A man called his girlfriend a “chick” the other day to me. He didn’t notice my expression. I was thinking: If you knew me well, you would know I don’t like hearing women called “chicks.”

When I taught The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to high school students, I always offered Twain’s own essay about that “bald, grotesque, unwarrantable usurpation” of human dignity we called slavery (there’s an allusion to the Declaration of Independence in Twain’s words) and opinion pieces from William Raspberry and other black writers. I have a weak spot for Twain, warts and all. Yes, he was a bit of a white guy, and I do not mean that in a good way, but I forgive him given the times he lived in and the poverty he survived.

The novel’s use of the n-word always came up. How come rappers can say that, but I can’t? It was usually a white boy who asked me that.

The way I explained this for nearly twenty-five years was that I might say something about my brother. I might kick up quite a fuss about him and say all sorts of critical stuff. He’s my brother, after all. On the other hand, you say something about my brother? You trash talk my brother. I’d tip my head and glare out of the corner of my eye as if someone said something about my brother, modeling my response. I wouldn’t advise that, I’d say.

So when men think they are being cool to talk about chicks or broads or whatever demeaning term they have decided is hip these days, I roll my eyes.

We all make mistakes. We do not always understand what is expected or reasonable. We underestimate the respect due, sometimes, to people who have earned the right to demand respect. Back when I was in art school, painters and sculptors sometimes assumed they were the only real artists. The rest of us, messing about with sterling or clay or textiles were mere craftspeople. I’ve been around long enough not to tolerate that anymore.

My art is fabric. Weaving, knitting, piecing quilts. That is my art. There are incredible artists doing what I do, but I am better than most. I am good. I sign my work because artists do that. I do not have a “craft area” in my home and this is not a hobby. What I do is not “clever” or “cute” or, heaven-help-you-if-you-say-it, “crafty.” I might be crafty, but I do not mean what others generally mean by that word.

I might also be a mean old bitch of an artist.

It’s different when we call ourselves that. Maybe. If we want to call ourselves bitches, we have that right. It is absolutely different when the Dixie Chicks call themselves Chicks. That’s in a good way, and they are absolutely allowed.

It is national Women’s Month, International Women’s Day is coming up, and I sure wish Warren was the Democratic candidate for U.S. president. I will certainly vote Blue no matter who, but I am sick of old white men who want to tell me what to do.

Gaslighter will, finally, come out May 1 via Columbia Records. If you can’t see the video below, it’s worth looking for.