From the moment I stepped into kindergarten, I encountered the harsh realities of societal perceptions. At just five years old, a classmate informed me that I couldn’t play the role of a princess because, in their view, black girls were excluded from such fantasies. By third grade, I faced the bewilderment of a teacher who seemed surprised by my articulate speech. In fourth grade, the sting of rejection hit me when I was told that my crush didn’t find black girls appealing.
Fast forward to sixth grade, when a different crush remarked that I was attractive “for a black girl.” Seventh grade brought the unwelcome label of “Spring Ghettos” for my predominantly black neighborhood, a derogatory term that disregarded its true name, Spring Meadows. By eighth grade, I was called an Oreo and told that I “wasn’t really black,” as if that was something to celebrate.
In ninth grade, after transferring to a new school, a boy assumed I had mixed heritage because of my looks. Tenth grade was marked by an uncomfortable encounter when my friends and I were questioned about whether we were a gang or if we had stable father figures. My eleventh-grade AP English teacher doubted my writing ability, despite my perfect score on the exam.
During a summer volunteering in Costa Rica, I faced objectification when a stranger called me “Negrita.” When I sought clarity on whether this term was akin to “nigger,” I was told it was a compliment due to stereotypes about black women’s desirability. But I was just a kid.
I witnessed my brother being denied entry to a football game by the school resource officer, who mistakenly identified him as a banned individual. The officer resorted to using mace when my brother insisted on his innocence. I was suspended for asserting that the officer didn’t deserve my respect. My senior year boyfriend casually used the racial slur “nigger.”
Navigating college, I was one of only two black girls in my freshman class. In discussions about attracting more black students, someone suggested that black individuals might not be interested in the college’s eco-friendly demographic. My college boyfriend referred to me as a “fiery negress” for laughs while placing an order at a restaurant, and another boyfriend ended things when I pointed out his privilege. When I return to my hometown, I’m often pulled over by law enforcement.
When I got married, people jumped to conclusions about a possible pregnancy. Friends referred to my husband as my “baby daddy.” My pregnancy was overshadowed by the distressing videos of black lives being taken unjustly, and their perpetrators still roam free.
The message was clear: my son’s life was undervalued. The murder of Tamir Rice devastated me; curled on my bed, I sobbed, aware that my unborn child felt my sorrow. Society’s indifference toward our lives is palpable.
At seven months pregnant, my neighbor asked for help moving a dresser, reinforcing the notion that I am not seen as a woman deserving of vulnerability. The nurse who admitted me to the hospital would not meet my husband’s gaze; this lack of acknowledgment is a recurring theme in our lives. When I held my son, dark-skinned like his father, I felt the looming challenges he would face, mirroring my own experiences.
He will confront the same prejudices I faced, forced to grow up too quickly. Strangers at shops feel entitled to touch him without my consent. Boundaries are disregarded, as if our existence is for their pleasure. My nephew once lamented that he couldn’t be Spider-Man because he was black, expressing a wish to be white for the adventures depicted on television—a sentiment I couldn’t shield him from. My inability to protect him or myself is a heavy burden.
Seeing a police car sends shivers down my spine. I fear for my husband when he leaves home at night, worried he could be mistaken for someone else. I often wonder if I would be missed as much as the 64,000 other black women who have gone missing in this nation, feeling disposable and unwanted. We continue to die, our deaths justified by a society that refuses accountability.
My experiences are dismissed as self-victimization when I speak out. Our tragedies are recorded yet often excused. I do not know the luxury of unwinding; simple actions that my white peers engage in without fear—trespassing, casual drug use, or even just existing—can be life-threatening for me. Anxiety and trauma are constant companions.
White supremacy’s reach is pervasive, and I feel trapped within its confines. The playing field is far from level. I cherish my identity as a black woman, yet embracing self-love is seen as radical. I’ve been accused of racism for simply defending myself, and the major protests predominantly highlight the struggles of cisgender black men while women’s stories are frequently overshadowed.
I find no respite from the fight; everything feels like a battle. My anger is often invalidated, and my pain goes unnoticed. There is a pervasive lack of belief in my experiences, while others absolve themselves without atonement. I am not free, and the awareness of my situation permeates every aspect of my life. The cycle of injustice shows no signs of ending, with reminders that supremacy will assert itself again today, and tomorrow.
I yearn for more and believe I deserve better.
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Summary
The experiences of being an angry black woman are rooted in a lifetime of microaggressions, societal stereotypes, and systemic injustice. From childhood to adulthood, these encounters shape perspectives on identity, safety, and motherhood, revealing a painful reality that many face daily. The narrative emphasizes the importance of self-love and resilience amid pervasive discrimination.
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