I don’t like being angry. To me, it feels unnatural. Something at odds with my personality.
I’m mostly extroverted, friendly, fun-loving, and kind. I don’t enjoy situations that cause stress. But I’m also opinionated, confident, and stubborn. If I believe I’m right about an issue, the least I can do is talk about it. Make other people notice there is something wrong that needs to be addressed. And this makes avoiding stress and anger difficult.
However, there is another, a more fundamental reason I don’t like being angry. Because I often find I’m not allowed to express it. I’m not talking about laws, but rather the threat of negative consequences.
Recently, my dad told me to shut up. We were in a cab, and the driver had pissed me off. He was commenting on the poor driving skills of a—gasp!—female student driver passing us by in her car. The cab driver said that women, as intelligent as they might be, made for horrible drivers. Yes, all women, according to him. You can bet I was angry.
Later, I told my dad off for warning me not to express my opinion. His defense, while infuriating, was realistic. He said we didn’t know that cab driver, and he could be a psycho.
While my dad wasn’t telling me to keep quiet because I am a woman, I was furious because this is not the first time I’ve had to, or been told to, not act or talk back in anger.
I was furious because this is not the first time I’ve had to, or been told to, not act or talk back in anger.
Growing up, I learned the value of diplomacy. If I got mad at my dad, I would share with my mom. If I got mad at my mom, I’d share with my dad. More often than not, what angered me also angered them about each other. So I had a shoulder to cry on and an ear to complain to.
Naturally, there were also times when I got mad at both of them, or they were both cross with me. Then my diary would come in handy. Because, let’s face it, you couldn’t yell at your parents for as long and as much as you wanted without consequences. No matter how right you thought you were, they controlled your social life, curfew, and allowance. They had the means and authority to make your life hell if they so chose. I carried these home-taught lessons of diplomacy to school with me.
I mentioned not being shy. However, I’m very rational. I weigh not only the pros and cons of my actions, but also potential consequences, negative and positive. That’s why I only argued with my teachers enough to make my opinion heard, but not to the extent that would warrant a visit to the principal’s office. I chose to rebel slightly with my uniform by making my skirt shorter or wearing shirts in colors not listed in the dress code. I talked in class when I could get away with it. I didn’t study only when I knew mediocre grades wouldn’t affect my future.
I only argued with my teachers enough to make my opinion heard, but not to the extent that would warrant a visit to the principal’s office.
Yet, there was always a sense of uneasiness. After all, I couldn’t be fully myself without getting in trouble. My rebellions were safe. For instance, if my dad thought a skirt was too short, I’d wear it behind his back. I was thinking that once high school was over, I wouldn’t need to exercise so much diplomacy and self-control when it came to anger. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
College more or less operated on the same principles. Forget full-blown arguments: you couldn’t openly disagree with your teacher without ending up with a worse grade.
While I am aware this kind of struggle is not necessarily gender-related, it only adds up. Boys in school, for instance, didn’t have to deal with teachers (or parents) telling them their skirts were too short. Ironically, most of us wore them short because the school had granted its teachers the authority to comment on it. Had they been less involved with the length of our uniform, or how we did our hair, we wouldn’t have acted out so much. After all, a choice taken away from you, no matter how trivial, is one more thing outside of your control over your own life.
All that pent-up frustration accumulates through the years. “That lipstick is too dark.” According to what? “Those pants are too tight.” Why does the width of my pants matter to anyone but me? But society loves putting its nose where it doesn’t belong.
All that pent-up frustration accumulates through the years. “That lipstick is too dark.” According to what? … Society loves putting its nose where it doesn’t belong.
Since I’m a woman, I have to stay calm not to escalate things. I have to keep calm so I don’t anger a potential assaulter. I have to remain calm rejecting men or dealing with strangers. Just in case.
Growing up, I used to think that life in the U.S. would be easier. I naively based this perception on the movies I saw, which weren’t exactly unnerving true stories. They were romantic comedies and fun action films. To me, the U.S. represented more individual freedom and more options. A country where I’d feel more at home being myself. Moreover, I wanted to work as a screenwriter, and Hollywood was my dream destination.
