When you look at me what do you see? A strong Black woman? A woman with a nice smile? Do I seem approachable? Appear likable?
Or do my oversized-hoop earrings and nose ring reinforce Black stereotypes? Are you scared I’m going to say something to you? Does the normal volume of my voice make you anxious?
Do you see me?
Or do you see an angry Black woman?
That’s a question I’ve had to dive into recently when I took a stand for myself. Earlier this semester, I became emotional after encountering a challenge that could have prevented me from graduating.
Graduating has been a goal for me since 2019. The pandemic detoured my initial finish goal, but by earlier 2021 I was back taking classes, checking off class by class on my General Education and major course lists.
A situation related to my application to graduate came up. It left me raw, emotional, damaged, confused and disappointed. I nearly left campus and vowed to never come back. A year before I would have done that. I would have walked away. I would have given up.
Instead, I chose to do something I had learned in my journalism classes in the past year. I went to ask questions. I pushed myself to advocate for myself.
I ended up in a campus office asking to speak to a counselor to figure out why my education plan didn’t seem to match with the path I needed to be on. I had questions. I wanted answers. In that office, I found judgmental stares.
When a worker was talking to me all I could hear was the sound of the adults on Charlie Brown. So that I didn’t get more upset, I decided to get up, walk out and compose myself.
As I walked out people asked me if I had everything figured out.
They wouldn’t stop asking me questions — and all the while my emotions were building and tears were flowing. I felt as if I was backed into a corner and I couldn’t get out of it. All I wanted was to leave the office. I couldn’t even open the half door that let students in and out.
I was on an emotional roller coaster.
I exploded and started telling the students that were in there to make sure they have everything in order.
Yes, I was cursing. Yes, my voice was louder than usual. But I wasn’t angry. I was hurt.
I didn’t feel listened to. I felt cast off. I felt as if no one wanted to solve my problems. When I asked to be left alone, I was not given the space I needed.
I was distraught. I was crying.
Instead of the moment I was asking for, campus police were called. That felt like betrayal, particularly because these were people who had seen me on better days. The police, to their credit, handled the situation in a way that could have easily gone different.
That situation propelled me on to seek help from higher ups, to end up in a high-level administrator’s office, and to figure out the situation.
I wasn’t angry on that day. I felt no one could help me.
The looks on the faces of those in contact with me showed me the reality of that stressed mental state: I had become an angry Black woman.
That hurt me to my core.
I can’t shake the feeling to this day. Now when I talk to people I am on edge and guarded, constantly aware of how I might be perceived. That bothers me. I don’t want to step into those offices again. The angry Black woman identity is one that doesn’t go away. My smile now masks the emotions. I’m still crying inside.
In today’s society, we work to make sure we don’t label people wrong. Labels are harmful. Labels change perceptions.
As a Black woman, I often get looks when I talk my normal way, which is perceived as loud. I am stereotyped for the way I present myself. I am made to think less of myself to conform to a standard that doesn’t fit me. Society wants me to downplay myself.
So my passion and standing up for myself makes me angry.
Speaking my mind and wanting to be heard makes me angry.
Feeling emotional and being hurt makes me angry.
Even if I am not.
