This is Why I'm an Angry Black Woman
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I did just write a piece about moving into my Queendom and honey, I am still living vibrantly in my castle but, that doesn’t mean I’m not angry when I look at the things that are happening to me and those who look like me externally. It took me a while to actually finish writing this because writing is hard when you have to actually look inside you and those around you to dissect the subject you feel the need to expose. Lets talk.
Historically we have been stereotyped on the belief that all black women are expressive, opinionated, have bad attitudes, and are generally negative in nature.
NATURE: the basic or inherent features of something, especially when seen as a characteristic of it.
Before words can even leave our lips, we are automatically stereotyped by the logic of those who came way before us. I can google “Angry Black Woman” and the first thing they point out is that this has been the description of us since 1930, but what about now? If they really want to know why we’re angry black women, let me be the first to tell em.
I stick out at work. Nobody looks like me. 24 year old brown skinned girl in corporate America. I grew up being the only girl on my flag football team at one point so I like reppin’ exactly who I am but here is when I discovered the angry black woman in me, if I hadn’t met her before.
An older male who lacks color told me to comb my hair while at work and I was totally blown back at how those words had the courage to even leave his lips. He addressed me in a way that I had never experienced. I literally was stuck. I couldn’t move, no words came from my mouth, and I had no facial expression. I didn’t lash out and I instead let that marinate with me for a few days. I asked myself how he could see these beautiful curls on my head as me needing to comb them as if they weren’t already tamed? We have been stereotyped about being seen as women who are just down right mad as hell for no reason but nobody takes the blame for how we are treated, talked to and disrespected.
I told my supervisor and she gave me a response that only she knew how because well, she’s not a black woman. So how could I get her to understand the disrespect that a white male just showed me? I wasn’t up to give her a history lesson so I just chalked it and took a moment to grasp that my crown has never been invisible, they just choose not to respect it. But this is what I found out:
I’m angry because they can say whatever they want and not be held accountable for it, because the playing field has never been even, because nobody can hear my cry, because white men can look to me as a fetish but not respect who I am, because I live in a generation where black women are becoming CEO’s and starting businesses and not seen as equal, because my voice still doesn’t matter, because my black men are still leaving my black women out to dry, because they can ask if my hair is real and try and touch me as if I’m an exhibit at the zoo, because my black ass degree don’t matter to them, because my hard work goes unnoticed even though I’m forced to work ten times harder, because I can’t complain, and because I love the hell outta myself but get accused for not loving all when honestly all, don’t love me.
I told myself that it’s okay to be angry. We have every right to be but, our pain is and has always mirrored strength. We’re built ford tough and I admire us for the courage to keep going. I like to remember that God didn’t make every woman a black woman and I take pride in him seeing me fit to wear this skin as boldly and proud as I do.
I’m proud of who we are, how far we’ve come and the rate that we are progressing at even if we won’t get recognition for it. We were built ford tough for the daily obstacles we face and one thing is for certain, our magic is forever flowing.
They see us as a threat and I’d be scared if I were them too.