“You’re not an angry person.”
I am good at not. I feel my emotions acutely, but I’m good at not letting them bubble over. Years of being the peacekeeper; years of being the rock; years of not wanting to make sense of the world–I let it be.
The anger persists.
I sat at the bar eating gross carnitas with strawberries. (The things white people do in the name of Taco Tuesday.)
Residual anger hummed around my fingertips as I resisted shoving the gross taco in my face and resisted chugging the german beer in front of me.
My friend described a dream meeting he had with administration. A dream of whatever you want; let’s keep you; let’s do this. You deserve it. And his dream made nonsense of my lived nightmare, and I saw red. I wanted to throw my plate on the ground. I wanted to throw my drink in his face. All of this to a man I like, I value, I cherish. Because patriarchy. I rub the match stick in my bicep. Another friend makes a menstruation joke out of his upset stomach. NO.
I hate them in these moments. Men. I hate their lack of understanding. I hate their easily won-overness. I hate their softness. I hate their inability to stick to their convictions. I hate their ignorance of their privilege. I hate their shapeless bodies and their ugly sweaters and their stupid haircuts. I hate the way they walk. I hate their musky boy smell. Grow up. Quit smelling like a dirty child.
I hate their fickleness and their obliviousness. I hate their simple life philosophies: stop making jokes about the things that make you uncomfortable, especially the woman-things, and start fucking doing something. But male privilege always wins.
The way I have to move about the world because of the likes of you, and you get to act like this.
I am always fucking angry.