You shifted in your seat when I walked up to the stage.
Do I make you feel uncomfortable?
Does my accent have too many colors?
Does my face express ugly truths that you’ve been hiding for too long?
Does my tongue tell stories that aren’t good enough for your ears?
Are my pieces too-politically charged?
Does my outfit disappoint your mainstream sense of feminine fashion?
Did you label me yet?
Because I can see you roll your blind eyes like
“here. she. goes. again”
and I don’t know which “she” of me offends you the most
the liberal, the afro-centric, the feminist?
Did you find a category for me, yet?
I think you found three.
Angry. Black. Woman.
You low-key fear running into me.
You fear a discussion with me will get heated
And I’ll become… Angry
Black women have been silenced for years
With throats stuffed with obedience
And dignity sliced with disrespect
I reject being treated like a damn object – so don’t dare put me in a box
But if you must define me,
Then know that as an “angry black woman”
patriarchy has placed me in the bottom of the pyramid
With the other minorities,
crushed under the weight of racist misogyny
So, yes. I am angry.
I am angry
Because colonization has left me nothing from my ancient civilization, but a book that calls it “primitive”
A history of a whole nation, whited-out, and I have the white man to thank
I am angry
Because I can’t straighten my hair without wondering If it is internalized self-hate or if I just want a different style
I am angry
Because I’m too black to be pretty, but black enough to be “exotic”
And I’m sick of women telling me to “clean up” my skin tone,
Yes. my skin is 27 shades of brown, but there is nothing “dirty” about that
I am angry
Because every time I talk about how much I love my stretch marks
Disgust stretch over their eyes, and their smiles shrink into shriveled knitted frowns
Like I’m supposed to be ashamed.
Like 10 years of self-hate weren’t enough suffering for me to go through.
Like loving my own, real, body is a bigger problem than having pop culture to hate everything that makes us look real.
I am angry
Because the strength of my arguments are questioned when someone out there says I don’t “need” to be angry
Like the value of my emotions have to be validated by a third-party before they are deemed viable
I am Angry
I am Black
and I am a Woman
So judge me as you may,
categorize me to other-ize me, if it makes you feel better
But my blackness will haunt you,
my womanhood is my strength
and my anger is here to stay