There's a term I give to women who are just beginning to break down taboos centered around our sex, in particular, our vaginas. I call it teething. It relates directly to my belief all women have hidden vaginal teeth. In the old days, women were aware of these teeth, and loved them and their vaginas dearly, sharpening them and keeping them pretty. Now, the teeth were pretty intimidating to men, with their soft, flabby cocks, and so some serious dental work was done - teeth pulling. It was a long, and extremely painful process for women. We didn't get any anaesthetic. No, every sharp, searing, tearing pain as each teeth was wrenched from our lower lips mercilessly wracked up and down our very souls in Full Technicolor. It continues in this day and age, only we're numbed to the pain now. And, as a means of self defence, our beautiful sharp teeth remain hidden in the folds of our vulvas. We forget they're there. We ignore them.
But every now and then, we'll hear the chomp chomp of jaws from down between our thighs, and we'll feel hungry for ourselves again. Then we begin teething.

I'd like to share the day I cut my first tooth with you.

It happened round about last Autumn. I'd gone to the bookstore with Natasha, something the both of us have always loved doing - and something our bank balances curse us for. Now, I've never been of the opinion that I am not equal to a man. (I've always been of the opinion women are inherently superior to men, in fact.) I've always been aware of the persecution in sexism, of the perils of being a woman walking home alone in the dead of night. I've harboured a natural - perhaps not suspicion of, but most certainly a cautiousness around - men for as long as I can remember. But until that point I'd been barely a real presence in the feminist community. I didn't think of it in terms of me and the rest of the female species. I thought of it in terms of me. And me. And don't fuck with me.

I eyed the Gender Studies section with interest, the section 'Tash always made a beeline for - the section I now always make a beeline for.
"I'm looking for a book I've read about," she told me. "Hope they've got it." A second later she picked up a slim lemon yellow volume with a vulva pink flower spread open across the cover. "This is it!" she said excitedly.
"Coolies," I murmured with only half interest. "Let's have a look."

"CUNT"

It leapt off the cover and kicked me in the eyeballs.

"CUNT"

THAT was the title of the book. The 'C' word. CUNT.

I maintained my composure, as I've occasionally been famous for. (one incident springs immediately to mind: an old work colleague revealing his girlfriend was now in jail for attempted bank robbery - I didn't even blink.). I did a double take and said:

"THAT'S what the book is called?"

"Yeah" 'Tash said happily. "Cunt!"

Flabbergasted, I took the book from her hands and turned it over and over. Why, for the love of the Goddess, would a feminist novel be called this word? This nasty, abusive, insulting, slanderous, violent, vicious word?

Did I forget intriguing?

I flipped it open, of course. I began to flutter through the pages, scanning the words, trying to figure out why the HELL anyone would name a book subtitled a "Declaration of Independence" the nastiest insult a woman could receive.

I got my answer in "Cuntist Mystique", page seventeen - final paragraph.
 

"'Cunt' is related to words from India, China, Ireland, Rome & Egypt. Such words were either titles of respect for women, priestesses and witches, or derivatives of the name of various goddesses."

So much for composure. I reeled where I stood. I tugged on Nastasha's sleeve and showed her the paragraph. "'Tash!" I fairly gasped out. "It was a title of RESPECT!"

Did the world flip up and down? Very nearly so. An outlook I'd always held had suddenly been drastically changed; a belief I'd had was just proved erroneous, suddenly a taboo had been thrown against a wall and shattered beyond repair.

A wave of absolute euphoria swept me.

You see, 'cunt' was a word I'd always FEARED. I would literally cover my ears as opposed to hear the word outloud. Male friends knew to say it in my presence meant Big Trouble. I never used it myself - EVER.  I would not curse even my worst enemy with the title. I considered it the vilest, most obscene insult anyone could use against anyone else. To me, it represented the collective, ancient hatred men have for women.

I was wrong.

For the first time in my life - it was so good to be wrong! With the knowledge that this word, capable of silencing a crowded dinner party, capable of incurring punishment in school yards, capable of making a woman feel like absolute shit, was actually an ancient title of respect for women when women were still sacred - I felt powerful.

