We’re away until January 6, but we’re reposting some of our favorite pieces from 2019. Enjoy your holiday!

I can tell who’s calling me from across the room by the pitch of their bitch. Fati goes up on the i so that it’s almost a shriek. Hieu gets a little gravelly, dark and full, bitchas 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’s an insult we’ve spun into coin.

The femmes and queers I have known have saved my life. The deep wells of care from femmes; the ingenuity of queer love. Bitchis the passport to that nation. Or maybe it’s the national anthem, how we sing our love to each other. Maybe it’s our language.

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, bitchflung out the window, faggotclose 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’ 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.

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