Since I’m a woman, I have to stay calm not to escalate things. I have to keep calm so I don’t anger a potential assaulter.
Don’t get me wrong, I still want to live in the States. My screenwriting dreams persist. I’m just more informed than I used to be. More political. And I’m scared free speech is not as valued and sacred there as I was led to believe it was.
I often envy my American friends—men and women alike. They get to be critical of the government on their social media. My writer colleagues pen emotional and honest opinion pieces. But when it comes to pitching my own stories about the United States, I am scared. I have deleted several story pitches before they found their way into editor inboxes. Because what if they like it, the story gets published, and it is used as a way to reject a visa or other more permanent applications to live in the country?
If you are wondering why I’m trying to come to a country I no longer believe to be perfect, it is because I’m in my thirties. I am painfully aware that no country is. And I love many things about the U.S., the entertainment industry topping that list.
Of course, I’m angry about the state of the entertainment industry too. I’m angry Harvey Weinstein got away with all his crimes for as long as he did. And he is not exactly suffering for it either. I’m angry Louis C. K. got a comeback so soon after what he did, and it was deemed no biggie by many of his fans and friends.
I’m angry about the latest Supreme Court Justice… Even without the accusations against him, how he handled the entire ordeal should have been a gigantic warning sign. It wasn’t.
I’m angry about the latest Supreme Court Justice. I’m angry people thought it was okay to give a guy with his temperament, and his obvious Republican partisanship, a permanent seat with such power. Even without the accusations against him, how he handled the entire ordeal should have been a gigantic warning sign. It wasn’t.
I’m angry writing this might prevent me from getting into the country, since many Republicans see immigrants as a nuisance at best and criminals at worst, unless we are from Northern Europe. I’m angry on behalf of my women friends living in the U.S. because the current two-party system puts their bodily autonomy up for debate. I’m angry that a writer wanting to help other women by making a list of potentially dangerous men in media gets sued for it.
So what can I do about this anger? I can no longer keep it in check. Instead, I can write about it. I can, and I will, talk about it.
So what can I do about this anger? I can no longer keep it in check. Instead, I can write about it. I can, and I will, talk about it. I can share stories with others who are afraid but expressing themselves anyway. Maybe slowly, we will all be less afraid of our own anger. And when we stand our ground, the consequences won’t be negative. We will finally see permanent, positive change.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
“can’t waste a day when the night brings a hearse.” – rage against the machine
you know, i have been realizing as the days pile on that I like
rage
not the band– well, yes, the band –but also
anger
i’ve always thought that anger was veryproductive.like a fireit gets rid of somethingdestroys itmakes it into smoke,but gas is a state ofmatterafter all.
smoke:i wish i was that lighti wish i was that: light.i ain’t all the time most the timebut i am realizingthat anger is
mama mama i’m angry!and a child breaks into weeping.
baby i’m angry! – and one seeshow elastic love is: how far it canstretch.
god i’m angry!and you walk away from the altar– but you’ll be back.
mr. president i am angry!and the people take the damn streetstake the streets take the streetsdon’t you see? this is light.this is anger.anger.
so we rollin’ down rodeoand they say anger management.i saymanage your anger – don’tcuckoo’s-nest-clockwork-institute-happy-little-pill – manageto make it something:
to speak angrily but truthfullyto live vehementlyto choose carefullyto love largely
so we can manage.
i have been realizingas the days pile onthat i like anger
that it is the pyre upon whichall the hate of the world will burn.
so manage your angerbuild yourself a fireengulf this damn city – engulf the damncontinent – let it burn make it burnun incendio gigante.
