Bitchface

adj: pertaining to those who hardly ever smile; having a mean/angry look on your face at all times.

Of course this is not a word, but I imagine that if it had an entry in the dictionary, it would be reminiscent of the one that I wrote above. My dear Mandy shared this on her FB page the other day:

I’d love to give credit for this photo, but I have no idea where it came from.

and I immediately shared it on my wall.

This, folks, is the story of my life.

At least at work.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been called into my boss’ office or told by some other faculty member about how rude, unkind, mad, angry (insert adjective here) I seem (let’s talk about perception vs. reality) and partially because I don’t really smile at others much and I’m not the “HEY! How you doing? How was your weekend? Let’s have meaningless smalltalk” kinda girl. I mean I’m just not.

And when I say that I have come home in tears some days, bawling (I know that’s not how you spell it, work with me) to my husband, asking- am I a bad person? am I really mean? What the FUCK!?

This is just how I am. What the fuck am I walking around all chipper and smiling at every person that walks by me? I don’t want to. Part of that (and excuse me as I use new language, fresh off of the personality styles training I took at work) is my personality- thanks to my upbringing. Growing up in Brooklyn, you don’t just walk around smiling at people cause you feel like it. Fuck around and smile at the wrong person and get your ass cut or somethin’ like that. I think my rules riding the subway when I was growing up were-

1. Don’t look at anyone for extended periods of time (stare at people in nyc and generate unwanted attention)
2. Don’t talk to strangers (duh!)
3. Keep my headphones on
4. Keep my “don’t fuck with me” face on
5. Keep the razor blade that my older brother gave me close by, you know, just in case I needed to cut someone

So, when my BITCHFACE transfers over into my grown-up life, you’ll have to excuse me.

I don’t wear my bitchface with my students, unless of course, they need to know that Mrs. H means business right now. My kids know that I love them. And I definitely don’t wear my bitchface with my friends, my homegirls. Oh no, we laugh, we smile, we joke. But you, yeah you, the person that I don’t really know? You may see the bitchface. But not on purpose, but because that is what it is.

I hate. HATE. When people say “Oh, Dawana you should smile… Smile! It’s a great day!… Smile, it’s nice outside”

What?

How about, you worry about your own self and leave me alone? Mkay? Thanks.

One more story and then I’ll end this rant:

Today, was rough. Pea had about 8,000,345 nightmares last night and I did not sleep. I went in to work, shut my room door before the bell (which I never do, I was just too exhausted) and tried to get myself energized for the 23 six and seven year olds that would be bursting through the door at any minute.

This lady from Georgia works across the hall from me; she teaches Kindergarten. She sees me in the hall and this is our conversation:

“Hey girl, you doin’ alright?“

“Yeah, I’m cool, just so exhausted.”

“You sure? Cause you look like somethin’ is wrong. I can just see it in your face.”

“Whachoo mean you see it in my face? Don’t my face look like this every day?“
(yes, new word. What + you = whachoo, pronounced wuh-chew)

“No girl. Usually your face is like- what? try me. I dare you.

But today, your face is like- don’t fuck wit’ me.“

And that made me laugh. Out Loud. Bitchfaces do laugh from time-to-time ya know.

So apparently, there are different degrees of my bitchface-ness. That was very funny to hear.

I know I have a bitchface. I own my bitchface.

Everyone else? Can just deal with it.

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