I’m a black woman. And I’m angry.

I can’t explain it—how I feel. But a piece of it is anger. Going through seven years of higher education at two prestigious universities to sit as a provider, in front of a white patient, and them ask you if your knot-less box braids of sheer perfection ‘are a part of your Halloween costume.’ Or to reflexively use the word ‘multi-factorial’ in a conversation to a white patient in describing the cause of urinary symptoms, only for them to respond on the ‘bigness’ of the word for you to use and ask, ‘where did they teach you that one?’ Or even to hear my white colleagues talk about having housekeepers, dog walkers, and anything else that makes their lives ‘easier.’ Not because I can’t afford to have someone clean my house and make my life ‘easier’ but because it inherently will probably never be. My mere existence is different from theirs.

Me, the practitioner who earned a full-tuition scholarship to the University of Michigan, got married to her high school sweetheart, and then started a family, can stand next to my white practitioner colleague who has a story of teenage pregnancy and being on ‘the system.’ And I won’t even comment on day to day work ethic. But if you asked all of our white patients combined which story belonged to whom, they would instinctively give mine to her and hers to me. Sometimes, some days, it makes me angry.

And then parts of me shrug parts of this off because being a ‘victim’ is unattractive to my psyche. (In my Big Sean voice), I don’t complain about life, I adapt. It’s a constant battle though because that cloud—sometimes it rains heavily from it. And yes, sometimes it’s light, not so dark gray from impending storms, but that cloud, it seems to never go away.

Yesterday, six months after Breonna Taylor’s death, an indictment for stray bullets that went into other apartments, but nothing for the bullets that went through the body of Breonna. I can’t sit here and act as if I know it all, understand it all, or have all of the correct answers and solutions. I don’t. But my heart and stomach agonize over Breonna asleep in her bed with that victimizing cloud looming over her, identifying her as a target. And yesterday, as I try to maneuver throughout my workday, muffling all disturbing emotions for the sake of ‘professionalism,’ a patient and his wife comes in and sits down in front of me with those egregious MAGA hats on.

I am angry, but I don’t stall. Something inside so strong won’t let me, even though I’m so tired. The disrespect irritates me to run faster, further, become taller. Go high.

And while I’m at it, I want to get something else off of my chest. A group of black men is not off the hook in part of this frustration. The ones who disgrace the black women hanging in the trenches with them and then pick the becky’s after achieving a higher living status. And miss me with that ‘Save the Last Dance’ bull of ‘you can’t help who you love, you’re not supposed to.’ You can help it. You are supposed to. The world does not lovingly embrace us or fight for us. You are supposed to.

If you walked in my shoes, you would be ‘angry’ too. You would be more than angry because the things that easily unsettle you are weaker points. If you were me, you would quickly tire from trying to process the complexities of your existence every single day. The stamina it takes to be a black woman in this world, ruthless. And you probably could not live as gracefully as I. You probably could not do it all as seamlessly as I. Honestly, you likely would fail at life altogether. Because it’s not magic. It’s exasperating, emotional work. And yes, sometimes, some days, it makes me angry! You want me to believe that anger is not a valid emotion for me in these circumstances?

At this point, that ‘angry black woman’ stereotype doesn’t trouble me. I am a black woman. And I am angry. I am not so angry that I stall though. Something won’t let me. 

I am going to keep fighting.