A Fascinating History of the "C Word"
Late in 2011, a song from a virtually unknown 20-year-old rapper from Harlem knocked the Internet on its ass. Azealia Banksâs â212â was a wildly original debut single that found the rapper dribbling a steady stream of elastic wordplay and oh-no-she-didnât raunch over a skronky beat from producer Lazy Jay. And then there was the songâs hook, a repeated provocation to a male rival for the affections of another woman: âI guess that cunt gettinâ eaten.â
â212â was voted Pitchforkâs no. 9 track of 2011, propelling Banks to the top spot on NMEâs 2011 âCool Listâ and earning her a coveted endorsement from Kanye Westâall before she even landed a record deal. But some listeners just couldnât get past that C-word. In a December 2011 cover story for self-titled magazine. the interviewer asked Banks a question that no one would have asked, say, Lil Wayne, who was three years younger than Banks when his debut album dropped: âIs it weird to play these songs for your mother?â When she responded in the negative, he pushed on: âItâs jarring hearing a young girl say âcuntâ so often.â Banks brushed him off with pointed flippancy. âSex is fucking sex,â she said. âWe wouldnât be sitting here if it wasnât for sex.â
In a time when few formerly naughty words still pack a potent punch, âcuntâ holds a unique positionâeveryone from Germaine Greer (who has said that the C-word is âone of the few remaining words in the English language with a genuine power to shockâ) to anonymous Urban Dictionary scribes can agree on that. As Liz Lemon explains in a classic episode of 30 Rock. the word demonstrates a frustrating lingual gender imbalance. âThereâs nothing you can call a guy to come back. There is no male equivalent to this word.â (She then tries out âfungdarkâ on a male colleague. He doesnât flinch.)
Indeed, the wordâs inherent power has made it the subject of a long-running feminist reclamation effort. Eve Ensler put it at the center of one of her famed Vagina Monologues (âReclaiming Cuntâ), and Inga Muscioâs 1998 manifesto Cunt: A Declaration of Independence covered sex, politics, abortion, and more in arguing for an embrace of the word and a rejection of its misogynistic connotations. In an introduction to Cunt âs revised 2002 edition, veteran sex writer and educator Betty Dodson explained why she preferred âcuntâ to the more deferential-sounding âvaginaâ (which, Muscio points out, comes from a word that means âsheath for a swordâ): The latter word refers exclusively to the birth canal, while the former includes the clitoris as well.
The grinning nonchalance with which Banks scatters âcuntâ throughout her debut single isnât an anomaly. Actually, it feels representative of a rapidly changing cultural perception of the wordâwho is âallowedâ to utter it, when itâs appropriate, or even what, exactly, it means. Though we definitely shouldnât ignore the wordâs history of misogyny and violence, a new crop of boundary-obliterating female musicians like Banks, Nicki Minaj, and Rihanna have recently deployed the word in a way that prompts a provocative question: Is this the beginning of a brave new cunt-positive era in pop music?
Believe it or not, calling a woman a cunt wasnât always an insult. In ancient Egypt, an early form of the word was used as a neutrally connoted synonym for âwoman.â (Egyptologists were pretty surprised to find it in the writings of Ptah-Hotep, but as writer Barbara G. Walker notes, âIts indelicacy was not in the eye of the ancient beholder, only in that of the modern scholar.â) Centuries later, Anglo-Saxons used it as a utilitarian term for female genitalia. The Oxford English Dictionary traces its earliest English usage back to 1230, when the street that made up Londonâs red-light district was calledânot even kiddingâGropecunt Lane. And before long, the term started cropping up in English literature. Chaucer uses the Middle English variant âqueynteâ liberally throughout his randy Canterbury Tales. and though Shakespeare never used the word outright, he loved to use highly suggestive puns, as evidenced in Twelfth Night (âThere be her very Câs, her Uâs, and her Tâs: and thus she makes great Pâsâ), as well as in Hamlet and Opheliaâs infamously entendre-crazed âcountry mattersâ exchange. These early literary uses were saucy and irreverent, but not exactly forbidden.
By the 20th century, using âcuntâ in a work of literature was no longer a cheeky transgression of social mores, but, as writers like James Joyce and D.H. Lawrence found, fodder for the prosecution at your obscenity trial. In the notorious 1960 trial against Lawrenceâs anachronistically sex-positive 1928 novelLady Chatterleyâs Lover. the prosecutorâs opening remarks pointed out that Lawrence used the C-word a whopping 14 times.