i like angerso at night i am on my bicycle – blastingrage and lighting matches –rolling down rodeoto a quiet and peacefuldeath.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
There is no handheld happiness because existence triggers trauma. The pupil peels plastic papers from wilted water-bottles; the retina rummages through sixty shades of sepia and sorrow, trusting translucent temptation. Options oscillate between burden, beauty, burden. They never make much sense to those who like to misplace gunshots and cumshots in your cornea. A teal-shaped tear follows the Summer Azures north; it exists only to evaporate by the last lavender mourning. Winter’s cold — sweat carves out a capacious canyon in the body, erosion manifests its destiny. One five-liter box of expired Franzia sears sobriety into your sclera. The twinkle of twilight traffic unclogs the air and cascades of cold, in the midst of shower mist, begin to heat and heal. Devoutly, the atmosphere devours the depths of your demons. 阿威啊, unbeknownst to your uterus for another thirteen therapists and billions of Brokelyn brownstones, the brittle boy with hardened hands will hold you until your eye understands: My scars are proof of my will to live.
(level eye) | (eye level)
live to will my of proof are scar my understands eye your until you hold will hands hardened with boy brittle the brownstones Brokelyn of billions and therapists thirteen another for uterus your to unbeknownst 阿威啊 demons your of depths the devours atmosphere the devoutly heal and heat to begin mist shower of midst the in cold of cascades and air the unclogs traffic twilight of twinkle the sclera your into sobriety sears Franzia expired of box five-liter one destiny its manifests erosion body the in canyon capacious a out carves sweat — cold Winter’s mourning lavender last the by evaporate to only exists it north Azures Summer the follows tear teal-shaped a cornea your in cumshots and gunshots misplace to like who those to sense much make never they burden beauty burden between oscillate options temptation translucent trusting sorrow and sepia of shades sixty through rummages retina the water-bottles wilted from papers plastic peels pupil the trauma triggers existence because happiness handheld no is there
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
In an average lifespan a person invests a year looking for the things they’ve forgotten.
9 august 2017
Those who have laboured, night and day, Monday to Friday, on their unhappiness are right to lick their chops over it as much as they do.
11 august 2017
In the contorted bookkeeping of the broken, the distance you hold yourself away from them is your only value.
12 august 2017
TFW YOU WANT TO FUCK WITH THEM FROM NOW UP INTO FOREVER, but all signs and wonders, Urim and Thummim, emails and texts, no email no texts, using the good-got-damn-sense your mother gave you not the repeating the mistakes your father braided, tell you to keep things cute and quick. ¡Presta atencíon!
No exit interview no two weeks notice.
Numbers 31:19
Anyone who has killed any person or touched the slain must stay outside the camp seven days. Clean yourself and your captives.
did you clean yourself
you who has touched
who has violated my pen
has salted my tongue
drugged my drink
slain with the blade
of lack of empathy
a ladder like love leans
outside of time
goes up and down
through the same insistence
Easier to be angry than afraid, easier to brace guilt rather than test sick with intimate.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
I am a Black woman from a mixed-heritage background who has spent most of my life within an educational system, from nursery school to my current role as a postdoctoral researcher in the field of Respiratory Immunology.
My education and career have taken place across three countries and two continents. During this time, I have evolved into a critical thinker, independent researcher, teacher, peer mentor, and collaborator. I have had the privilege of seeing many students who were nervous first-years, when I was their laboratory demonstrator, themselves grow into independent researchers who now have postgraduate degrees. It has been a blessing to be able to present my work in conferences, peer-reviewed articles, essays, research group meetings, and informally. Over the past few months it has also been startling to discover a deep interest in remaining in academia, provided I can secure the necessary funding to carry out research that doubles up as a passion project. My years in the academy have equipped me with knowledge and skills that are transferrable in many sectors. From my perspective the future looks bright, and my dedication is paying off.
This testimony of mine is the cherry-picked truth. It is the stripped-back version of the journey that has made me the academic I am today: fully aware of my privileges, grateful for my experiences, unwilling to close my eyes to the problems within academia, and unapologetic about using routes of the least palatability to tackle these problems.
[I am] unapologetic about using routes of the least palatability to tackle these problems.
Most academics of colour I have encountered have similar stories to mine. However, depending on the generation they are part of and other factors, their outspokenness differs. Certain themes among all our experiences are overlapping and recurrent regardless of the country we currently work in, academic system, and age.
