“What would happen if you let yourself feel angry?” A dear friend asked as we walked the beach late last Spring.
I left off with Privilege then left for vacation. Next up: Supremacy.
I started taking notes and outlining nearly two months ago. But since then even the whispers have diminished, and this all-consuming piece has grown stubborn and still.
I’ve had many more conversations, made my case, and found ample evidence to support it. But each time I’ve sat down to write—nothing.
The more I’ve researched and recalled, the angrier I’ve become. For too much of this summer, I’ve been pissed.
I’ve been mad about an injustice—about the scars of condescension and exploitation, then the sting of self-congratulations. About systemic racism and unseen biases. About microaggressions, entitlement, and privilege. About food deserts, indifference, and inequity. About destructive words spoken over me and too many others. About two terrible choices and a grumpy old man in a red baseball cap who yells at me each time he sees me run by…
I’ve been stuck in the past—choking on negativity and resentment. And they’ve been insidious, creeping into my thoughts, actions, speech, visions, and dreams. I’ve lost sleep, gotten madder still—and accomplished absolutely nothing along the way.
“We white people have work to do,” someone explained to me recently.
Perhaps. But I think we all do.
Some of us must stand up and fight. Others must sit down and protest. Still others must find courage to walk away and may need to get mad as hell first.
But my anger is no longer serving me nor anyone else. I’m pissed that I bought in and believed. But I still have work to do, so I can’t stew here any longer.
Thank you but it’s time for me to move on.
