Madea

rage becomes her

I’ve always had an interesting relationship with my anger. I don’t know when I first recognized it, but I realized most of it was turned inward at some point. I’ve never been the kind to lash out or get violent. Instead, I absorb the hit, let it stew, and then blow up later.

What’s been clearer lately is that no one knows what to do with my anger. And I don’t think that’s unique. I mean…I’m a Black woman: people are deeply uncomfortable with my rage. They act like I’ve got more of it than they do, or that it’s louder, heavier, or more dangerous. Or sometimes they’d act like I shouldn’t have it at all.

I remember being a teenager and hearing my mom say all the time, “You’re so angry.” She never said it with concern, just as a judgment—an accusation. Later, in my early 20s, she told me, “You’re less angry than you used to be,” like that was supposed to be some progress report.

But was I less angry—or had I just learned how to stuff it down?

Through the years, friends took jabs at me when I reacted strongly, like I was “too much,” like I should be cool with getting abused. People who cared about me downplayed issues, told me not to burn bridges, and always tried to pull me back from saying what I wanted.

I’ve been constantly advised to pick my battles and/or be the bigger person. But why the hell should I do that? What does that get me besides a reputation as the nice girl who can be walked over?

So lately, I'm done listening to advice. I’m not putting my anger away anymore. Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe I just need to get it out before I can move on. But I’m not ignoring it like I used to.

• If someone leaves a bullshit comment on my online content, I respond.

• If someone at work disrespects me, I say so.

• If my father starts gaslighting me, I flare.

And I’ve stopped trying to hide my frustration behind politeness (or politeness’s evil cousin, “professionalism”).

I won’t keep others comfortable while they actively make me uncomfortable without being checked.

I know that in doing this, I sometimes perpetuate a stereotype—one that people already half-expect from me. I can feel them bracing for it. Waiting for me to snap so they can nod and say, “There it is.”

But I refuse to live my life trying to avoid confirming someone else’s racist imagination.

And yet—I still wonder, Should I be like this? Should I tone it down? Should I let things roll off my back? Maybe. Maybe I don’t have to react to everything.

But also—perhaps I do.

Because responding to bullshit in real time for a couple of years barely puts a dent in the decades I spent tolerating it. My parents’ abuse. Hostile workplaces. Fake-ass friends. There has been so much silence.

I’m not trying to be a walking fire alarm. But I am done pretending that I’m not furious. Because I am. And I’m finally learning that’s not a flaw. It’s a decision to start standing up for the person that I am.

—M