Itziar Ziga likes feather boas, sometimes she dresses up as a trucker, and sometimes she calls herself a bitch. This book, written in the first person from the wild and ragged voice of an incombustible guerrilla, testifies to that moment of enlightenment in which activism dresses up in fun and uncomplexed struggle, pitched battle of ideas, strident and abnormal screams, brutal vindication of what remains on the margin of a society that castrates and condemns. Ziga's freedom and enthusiasm are rabidly contagious, as well as terrifying and illuminating. When it is no longer important to be a man or a woman, when this distinction becomes derisory, the flow of thought is at ease and dynamite any hegemonic and well-thinking discourse. In these coordinates the author of Becoming bitch moves: without country or God; with cuffs, sequins and pretty bad slobber.