Magic: An Ode to my anger
"I didn’t want to write this poem, I didn’t want to be labeled the “angry black girl” but I am angry."
By Angel Ifyawuchi
I didn’t want to write this poem, I didn’t want to be labeled the “angry black girl” but I am angry.
I’m angry because you say I’m pretty... for a black girl, like that is not something magical in itself. A club many can’t even approach.
I’m angry because I don’t see enough people who look like me on TV playing main roles, not just the sassy best friend.
I’m angry that my skin has to play a factor in each decision I make.
I’m angry that the “angry black girl” is even a stereotype like we have nothing to be angry about. Like we don’t see brothers dying everyday.
I will never be ashamed of this anger I feel inside, I was born into, moulded by it.
When will the the world realise there is a person attached to this black women?
I do not wish to fiercely hold onto life, only dance through its seasons. Dance through life.
I want to write odes to the black boys who die just to get their lives on track, odes to all the black girls who aren’t pretty... but beautiful.
And perhaps the world listen.
I know I am feared, my grace, my excellence, my intelligence When you put an angry black girl in this world, she is a force to be reckon with.
The next time someone try’s to break me with their words, lips drawn and calls me “angry” I will just laugh and thank them.