, have been recontextualised in museums for anyone to learn about—its history infinitely more interesting for all that happened to it. More storification, less glorification.

In 2003, to usher in the new millennium in, dare I say, a characteristic display of Irish tardiness, Nelson’s Pillar was replaced with another monument—not to a person—but to light itself. ‘Another man’s freedom fighter’ Liam Sutcliffe, the man responsible for blowing up Nelson’s Pillar, said of the inspired replacement monument: “It looks magnificent… a much better thing to have on the main street than an old foreign admiral with a broken arm and a missing leg.” 

Maybe many of the world’s troubles wouldn’t be as bad if people didn’t take their stories so seriously. Take, for instance, the Bible. If you replace the words ‘In the beginning’ with ‘Once upon a time’ all the ethical lessons and morality tales remain unchanged but, presumably (we live in hope), many of its devotees wouldn’t nail their gang colours so firmly to the mast.

In a museum in Dublin, a Japanese tourist asks her Irish guide a question.

- “Why do religions fight in North Ireland?”
- “Because their beliefs are different.”
- “What’s the difference?”
- “Well, for instance, Protestants don’t believe in the blessed Mother of God, or the holy Eucharist when the transubstantiation of the bread and wine occurs.”
- “Holy, slowly… trans..?”
- “Transubstantiation—let’s just call it the T-word for now. It’s when the bread and wine… It’s when we receive the life-saving body and blood of Jesus Christ.”
- “T-word… Jesus Christ.”
- “And they take away some books of the Bible, and they add to the Our Father, the prayer Jesus gave us as a model.”
- “What do they add?”
- “Something like, ‘For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever’… Obviously, it’s a more complex issue than that.”
- “I see.”

I’m praying I can get away from those thorny conversations—about which religion is right, or who has the claim to a certain soil, or whether statues should be torn down—and complaints about history being rewritten when, indeed, everything is a constant rewrite.

Now, as my plane safely lands in the Land of the Rising Sun, in the Far East, a lot further east from where I started, in a country where the Oriental people have a deep culture and a long history, I’m excited to experience another worldly perspective.

As children die in other lands, let’s go and bury my head in Japan.