As modernism challenged Victorian customs of repression and censorship, plenty of other once-forbidden words entered the modern lexicon. So why did âcuntâ remain so taboo? Itâs hard to pinpoint a simple explanation, but in a 2006 segment of the BBCâs etymology-themed TV series Balderdash and Piffle. Germaine Greer proposed that the condemnation of âcuntâ was an inevitability in a patriarchal culture with a fear of female desire. âFor hundreds of years, men identified female sexual energy as a dangerous force,â she noted. âAnd unlike other words for female genitals, this one sounds powerful. It demands to be taken seriously.â The vilification of âcuntâ doesnât just cast female genitalia as something that should remain unspoken (as did ânothing,â a popular and proto-Freudian slang term for ladyparts back in Shakespeareâs day), but it erects restrictive boundaries around expressions of female desireâremember that the more âpoliteâ word, vagina, does not encompass the part of the cunt responsible for pleasure.
Pop music is a culturally transformative force, and it makes sense that the earliest appearances of âcuntâ in music history coincide with the explosive, taboo-demolishing first wave of punk. Ian Dury yelled the wordâalong with a few other choice expletivesâin his 1977 song âPlaistow Patricia,â and a year later, Sex Pistol Sid Vicious snuck it into his iconoclastic cover of Frank Sinatraâs âMy Way,â which became a U.K. Top 10 single. Itâs worth pointing out that both of these artists are British, and that âcunt,â in these songs, is characteristic of its usage in the U.K. Ireland, and Australia as an approximate synonym to âasshole.â (A friend who lives in London describes it as âcrass but not tabooâ; one Australian Urban Dictionary poster genially observes that the expletive âhas almost replaced the word âmate.ââ) These early uses of âcuntâ in song arenât derogatory addresses to a female subject, but are instead used to grasp for easy provocation, empty of specific or explicitly gendered meaning. (Dury, for example, buries the word within an avalanche of âarseholes,â âbastards,â and âpricks.â)
The first artist to use âcuntâ with its more precise, anatomical meaning in mind was also the first woman on record to utter it in a pop song: the incomparable Marianne Faithfull, on her 1979 comeback masterpieceBroken English. The former â60s folk darling and Rolling Stones associate had spent two years homeless in London, battling drug addiction; fusing punk, new wave, and reggae, Broken English was a frayed-nerve statement from a woman who had been through hell and back. Adapted from a Heathcote Williams poem, its final track, âWhy DâYa Do It?â tells the tale of a woman confronting her unfaithful lover: âWhy dâya do it, she screamed, after all weâve said/ Every time I see your dick I see her cunt in my bed.â
Faithfull wields the C-word purposefully. The rage and emotional rawness of her delivery perfectly echoes the blunt force of the line, and âWhy DâYa Do It?â remains one of the most powerful songs Faithfull has ever recorded. But not all of her fans got to hear it: The workers at the Australian EMI plant where the record was pressed were so offended by the songâs lyrical content that they staged a walkout, resulting in smooth vinyl inserts being pressed in place of the âWhy DâYa Do It?â track. The proper version of Broken English wasnât released in Australia until 1988. Even in a country where using âcuntâ as a synonym for âmateâ is relatively commonplace, the response to âWhy DâYa Do Itâ shows that using the word in a more sexualized context is apparently still likely to ruffle some feathers.
