Kim’s eyes were wide as if she were still surprised at what she had to relay.

“She called you a b****.”

I absorbed this as we stood in the frigid outfield, our hands tucked into our warm pockets, waiting idly for the kickball game to start. For a moment I was dumbfounded. How could this insult apply to me, as careful as I was to not offend anyone?


The “she” in question was Caroline, who briefly joined my middle school cross country team and told me it was to lose weight because she was fat. She wasn’t, but she said it so matter-of-factly that I, in my amazing ignorance, did not contradict her. All I understood was that she wanted to be skinnier than she was, so why wouldn’t I agree? I was a beanpole, a shape constructed in Flatland, so the thought that she actually felt bad about the curves that it seemed every other girl in school had (besides me) never crossed my mind. If she wanted to be critical of herself, then I could be too. To this day, when I’m asked to recollect my most profound failure, I think of my failure to communicate to someone that she was a lovely person inside and out. Thus, unwittingly and perhaps deservedly, I branded myself a “b****.”

If I had expressed my initial mental response to her puzzling self-deprecation, “Is she being serious? No way,” the hurt we both endured have been avoided. I have since slowly evolved a much more disagreeable personality- as in literally more able to disagree. Guys who let slip a sexist comment within earshot immediately witness a contrite expression, knowing that after receiving a cold stare they should back away slowly and brace themselves for a scathing rebuttal and possibly a blow to the shins. I could have ignored my friend’s diatribe on how Gothic and other older styles of architecture are superior to modern architectural designs, not being particularly knowledgeable in the subject, but a sense of loyalty to the 21st century compelled me to research modern masterpieces of construction for two hours and send him a carefully articulated email defending them, complete with photographs. Perhaps my most significant new behavior, however, is my reaction to any self-deprecating comment said in earnest: denial. I may respond that SAT scores are easily improved but are inaccurate anyway, that Melissa just needs to open her mouth when she smiles, that Claretta, he has no idea what he’s missing, that I’m insulted Rose would speak such lies when we know she’s about to break the 5k record; but I do not—and will not—agree. Counterintuitively, my increased aggression has enabled an increase in compassion, a determination to protect people from their own judgment.

I realize that much of my description matches another definition of “b****”: a strong-minded, assertive female, e.g. Hillary Clinton. This definition is one that I’m proud to embody, especially since Kim, an unfailingly honest friend, reassures me that I’m still a kind person. While I may have developed intellectually since the day I first questioned that kindness during a kickball game, in adult language terms, I have only evolved from one kind of “b****” into another.