Confessions Of An Angry Black Woman

Growing up, they tell young black girls to never be angry.

It won’t be mistaken for being passionate or enthusiastic, it’ll be mistaken for being a bitch.

They tell us to be heard, but not speak too loudly.

They tell us to be smart, but not overpowering.

They tell us to love, but not love too hard or we will be seen as soft.

So, as I sit here, Peach Hennessy in hand.

I am here to tell you, that tonight I am angry.

And maybe this phase has been built up for a little bit.

This phase of feeling taken for granted, abandoned, left, and taught to fit the mold of whatever society, my mama, and my ex-lovers wanted me to be. … It caught up with me.

The very essence of my lips is overpowered with the tongue's of other people talking.

People telling me that being an angry black woman is all I know how to be.

People telling me that bitter isn’t a good look on a girl that’s so “pretty”.

The sway of my hips excites “Shelly” in the nightclubs.

“How do you move like that, so easily, so effortlessly?” She asks.

I laugh.

But the fierceness of my curls is too much for “Timothy” at the top floor of an office suite.

I can do my job.

But only if my lips aren’t too full, breasts aren’t too supple, hips aren’t too “childbearing”, hair isn’t too wild… attitude isn’t so … “angry.”

But I’m sick of it.

Give the same man all your love for years, hold them down through nights of tears, carry their weight of the world on your shoulders, while the solar system lies on your back.

And a few months later, they’ll replace you because “your love was too much to unpack.”

They tell you, your love is too much to handle.

So they leave you questioning your worth, with the excuse that they need to “find themselves.”

Nigga, please.

And you wonder why I’m angry?

And you wonder why I sit in my bedroom reading Milk & Honey, reminding myself that I am the shit?

Reminding myself that my breasts feed the earth, my curves shake the ground, my hair intimidates lions.

You wonder why I’m angry?

Because as I walk down the street when I don’t smile with my pearly white teeth, all of a sudden I’m mad?

You wonder why I’m angry?

Because you shatter the very foundation my confidence is built upon, and then expect me to build you up using nothing but my bare hands?

You wonder why I’m angry?

Because the lips, hips, ass, and tits you crave on a Kardashian, is to ghetto on the body God put me in?

Hmmm. Sheesh.

Shall I go on with the confessions?

Your nude shoes only match the palms of my hands. You think my chocolate skin matches the color of white sand?

The men I give birth to, curse me on twitter like wind rips through trees during hurricanes.

AND YOU WONDER WHY I AM ANGRY?

Well, you shouldn't.

Havoc & Love, D