Over the weekend, a friend of mine sent me an article titled, “Why I’m Absolutely an Angry Black Woman.” Now, I’m sure you’re reading this and thinking to yourself, “Ugh, not another one,” (or maybe you’re saying, “Yes,” deep down inside), but this is important, so hear me out. I’ve been meaning to write an article like this for a while, but the words never came to me. I’ve been holding a lot of things in my mind and heart lately (as at lot of us usually do) and feel that my friend's article has finally helped me express my feelings. I won’t spend time blabbing in this intro because the article itself is long enough, but this is a little bit of a personal post inspired by the article I read. This is my truth and this is my experience, sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but lean into it. It's unedited and completely honest, so excuse any errors. Feel free to check out the actual article here.

"I'm absolutely an angry black woman because..."

Because I’ve always been told to love my skin by some, but told to hate it by others. Because when I was just a little girl, I saw my father get stopped the by cops while pushing me in a stroller down the street from our house. Because I remember being the only little girl in my skin at my preschool and in my town. Because I remember in elementary school, my teacher singled me and the rest of the “colored” kids out in class on multiple occasions. Because I’ve been told I’m not “actually black.” Because I’ve always just taken it with a grain of salt and ignored it the best I could. Because in fifth grade my teacher gave me a harder time than the rest of my classmates to the point where my parents felt the need to have a personal conversation with her. Because I could feel negative vibes coming from that same teacher until the day I left for middle school. Because I remember arriving to my middle school for the first time and seeing only six others who looked like me. Because I studied hard and pushed my grades, but felt a sense of emptiness deep inside me. Because I knew something was missing. Because I’m still angry at the seventh grader who wrote the n-word on the school’s dance floor. Because no one did anything. Because no one asked me how I felt, not even administration. Because we never talked about it and instead swept it under the rug. Because I had to bring up incidents only to be told that “disciplinary measures would be taken” though they never were.

Because I was speechless when my classmate asked me if black people were even on TV during a class presentation of my '50s commercial project. Because I was always the only, or one of two black kids in all of my classes. Because I almost cried tears of joy when I took cultural diversity and saw others of my kind and our fellow people of color all in one room for the first time. Because I cried so many other times in that class when I expressed my frustration from my experiences in the world and at that school. Because people always used to touch my hair without permission. Because they would call my friend’s sister locks “worms.” Because I was one of four black girls who wore their hair natural. Because I wanted more representation of my color amongst teachers. Because I got tired of explaining all things black to my peers, though they meant well. Because I never felt beautiful. Because the word “negro” was written in an assignment in my biology class and the professor didn’t think to change it or give us a heads up. Because my friend walked out of the classroom that day and I didn’t follow her. Because I learned everything about Marx and Frankenstein, but never anything about the Black Panthers or Native American history. Because the other black boys wanted nothing to do with us, or they were afraid to be associated with us, I still don’t know. Because I was always the only black person on all of my volleyball teams except for two. Because the one truly black teacher gave me a vibe that I wasn’t “black enough” for her to “look out for me.” Because I was never seen as attractive by the boys at that school.

Because I did the work, attended the conferences, joined the diversity clubs, and it still wasn’t enough. Because White people still think it’s OK to use the n-word around me and use it to greet me sometimes. Because the first day of college I was called “pretty for a black girl” by a Black male. Because I was so happy when I was around more than six black students for the first time. Because I was heartbroken when I had to leave. Because my old coach once told me I looked like Trayvon Martin when I had a hoodie on. Because my high school yearbook has my name mixed up with the two other black girls in my grade, though my class was only 129 students that attended school together since middle school. Because I’m a magnet for ignorance. Because I’m angry with my parents.

Because, though I love my college, I still struggle every day to navigate life in the skin I’m in. Because people still touch my hair without asking first. Because I think about the kind of man I want to marry and to what degree my future children will carry this unwanted burden. Because it breaks my heart. Because I don’t know how my parents did and still do this. Because sometimes I sit in my room and think about the news, the constant deaths of my people and cry. Because I’m tired. Because this is a burden I didn’t ask to carry, but proudly do. Because I don’t know when enough is enough. Because I don’t know who to talk to. Because I can’t stop. Because I need change. Because I’m glad I’m in the skin I’m in. Because it’s unique. Because it’s strong. Because I’m sun-kissed, chocolate and honey-dipped, strong, athletic and resilient. Because my people are truly “lit” by the sun and everything that makes us U.S. Because I know this is only making me stronger. Because I’m dope. Because my culture influences ignorance, but also admiration. Because this love that I have for the skin I’m in comes at a price. Because I can do this. Because I want to. Because I have to be for my brother. Because I have to be for little girls like me. Because I have to be for me.