As far as we know, no one walked out of the production line on Liz Phairâs 1993 debut, Exile in Guyville. which employed the word âcuntâ with similar straightforwardness. On the track âDance of the Seven Veils,â Phair offers a feminist take on the titular biblical tale: âIâm a real cunt in spring/ You can rent me by the hour.â With her soon-to-be-trademark foulmouthed wit, Phair plays around with the wordâs double meaning: On the surface, the line sounds self-deprecating, like sheâs calling herself a prostitute. But once she reaches the end of the chorus (âEntertainers bring May flowersâ), âcuntâ has bloomed into something more suggestive of its anatomical meaningâforeshadowing another Exile track, the sexually forthright âFlower.â
In a 2010 interview, Phair reïŹected on the lyricâs cathartic and enduring power: âI think [âcuntâ] ties in to all of the feelings that we have about our bodies that are unhealthyâand we didnât generate it. I wouldnât want a guy to call me a cunt. Iâm the only one that can say it, and when I say it itâs because Iâm trying to gather up everything thatâs hurt me and ïŹip it on its head.â
Perhaps the most prominent musician to ïŹip âcuntâ on its head in recent memory is the hugely popular, gloriously theatrical rapper Nicki Minaj. âI am not Jasmine/ I am Aladdin,â she spits during the opening lines of âRomanâs Revenge,â a gender-bending cut off her 2010 blockbuster album Pink Friday. Throughout most of the song Minaj acts as her male alter ego Roman Zolanski, but she slips back into Nicki to bark this line: âIâm a bad bitch/ Iâm a cunt.â Itâs a powerfully sparse lyric; she pauses for a beat as if to let the weight of the last word sink in. Beyond âRomanâs Revenge,â Minaj seems to be on a personal mission to reclaim the word; she recently told a French TV show that âIâm a bad bitch, Iâm a cuntâ is her personal motto. As an introductory statement of self-mythology in a male-dominated industry, itâs a preemptive strike against detractors, not unlike another Minaj quote, this one from âMoment 4 Lifeâ. âShout-out to my haters/ Sorry that you couldnât faze me.â
Elsewhere, Barbados-born pop star Rihanna caught tabloid flack in 2011 when she was photographed wearing a necklace that spelled out âcuntââto church. Rhianna had been criticized previously for using the word rather liberally on Twitter. In an interview with British Vogue. she explained: âThat word is so offensive to everyone in the world except for Bajans. When I first came here, I was saying it like nothing, like, âHey, cunt,â until my makeup artist finally had to tell me to stop. I just never knew.â Banks, too, has said that before â212â she was unfamiliar with the wordâs taboo nature. âI didnât know it was that offensive,â she said. âI feel like âcuntâ means so feminineâlike a gay guy says, âThatâs so cunt. Thatâs so feminine. Thatâs so good.â Itâs in the vein of, like, voguing.â
Banks is right: For at least two decades, in the queer subculture centered around voguing, drag houses, and ball culture, âcuntâ (and its variant, âkuntâ) has been used as a slang term meant to describe something beautiful, delicate, and soft. Recently, underground rappers like Cakes Da Killa and Antonio Blair have begun to use âcuntâ/âkuntâ to describe the music they make: a gritty-yet-glossy, sexually charged microgenre of queer rap. (A search on Soundcloud for tracks tagged âkuntâ yields more than 500 unique results.) In music and in life, queering âcuntâ expands and redefines the wordâs meaning once againâit becomes an embrace of the liberating notion that one neednât have a biological cunt to be feminine or female. Banks has repeatedly noted ball cultureâs influence on her music and style, which means that the most famous lines of â212â showcase a young artist not responding to the wordâs derogatory meaning so much as sidestepping it completely; â212â is perhaps the first example of the queer definition of âcuntâ going mainstream.
When I told one of my male colleagues that I was working on this piece, he let out a horrified gasp. And over the course of researching, writing, and talking about the word, I observed its singular power. âCuntâ is a monosyllabic torpedo. If you donât believe me, say it at a fancy dinner party. Say it to your gynecologist. Say it to a stranger. Climb up on your roof and scream it at the sky.
Late last year, writer and blogger Sady Doyle started the Twitter topic #MenCallMeThings. in which she asked female-identified writers to post some of the names that they have been called by commenters and readers. I was dismayed, but not shocked, to see how many other writers I respected and admired had been called cunts: Unlike my dude coworker, I had to stop gasping at the word long ago.
In contrast to Liz Lemon, I think the most unfair thing about the C-wordâs unrivaled vulgarity isnât that I canât call a man a âfungdarkâ in response. As Dodson reminds us, itâs that a word meant to signify female pleasure has been turned against us into something evil, fearful, unspoken. It will take a long time for the patriarchal sting of âcuntâ to evaporate (if it ever can completely), but artists like Banks, Minaj, Rihanna, and whoeverâs coming up behind them give me hope that the process is beginning. To sing âcunt,â to rap âcunt,â hell, to wear a diamond-studded âcuntâ around your neck is to assert that cunts existâthat, contrary to what language has told us since before Shakespeareâs time, female sexuality is not ânothing.â