There’s a long history behind my anger, beginning in childhood. When I was just five years old, a classmate dismissed me as unworthy of being a princess in our game—because black girls simply don’t fit that mold. In third grade, I shocked a teacher with my articulate speech, as if it were unexpected for someone like me. By fourth grade, I faced the harsh reality that my crush didn’t find black girls appealing.
In sixth grade, a different crush offered a backhanded compliment, telling me I was pretty “for a black girl.” As a seventh grader, I lived in a predominantly black neighborhood, but it was derogatorily nicknamed “Spring Ghettos.” By eighth grade, I learned what it felt like to be called an Oreo, implying I wasn’t “really black” as if that were a compliment.
Transitioning to high school, I faced more challenges. When I switched schools, a peer suggested I must have mixed ancestry to be attractive. In tenth grade, my friends and I were questioned about gang affiliation simply because we were black. My AP English teacher once told me my writing didn’t reflect the qualities of a college-bound student, even though I later aced the exam.
While volunteering in Costa Rica, I was subjected to whispers and the term “Negrita.” When I inquired if that term was similar to a racial slur, my host father assured me it was a compliment, based on the stereotype of black women’s desirability.
My experiences didn’t stop there. I watched helplessly as my brother was denied entry to a football game by a school resource officer who mistook him for someone else. This officer even resorted to using mace when my brother insisted he was the wrong person. I was suspended for standing up to that same officer, and I endured the painful reality of racial slurs from my senior year boyfriend.
In college, I was one of only two black girls in my freshman class. During discussions about attracting more black students, someone suggested that perhaps black people simply weren’t interested in sustainable living or farming. I faced ridiculous comments from my college boyfriend, who jokingly called me a “fiery negress,” and another partner who cut ties with me for pointing out his privilege.
Returning to my hometown often feels like a perilous venture, where I’m more likely to be pulled over by police. Upon marrying, I faced the stereotype that I must be pregnant, with acquaintances referring to my husband casually as my “baby daddy.”
Throughout my pregnancy, I was constantly reminded of the violence against black lives, and the fear that accompanied the birth of my son weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t shake the notion that society signaled my child’s life didn’t hold value. The tragic murder of Tamir Rice left me sobbing in bed, my unborn child feeling my anguish.
As a mother, I find myself constantly vigilant. I’ve been treated as less than human, with strangers feeling entitled to invade my personal space, such as reaching into my son’s stroller without asking. My nephew once expressed his desire to be Spider-Man, lamenting that the character is white. At just four years old, he wished to be white himself, seeing it as a pathway to opportunities he felt were denied to him.
Every encounter with law enforcement stirs anxiety within me. I fear for my husband’s safety when he leaves home, worried that he may become a victim of racial profiling. I often wonder if I would be missed if I went missing, like so many other black women who have disappeared.
It feels as though I am viewed as disposable. My anger is often dismissed, and my pain invalidated. Many claim that speaking about my experiences paints me as a victim, despite the reality of our oppression being captured on video yet met with indifference.
Living in a world touched by white supremacy, I find it hard to relax. The pressure to conform and the fear of the repercussions for simply existing weigh heavily on me. I carry the burden of fighting against injustices without respite; my anger is felt in every struggle.
I love who I am and embrace my identity as a black woman. Yet, standing firm in my self-love is often seen as radical. I recognize that the fight for justice often centers around cis black men, and discussions about the experiences of black women can be sidelined.
The struggle is relentless, and I refuse to be silenced. I deserve better. For more insight into fertility journeys and the importance of having access to resources, check out articles on home insemination kits and IUI success rates. Learn about innovative options like the Cryobaby at-home insemination kit to empower your journey.
In summary, my anger stems from a lifetime of experiences that reflect systemic racism and societal neglect. I advocate for recognition, understanding, and change, not just for myself, but for future generations.
Keyphrase: “angry black woman”
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