Many of us have first-hand experiences of misogynoir (racialised sexism), racism (from the subtle to the outright), tone policing, elitism, and classism—all within academia, a global body that is meant to further the development of mankind. Indeed, many of these encounters I and others have had, whether online or in person, have been with people who have also had the privilege of education and the added responsibility from exposure to know and do better. Students, researchers, and professors! The young and the old.
During my undergraduate career, trying to stay functional while suffering silently for years with debilitating anxiety meant that I was constantly shying away from any extra emotional work. Unfortunately, this also meant that issues of justice and equity were things that I did not feel bold enough to speak about all the time. Being within a system designed to make People of Colour feel like second-class citizens in itself is already hard.
I was constantly shying away from any extra emotional work. Unfortunately, this also meant that issues of justice and equity were things that I did not feel bold enough to speak about all the time.
It took me years of honest self-reflection to admit my own complicity, then throw off the shroud of palatability I had worn for years. I own my past mistakes and can readily admit that well-being has been a major confounding factor in my ability to challenge injustice. It is now my commitment to fully inhabit the responsibility of promoting equity within any academic system I find myself in.
However, over the years, there has also been an anger that I live with. Some of it is directed at my past self, but most of it is directed at the system that seeks to uphold injustice or at the very least wilfully ignore it.
Ijeoma Oluo recently asked a pertinent question: “What are we going to do with our rage?” I have asked myself this same question time and again over the years, with many different words, particularly: “How do I stop being afraid of my anger and harness that powerful energy and drive into something useful?” Immediately, I always remember Joyce Meyer’s advice for when your fears try to stop you from doing anything: just “Do it afraid!” There will never be a perfect time or a perfect plan or implementation strategy. So once I was able to identify what I wanted to achieve, I made an action plan that wasn’t too stringent but if done properly could hopefully have a positive impact within my academic community—particularly on Black people and People of Colour, and other women who don’t fall into these identification groups.
Ijeoma Oluo recently asked a pertinent question: “What are we going to do with our rage?” I have asked myself this same question time and again over the years.
There are different levels in academia which I aim for.
The first is my immediate surroundings: from everyday conversations about equality, equity, diversity, and inclusion, to being open and honest about my mental illness, appropriately signposting colleagues who come to me with a range of confidential issues (and being vocal about being accessible as a point of help), planning and organising workshops that seek to explain the benefit of inclusion in academia, and being respectful and inclusive to all levels of staff I work with.
Students I work with: reminding students that as paying customers in Higher Education Institutions (HEIs), they have the right to just treatment, vocalising that they deserve my respect as much as I deserve theirs, encouraging them to question the system and question me—not just take my word as the final say—telling them there is absolutely nothing wrong with being an “average” student—because society wrongfully conflates intelligence with competence—and still encouraging them to do their best and reach out for help when needed. In spaces with Black students discussing issues that affect them specifically, I am always open about my experiences and remind them they have every right to an equal say in academia.
Black colleagues: a major part of the remit of my activism in academia involves amplifying voices and standing beside those who have something to say and need encouragement. This has been a beneficial two-way street, as in the process I have found Black women academics who have supported, encouraged, and rooted for me, as well as given me career opportunities that otherwise I would not have come across on my own.
A major part of the remit of my activism in academia involves amplifying voices and standing beside those who have something to say and need encouragement.
The system itself: I proactively sought out equality fora within my surroundings where I could voice concerns, challenge problems, and, arguably most important, suggest reparative action points that should hopefully contribute to top-to-bottom change. I cannot overemphasize the need for more marginalised voices and allies/accomplices to be proactively recruited onto HEI action groups. Even the most well-intentioned systems that lack equal or proportional representation will have certain issues slip through the cracks.
The anger I have still simmers under the surface, and for the time being I am content with this. As long as I have life, I will continue to use my anger as fuel to call out injustices and call on those who are perfectly positioned to dismantle these systemic inequities. Since it is my intention to remain in academia for a while, this is where I will continue my quest.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
ANGER showcases essays and poetry featuring well-aimed anger from femme writers, writers of color, LGBTQIA+ writers, First Nations writers, and disabled writers.
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