I Can’t Keep Calm, but Carry On...

Before I began dating my most recent significant other I asked him a very important question. One that would determine his preconceived notions of me; one that would influence the tone for our future interactions. I asked him if he had ever been involved with a Black woman. It is important to note that he is full blood White Colombian from Medellin. Please spare me the Narcos jokes; I have been fake-laughing at them for at least half of 2019. Anyway, he didn’t understand the question. American racial tension and culture were actually foreign concepts for him. They were heard of, but he had not fully enthralled himself into these ideas or experiences. He couldn’t, for the life of him, fathom the difference between having dated a White woman versus Latina versus a Black woman, let alone a Black American, specifically. He genuinely didn’t see the difference, and insisted that as long as they were women, he didn’t care. This question serves many relevant answers. Would his family accept me, the opposite end of their spectrum, the darkest of the chocolate, the burntest of the sienna?  But also like, why did I feel the need to preface him? 

There is a common stereotype that I admittedly may fall into. If he had heard of this ugly little box mounded with Black women around the nation, he may have thought twice about getting involved with me (which thankfully was not a thing). Hell, I would too based on how the world perceives us; rude, aggressive, combative, hostile, loud, and ANGRY. “Angry Black Woman” is the nomenclature of such atrocity. WE TAKE NO CRAP. This may come as a shock to you, but I have a bit of sass that I keep the back pocket of every pair of pants I put on, and oftentimes when I pull it out for use, my short temper, sarcasm, passion, and candidness all fall out too. I sometimes have a hard time using one without several of the others, unfortunately. 

I am not sure that I knew this about myself until recently, when I attended a mental and physical recovery meditation class called “Flow” at my gym (The House of Athlete). This particular session focused on self-reflection, and Brandon Marshall (founder) asked us to find one or two things about ourselves that need work. Immediately, the words “my anger” popped into my mind. I honestly don’t know when this became problematic for me. But now that I really sit and think about it, I have always chalked it up to PMS. The problem with that excuse is that I PMS for the week before and the week during my menstrual, so there are at least another two weeks that are completely unaccounted for.

It doesn’t take much for me, either. When I get angry I struggle to keep my composure, even in professional settings. It is difficult to describe, but I can try. When I get to this point I feel my skin turn green, and my rage (which seems to typically be a dormant simmer) boils into a ravenous flame inside me, allowing steam to rise from my core, through my chest and face and out of my ears. Does that paint a sufficient picture for you? Life is black and white; there is no gray. No middle. I am either livid, or I am chilling. This past week, my boo spent the better parts of Tuesday and Wednesday trying to talk sense into me after a series of offsetting events that took place at work. I know for sure they view me as inflammatory at this point. I am pretty sure my superiors tip toe around me at this point. But I was losing control due to decisions that I felt were unfair. I was about to make an irrational decision based on raw emotions, but he talked me down somehow. Why am I this way? Like any millennial (don’t tell anyone I admitted to that), I Googled it. 

The first article that populated was from Wikipedia, which had already made me angry and defensive. But as it turns out, there is actual ongoing clinical exploration on this matter! The deeper I dove into it, I found they pulled out the big guns for this research; NIH, NPR, Time, Forbes to name a few.  Researchers suggest it could be from the inequalities we face as double minorities, the fact that we are least heard and also least desired compared to other races, or even from the inability to fully be ourselves at our workplace despite 8+ hours a day of microaggressions thrown at us that we pretend not to acknowledge. I can relate to all to some degree. 

It could also have something to do with the point that the moment we show emotion, the world slaps a big ABW sticker on your forehead and throws you into the mound we spoke of earlier. A perfect example of this is Serena Williams when she was fined $17,000 for her fit of rage and merely calling the referee a thief! White men and women in the same sport have done much worse, yet no one batted an eye. And I am not even fully sure what Michelle Obama said or did to warrant that title, but I am sure it had something to do with her being a whole entire boss chick. We tend to have a questionable track record in authoritative or superior positions.

Like I always say, I am just trying to open up conversation with these posts. I often have no resolution to the issues presented. Today’s entry is no different. I don’t know why I am this way, but I would sure like to acknowledge my own skeletons and the skeletons of some who may not even realize they possess. Now that I know it is a problem, I am thinking of doing more meditation and continuing the gym more habitually to release more endorphins. Maybe trying my hand at therapy again might not be a bad idea. 

Oh, remind me to tell you about that trash experience.