Lifestyle
Yes, I am undoubtedly an angry Black woman, and I have plenty of reasons for it.
It all began when I was just five years old, and a classmate in kindergarten told me I couldn’t be the princess in our game because, according to him, Black girls didn’t fit that role. At the age of eight, I was in third grade when a teacher expressed surprise at how “articulate” I was. By the time I reached fourth grade, I learned that my crush didn’t have feelings for me because I was Black.
Fast forward to sixth grade, when a different crush told me I was pretty—“for a Black girl.” In seventh grade, my predominantly Black suburban neighborhood was mockingly referred to as “Spring Ghettos” instead of its actual name, Spring Meadows. In eighth grade, I was labeled an Oreo and told that I “wasn’t really Black,” as if that was a compliment.
Then came high school. In ninth grade, after transferring to a new school, a boy suggested that I must be mixed with something to be considered pretty. By tenth grade, my friends and I were called to the office and questioned about whether we were in a gang or if we had father figures at home. In eleventh grade, my AP English teacher doubted my writing skills, despite my later scoring perfectly on the exam.
During a volunteer trip to Costa Rica, I faced objectification, being whistled at and called “Negrita.” When I asked my host father if that term was akin to being called a racial slur, he assured me it was a compliment, suggesting that Black women were perceived as exceptional in bed. But I was just a kid.
I remember witnessing my brother being denied entry to a football game by a school resource officer who mistook him for another Black boy who was banned. My brother ended up getting maced when he insisted on his innocence. I was suspended for defending him. Compounding the hurt, my senior year boyfriend casually used the racial slur “nigger,” showing an utter lack of sensitivity.
College was no different. I was one of only two Black girls in my freshman class. During a meeting aimed at attracting more Black students, someone had the audacity to suggest that Black people simply weren’t interested in sustainable living or farming. Furthermore, my college boyfriend jokingly referred to me as a “fiery negress” when ordering for me at a restaurant. The boyfriend after him cut ties because I dared to point out his privilege.
Returning to my hometown often meant facing racial profiling. When I got married, people assumed I was pregnant. Friends would refer to my husband as my “baby daddy.” My pregnancy was overshadowed by the countless videos of Black lives being taken, with their murderers going unpunished.
The message was clear: my son’s life was not valued. When Tamir Rice was killed, I curled up on my bed, sobbing and cradling my belly, fully aware that my son’s life would mirror the struggles I faced. Strangers feel entitled to invade our personal space, thinking they can touch my son without asking. It’s as if we are not seen as individuals with boundaries.
I’ve watched my nephew express disappointment that he can’t be Spider-Man because he is Black, and I couldn’t shield him from the harsh realities of society. I am constantly reminded of my vulnerability; the sight of a police car sends a chill down my spine. When my husband leaves the house at night, I fear he could be targeted simply for existing. The statistics are grim—if I were to go missing like the 64,000 other Black women in this nation, would anyone even care to search?
I feel disposable and hated. The deaths of Black individuals are often justified, and accountability is a foreign concept. Speaking out about oppression often leads to accusations of self-victimization. Our murders are captured on film, yet the perpetrators walk free. I’ve never known what it feels like to let my guard down, as doing so could cost me my life.
There is no corner of the world untouched by white supremacy. The playing field is far from level. I love my skin and my identity as a woman, but choosing not to hate myself is seen as radical. I’ve faced accusations of racism for merely defending myself. Major protests often focus on the struggles of cis Black men, with women’s issues sidelined.
The fight is relentless; every day feels like a battle. My anger often goes unacknowledged, and my pain is dismissed. The awareness of this injustice infiltrates my life, and it seems that change is never coming. Children are taught that racial issues have been resolved, while the reality is that someone will assert their supremacy over me today and again tomorrow.
I want more. I deserve better.
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Summary
This article articulates the myriad experiences that contribute to the identity of an angry Black woman. From childhood encounters with racism to the harsh realities of adulthood, the narrative explores the pain and anger that stem from systemic oppression. It highlights the struggles faced daily, the lack of accountability in society, and the longing for better treatment and acknowledgment.