I AM THAT ANGRY BLACK WOMAN

 

I AM THAT ANGRY BLACK WOMAN

I could fill up this page with raw rage of my anger issues. I am a walking red flag at this moment, as I lay out my frustrations out in the open. I do not need your pity nor your solace. Instead, toss me a pen and paper, step aside, and allow me jot down my fury. I am no longer dimming my light for society to step on my head, and take over my shine. Even though the odds are always stuck against me, I will fight to rise and be who I was meant to be. Although I cannot seem to win even for loosing, I must fake win or die trying.

Nonetheless, most people want to know where my anger stems from. There is a glass ceiling around my energy field, which has made it hard for me to breakthrough over to the other side of victory. I guess society has an invisible blockade around me that is an obstacle I have tried to overcome, ever since the day I became conscious of this racial matrix. Moreover, society has equally given me a code black identity. Nothing comes easy for an empowered black woman like me, unless I sell my soul to society's blood-thirsty ways, embrace a mediocre lifestyle, and bend over backwards in submission to his masochistic whims, chauvinistic ploys, and sexist traditions.

Society does not appreciate my kinky hair or my brazen skin. Actually, it is more of a silent disdain of my God-given beauty. He insists that I embrace his cookie-cutter standards of beauty, or else, he will label me a threat and a meanace to society. Hence, I should burn or perm my hair, as well as bleach my skin to make it fair and less black. Additionally, the synthetic weaves are much more appealing than the locks on my head.

Therefore, I should reject God's perfection, and instead embrace societal's imperfections, is what he thinks is best for me. If it was not for my outright rebellion against your racial intolerance, you would have me standing against the wall, awaiting for your instructions on how to live my life.

Society has turned my kind against me, such that even the sons of my mother find me appalling. What's more, they project their hate towards me and my fellow sistren, causing division among us. As a result, my brothers prefer to be community husbands rather than family men, chasing everything in skirt, sowing their wild oats, and fathering a generation of bastard children, who will repeat this demonic cycle well into their future.

Furthermore, my brethren do not care anymore about my worth as an African woman. Afterall, what does it matter if I have beauty and brains, just as long as I can sire children, while being forced into a cyclic polygamous entanglement of struggle love? At this moment in time, my nine lives have been reduced to three, with all the social injustices I have had to endure my entire life.

As it is now, my brothers much prefer to be with Becky and Karen, than to be with me. According to them, interracial love trumps black love anyday. Thus, as soon as they get an attack of the jungle fever, they loose their sense of pride,   disassociate from their kind, and run to the opposite direction in search for true love. Most of my brothers believe that I am too black for a happily ever after, while others accuse me of being too loud and very emasculating with that strong independent woman nonsense.

Nonetheless, Becky is the one considered not only as a safe financial investment but also as a huge ego boost, while a Karen is viewed as a peace-loving retirement package. In short, I am the one he struggles with but Becky is the one he glories with! Still, society will not rest with heaping his burdens on me. He wants to dictate my every move.

I cannot speak my mind, incase he risks loosing his harsh grip over me. My vast knowledge stands as a threat to his manhood. My budding career is a hit to his ego. My wealth and power weakens his voice against me. My bright future is detrimental to his. I will not accept the bottom-pot lifestyle that society has planned for me. I will not stay in the dark, and watch my life pass me by. Instead, I will wait patiently for my ships to come in and if they delay, then I will go after them.

Whenever I harshly protest about the discrimination, society takes the moral highway, and throws the bible in my face to remind me that God does not like ugly. But when my voice gets louder, he gets even more sanctimonious, asking me “What would Jesus do?” Why would you bring Jesus into this conversation, when you clearly do not respect His word? The Bible is gibberish to you, and does not serve your racial agenda.

Maybe I should join another religion. Perhaps, it would not be so judgmental of me. Yet, I doubt if religion is strong enough to relieve me of my anger. At this point, I look to God, my compassionate Father and the only masculine figure capable of loving me unconditionally, breathing hope and life within me, and eventually causing my anger to subside. Afterall, what is your hate, when I have the favour of God upon my life?