Personal Statement
Young ladies in the South are often taught to hold their tongues. Much like Harper Lee’s Scout or Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett, I am not good at that. I never intend to be belligerent; rather, my curiosity demands constant examination of the world around me. When I was younger, adults called me “outspoken”; classmates, “bossy.” I now realize that both comments were destructive. Assigning a label to a behavior marks it as atypical in some way, as if the expressiveness of a young girl is outside of the norm. As a result of this milieu, I grew acutely self-aware of my emotions and their potential for collateral damage. After my parents divorced, I felt as if I wasn’t allowed to be angry at the sudden change in my life for fear I would unintentionally hurt my parents’ feelings or fail to appear strong for my brother or make the hard situation even harder with my volatile emotions. This fear masked anger as sadness, which somehow seemed more palatable. Unlike anger, sadness can be virtuous and graceful--two distinctly feminine qualities.
The recent melodrama surrounding Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation hearings intensified my sadness about the conditioning I accepted. While watching Dr. Ford’s demeanor in contrast to Judge Kavanaugh’s, this sadness took a new, unfamiliar form--anger. Despite, or perhaps because of, his unchecked emotion, Kavanaugh earned the respect of the voting majority and drew a proverbial line in the sand between liberals and conservatives. Throughout the live telecast, I plastered my tongue to my teeth. My jaw locked into place to thwart the curse words threatening to escape. I revved up my mouth like a motorcycle engine until my lips chapped. I wanted to scream into the television. Part of processing Kavanaugh’s eventual confirmation to the Supreme Court has been channeling these screams into a realized purpose.
Psychologists understand anger as an indicator that things are not as they are supposed to be, an absence of homeostasis. Inherently, anger is a cry for change. In the weeks following Kavanaugh’s confirmation, I, along with countless women across the country, realized that the distortion of our emotion is no longer justifiable. Feminine rage is too often characterized as petty, not powerful. Yet, in confirming Kavanaugh’s appointment and affirming his behavior, senators triggered an international response rooted in women’s emotional strength. Scarlett and Scout were ahead of their time.
Witnessing this movement deepened an awareness of my potential to enact change. When I grew too overwhelmed to form a coherent sentence, I wrote another stack of letters to undecided voters in my Congressional district or started a discussion with another family member who did not share my anxiety. These actions provided a productive outlet for my anger because informed dialogue is a crucial act of resistance in a climate where compromise is condemned by both ends of the political spectrum.
When rereading this essay for the first time, my knee-jerk reaction was, “What if this sounds too ‘angry feminist?’” After a few seconds, I realized the irony behind an instinctual need to explain myself. I am not like this all the time. I am not a “man hater.” I am not a liability. But, yes, I am angry. And I am a feminist. Why, when put together, do these words mean something so taboo?
Ultimately, I’ve learned that anger is not something of which to be ashamed, but a catalyst for mobilization. In her novel A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L’Engle writes, “Stay angry, little one. You will need all your anger now.” Revisiting this beloved book in the context of the Kavanaugh hearings made one thing clear: My environment certainly shaped me, but it need not define me. I am tired of holding my tongue.
