From the earliest days of my childhood, I have faced a barrage of microaggressions and blatant racism that have shaped my experience as a Black woman. At just five years old, a classmate in kindergarten informed me that I couldn’t be a princess in our game because, in their eyes, Black girls didn’t fit that narrative. Fast forward to third grade, where I was met with surprise from a teacher who remarked on my articulate speech, as if it were an anomaly. In fourth grade, I learned that my crush did not find Black girls attractive. By sixth grade, another crush offered me a backhanded compliment, saying I was pretty—“for a Black girl.”
As a seventh grader, my predominantly Black suburban neighborhood had been mockingly labeled “Spring Ghettos,” a name that disregarded our community’s true identity. In eighth grade, I was called an Oreo and told I “wasn’t really Black,” as if that could be taken as a compliment. High school brought more challenges: when I switched schools in ninth grade, a boy suggested I must be mixed race to be considered attractive. In tenth grade, my friends and I were questioned by school officials about whether we were part of a gang.
These experiences continued throughout my education, including a moment in my 11th-grade AP English class when a teacher doubted my potential, despite later excelling on the exam. I volunteered in Costa Rica during one summer and faced derogatory comments about my race, with a local equating a racial slur to a compliment.
As I grew older, the incidents didn’t cease. I witnessed my brother being unfairly treated by a school resource officer, which left me suspended for standing up for him. My senior year boyfriend’s casual use of the N-word left me appalled. In college, I was one of only two Black girls in my freshman class, and discussions about attracting more Black students were often riddled with stereotypes about our interests.
When I got married, people assumed I was pregnant; those who knew I was married referred to my husband as my “baby daddy.” Throughout my pregnancy, the violence against Black lives weighed heavily on me. The message was clear: my son’s life was undervalued. The pain of knowing my child would face societal prejudice like I did is a burden I carry.
As a Black woman, I often feel I must abandon my vulnerability. I recall the hospital staff treating me with indifference and realizing that my child would face similar challenges. My experiences are compounded by the pervasive fear of police encounters, and the reality that, as a Black woman, I may never be seen as fully human.
I have watched my nephew express a desire to be white to fit into a society that values whiteness over Blackness. The trauma of systemic oppression permeates our lives, and it feels as if we are fighting an uphill battle. My anger stems from the lack of recognition of my struggles, from the dismissive attitudes toward the pain we endure, and the ongoing violence against our communities.
This pervasive injustice does not allow for respite; instead, it demands constant vigilance and resilience. My identity as an Angry Black Woman is not just a personal sentiment—it’s a collective outcry for justice and recognition. I deserve better, and so does every Black person who faces this reality daily.
Further Reading
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Summary
This article highlights the lived experiences of a Black woman navigating systemic racism and microaggressions throughout her life. From childhood through adulthood, these experiences contribute to her identity as an “Angry Black Woman,” a term that encapsulates her struggle for recognition and justice in a society that often marginalizes her existence.