Please, Call me Angry

Once upon a time, I was afraid of being an angry black woman because, like everything else black, it wasn’t cool.

And, though black lips and hips and skin have become more a thing than not, I’ve since grown up. I haven’t grown up, in the sense that, now I’m all about what is inherently mine, because cultural appropriation deems it so.

I grew up because I woke up.

And, now I’m afraid of being perceived as not angry enough.

And, if you aren’t calling me angry, then truth be told. . . maybe I’m NOT angry enough. Or, loud enough. Or articulate enough.

And, I could never be angry enough because there are way too many things to be angry about.

And, because there is far too little time for miscommunication. . .

 

Please, somebody, ask me why I’m mad.

Please, somebody, explore where the idea of angry black woman comes from.

Please, somebody, watch the news and think about it from a black man’s perspective.

Please, somebody. Just, please.

Please ask me why I’m mad.

 

I’m mad first and foremost that there is such a stereotype as “angry black man” or “angry black woman.”

I’m mad that I searched angry black woman, just because, and a wikipedia article popped up titled “stereotypes of African Americans.”

I’m mad because they brought us to America as goods and have since deemed that we’re not worthy.

I’m mad because separate but equal, as silly as it was, still exists.

I’m mad because I want to be proud to be an American – but, that’s weird because America has shown time and time again that she’s not proud to have people like me.

I’m mad because there are so many stereotypes about black people floating around the universe – and so many systemic injustices that will them true.

I’m mad because Philadelphia is called the city of colleges and universities, but has a 70% high school graduation rate.

I’m mad because one of the lowest ranked primary schools in the city sits just feet, feet, from one of the best universities in the city.

I’m mad because I help students with their homework, and they can’t find the missing side of a triangle because they can’t properly add/subtract.

I’m mad because I walk through the airport with people giving me the side eye, because I’m one of few.

I’m mad because my white friends sometimes don’t get it. Any of it. And – how can you not?

I’m mad because sometimes they get it — but, it doesn’t impact them and so, life goes on.

I’m mad because writing this article may not  change a single reality.

I’m mad because there are too many of us who are mad – and too few who care enough to notice.

 

Madiba said, it’s a long walk to freedom.  

It feels like the only way to get there is to be angry enough for someone to notice.

I’m mad because until a white man or woman deems an issue worthy – that issue will wilt and die along with the black men, women, and children who had been begging and pleading all along.

I’m mad that we still have to beg and plead for help – food, water, shelter.

Please master, please.

I’m mad that we have to prove ourselves worthy.

 

Please master, please.

Because, I did the best that I could.

So, please master, please.

Call me an angry black woman.

Then, ask me why I’m mad.

 

 

by: Shamira

Read Julia’s response here: https://parlae.org/2016/02/20/a-response-to-please-call-me-angry/

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