I believe it was then I cut my first tooth.

Because I finally GOT IT.
I
have
a
cunt.

Furthermore, this cunt of mine is a beautiful, powerful force - a gateway between life and death. One of the central symbolism of beliefs world wide. It bleeds, it gives life, it has multiple orgasms, it spreads open like a flower, it's my favourite colour, it's a complicated and terribly important part of my body. In summation  - my cunt makes me a woman. Without it I'd be a body with tits.  All of this kind of hit me in a rush, though I didn't have the terms to attribute to everything at that time. It was things I'd instinctively known, or felt, fluttering around in the deep recesses of my birth canal, just waiting to be stirred into awakening once more. The book  'Cunt', page seventeen, final paragraph, was the big black boot that kicked open the door, letting the morning sunshine stream in and wakey wakey.

When we parted company that day, 'Tash and I both said "Farewell, my Beautiful Cunt."

It was such a wonderful thing to know. I cuddled it tight to my bosom and smiled and smiled. Since then, my teeth have sprung up rapidly. I boast a full set now, though they are being ever sharpened and ever will be, by the knowledge I seek to gain relating to women's issues in the world, past, present and future.

 I still refuse to call my enemies a cunt. But for entirely different reasons now.

All the negative connotations of the word were not-so-politely shown the door that day, although my obstacles with it were not quite over yet. It was fairly clear it was man (anyone wanna lay bets on Western Man?) who took the word and perverted it, twisting it from it's original meanings into one of shame and degradation. Part of the de-teething process. Neutralising feminine power. Or just giving it a cliteredctomy. Pick your own terms, the result was the same: Cunt was no longer a word to utter in reverence of a wise or respected woman, it was something to hurl at a common street whore if she wouldn't spread for you, something to label your ex-girlfriend if she kept your stereo.

Worst of all - it was something to call other men. An insult, to verbally castrate him. Yep, call that fella a great big fucking vagina. Who wants to be a vagina? A vaginas that dirty little thing between a woman's legs - only good for one thing, don'tcha know? And it bleeds too, how fucking foul. So I'm gonna call you a vagina now, just to demonstrate what a low opinion I have of you. CUNT!!!!

Lovely.

So I wrestled long and hard: Reclaim the word, definitely. But should it be done everywhere - or only within circles its original meaning was known and understood?
It was a tricky one. The notion of reclamation could very well be rendered ineffectual in outer circles where only its accepted meaning was known. To be seen calling your beloved friend a Cunt could be seen as saying it was acceptable to use it in a negative setting. To abuse your wife by calling her 'cunt'. To shriek at a whore as she walks the street 'cunt!'. To label a woman who won't go out with you  a 'cunt'. And ladies. To hurl at the woman who stole the man you had your eyes on: 'cunt'. For all the power Inga Muscio imbued in every girl who read her book, Cunt is still a word considered by the majority as obscene. One most obvious solution, of course, is to explain its meaning at every available turn. I've not yet met a person who hasn't reacted to the information goggle eyed.  With women, it's always followed by a vaguely enchanted smile. It's quite inspiring.

And it convinced me to use it. I use it with sensitivity sometimes. Sometimes I am the definition of tactless. If anyone responds with strong abhorrence, I take the time to explain to them why. I never, EVER use it in a negative way. The stripped down, vulva spread fact is: the word, no matter what it's come to mean, means something else entirely. And that something else is a GOOD thing. It is a summation of your essence as female, an honouring of your divine feminine creative-destructive ability. If you KNOW what it means, and you spread that word and you don't let anyone use it to hurt you, belittle you or pull your teeth, then you have reclaimed it already.

And that's fucking awesome.

I'll say this in closing: If I ever refuse to step down and be intimidated because some fella wants to try and assert his authority over me, and I'll know, from that steely glint in his eyes, that because of my bitchy stubbornness  he's inwardly labelling me a 'Cunt' - I merely smile, lower my lashes and inwardly say to him:

"I know."