Why am I a "Slut?" | Teen Ink

Why am I a "Slut?"

March 14, 2013
By katelindaniellej BRONZE, Salisbury, North Carolina
katelindaniellej BRONZE, Salisbury, North Carolina
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

The definition of a slut, as given by Webster, is a “promiscuous woman,” or a “saucy girl,” given that both promiscuous and saucy mean flirtatious in mannerism.
In English class we talk about good versus bad connotations—the connotation of “slut” is definitely a bad one. It’s disparaging, dirty, and derogative in nature. You would never say this in front of your grandmother, but you use it in your everyday conversations with your friends. Sometimes you even call your friends this in a joking way—but it isn’t a joke. It’s an invective term that was once used to describe prostitutes, and is now used to describe the girls you just don’t like—none of whom deserve to be slandered with or without cause. If there was no cause to call someone a slut, you say, then why would anyone call you one? Well, I’m a “slut.” How did I get there? There are several easy steps to being labeled as, “easy.”
I’m a slut because I wear high heels—and skirts that are questionable in the “three-inches above the knee” margin. Of course, I’ve never been incredibly revealing—I’ve never been called out by the administration. Only my peers seem to think my clothing choices are apocryphal. High heels have an undeserved reputation as “inappropriate” or “suggestive.” Those who see a pair of shoes in a light that deems them malapropos for anything other than exotic dancing are the ones being erroneous and perverse. If I so choose to wear a shoe that elongates my legs and makes me feel empowered, then that is my prerogative. If you reference the dictionary definition above of what a “slut” is, I believe you will find no mention of attire classifying a woman as a “slut.”
Another reason I am a slut is because I have male friends. God forbid I have friends of the opposite sex who I am not dating. Oh wait—God wouldn’t forbid that, because that would be ludicrous. Part of developing as a human being is interacting with other human beings and learning social skills from this interaction. Pardon me—and the several billion other females who have once had male friends—but that is not a capital offense punishable by death, prison time, or ostracizement—it’s not even a misdemeanor. It would be different if I acted flirtatiously or promiscuously—going back to that dictionary definition—towards my male companions. That might classify my actions as being those of a “slut.” However, since the term has no stipulations on who is in the social circle of a “slut,” I believe that there is no ground to call me one on account of mine.
The final reason I am a slut is because I allow myself to be called one. I allow jokes to be made about mystical sexual exploits and rumors to be passed like STDs—none of which I have ever had, nor come into any relative contact with, just by the way. I do not refute the jokes, names, and whispers in the hallways. That would be giving them what they want. Instead, I acknowledge their jokes by laughing myself which is exactly what they don’t want, and then I continue getting what I want—their brothers, boyfriends, and husbands.
Ahem. That’s not entirely true. In fact, it is in no way true.

But by refusing to get upset over trivialities such as what kind of reputation I am supposed to have, I have made my accusers angry. They were on a modern-day witch hunt, trying to accuse me of being a whore. But I refuse to lend myself to their fallacious ideas of what a “slut” is.

In short, sometimes no matter what you do, you will end up like John Proctor and thirty-two other Salem residents—hanging in the gallows despite your innocence. Your name will be drug through the dirt, like Hector’s body around the walls of Troy, as mine was. But whether you are a slut, a harlot, a whore, or a floozy, the real tragedy is of he or she who points their fingers at you. Those who point out the flaws of others often cannot see past their own, and that is sad. But no matter how you dress or who your friends are, it is you that determines how you are perceived—so don’t let anyone label you. As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”


The author's comments:
Bullying isn't always the conventional "beating up a kid until he gives you lunch money" kind of thing. Sometimes it's just words. And sometimes those hurt more.

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