Fluent, Female, and Unforgivable
The day I got called a bitch for speaking too well.
A few days ago, I shared a short Note about something that happened during my PhD in Japan.
It reached over 1,600 people, brought new subscribers, and sparked quiet DMs from those who’d lived something similar.
I also lost a few subscribers.
Which told me the story mattered.
So I wrote the whole thing.
Because it was never just about a slur.
It was about power, perception, and the cost of not softening the truth.
“What’s the point of knowing English if you don’t understand the people around you?”
— he said.
“If the people around me don’t speak it well, how does my knowing it help?”
— I replied.
We were three "gaijins" in an all-Japanese research lab in Tokyo.
Two men—one Indian, one Korean—and me.
I was the only female PhD student in the lab. Our common language was English.
It had been our lunch ritual—brief islands of conversation amidst a sea of cultural formality. Until the day he called me a bitch.
When fluency becomes a threat
This wasn’t the first time my fellow Indians mocked my English fluency.
They often made it out to be a weakness. Something ornamental. Something “too polished.”
But in that lab, it was useful.
Our boss had made it clear: my fluency was an asset.
The Japanese students alternated their presentations in Japanese and English. When they needed help, I supported their English slides. Translation loses nuance, and I was learning Japanese to bridge that cultural gap better.
I wasn’t there just to write my dissertation—I was helping the lab communicate across languages.
The insult wasn’t about logic. It was about losing power.
That day, he said:
“What’s the point of knowing English if you don’t understand the people around you?”
I said:
“If the people around me don’t speak it well, how does my knowing it help?”
He didn’t have a response.
So he called me a bitch.
I complimented him on his eloquence. Got up. And left.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t make a scene.
I just walked away. And I didn’t come back to the lunch table after that.
Then came the second blow.
A few days later, my professor asked me to rejoin the group.
He suggested we “go back to being friends.”
I said no.
Because:
We weren’t friends.
Every interaction has a decorum. This one had none.
Later, the Korean lab mate asked me if I’d really never speak to the other guy again.
I said: “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Then the story changed—without my consent.
Turns out, this man had gone around telling everyone he had apologised that day itself.
He hadn’t.
So now I was being asked why I was still holding a grudge. Why I couldn’t “just let it go.”
This is how women become villains in the stories men rewrite.
And this is how power protects itself—not with truth, but with convenience.
I wasn’t angry.
I was done.
There’s a difference.
I wasn’t there to prove I deserved respect. I was already doing the work.
Language is not just grammar and vocabulary. It’s context. Emotion. Tone.
And I carried that responsibility for the lab, with care, pride and gratitude.
But no amount of competence protects you from a man who feels small.
This wasn’t about a misunderstanding.
It was about a man who ran out of arguments and reached for a slur.
Most women have a story like this.
It may not happen at a lab bench in Tokyo.
Maybe it’s in a group chat. A Zoom call. A family dinner.
But the arc is the same:
A man runs out of good points—
And uses violence instead.
Then he rewrites the ending to make himself the misunderstood one.
I wasn’t unreasonable. I was clear.
I didn’t forgive him.
And no, I don’t regret walking away.
I only regret not doing it sooner.
Have you ever walked away and been blamed for it?
I’d love to hear your story.
The comments are open. Or just hit reply.
If this resonates, feel free to restack it.
Someone else might need to be reminded that walking away doesn’t make you bitter. It makes you free.
persist. You must persist.
Pratibha, never stop speaking well! Ultimately, that's how the walls will get torn down.