Chapter 5

Anger

Twist and Shout

What do you call a wildly successful writer, director, producer, and mother of three, who also happens to be a Black woman?

According to America’s newspaper of record, you call her “angry.”

Alessandra Stanley’s New York Times review of ABC-TV’s How to Get Away with Murder opened thusly: “When Shonda Rhimes writes her autobiography, it should be called ‘How to Get Away with Being an Angry Black Woman.’”¹

In the September 2014 article, Stanley praised Rhimes, the Midas touch behind the shows Scandal and Grey’s Anatomy, for “doing more to reset the image of African-American women on television than anyone since Oprah Winfrey.” She wrote:

Be it Kerry Washington on “Scandal” or Chandra Wilson on “Grey’s Anatomy,” they can and do get angry. One of the more volcanic meltdowns in soap opera history was Olivia’s “Earn me” rant on “Scandal.”

Ms. Rhimes has embraced the trite but persistent caricature of the Angry Black Woman, recast it in her own image, and made it enviable. She has almost single-handedly trampled a taboo even Michelle Obama couldn’t break.

Her heroines are not at all like the bossy, sassy, salt-of-the-earth working-class women who have been scolding and uh-uh-ing on screen ever since Esther Rolle played Florida, the maid on “Maude.”

If Stanley’s interpretation is to be believed, Shonda Rhimes is undeniably angry. She makes her Black female characters in her own image, and they, too, are angry. (It is unclear how Rhimes pours her Black lady anger into the many characters she creates who are not Black and not female.) But through some sleight of hand, she has been able to “get away with” presenting these angry Black women on TV. For instance, Stanley writes that Scandal’s Olivia Pope is different from previous Black female characters on television. She calls Florida Evans, of the 1970s sitcoms Maude and Good Times, “scolding” and “salt-of-the-earth working-class”—as if those descriptions fit together like peanut butter and jelly. And she dismisses The Cosby Show’s Clair Huxtable, who, incidentally, laid more truth-telling monologues on people than Florida and Olivia combined, as “benign and reassuring.”

Small-Screen Sapphires

The Amos ’n’ Andy show left the air in 1953, and yet folks still see Sapphire everywhere. Black women are believed to be quick to anger and even quicker to let you know it—always shouting with their faces twisted in a rictus of pique. And the ire of Black women is irrational and base—never justified. The idea that Black women are angry, hostile, and aggressive is pervasive and burdensome and leaves them vulnerable, unable to defend themselves when they need to.

Perhaps we should blame Mary-Ellis Bunim and Johnathan Murray, the producers who introduced The Real World on MTV in 1992, launching the heyday of reality TV and, with it, the golden age of the small-screen Sapphire.³ Today, there are bad Black chicks all the time, up and down the dial. The angry Black woman is a reality-TV staple. In 2014, two popular reality shows ended with Black girl fisticuffs. On the Real Housewives of Atlanta (RHOA) reunion, a screeching Porsha Stewart catapulted herself on top of former Miss USA Kenya Moore.⁴ And on Love & Hip Hop Atlanta, Joseline Hernandez took on all comers, punching faces and sending hair pieces askew. In the aftermath of the rumble, Hernandez assured viewers, “I come everywhere ready to fight.”⁵

Stewart and Hernandez are just the latest in a long line of reality Sapphires, from Camille on season one of America’s Next Top Model, through the reviled Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth on The Apprentice, to the overbearing NeNe Leakes on RHOA.

This reality, of course, is anything but. In her book Reality Bites Back, Jennifer L. Pozner writes, “This genre that calls itself ‘unscripted’ is carefully crafted to push all our culturally ingrained buttons. Offensiveness = hype = increased eyeballs for advertisers and cash for networks, making outrageous bigotry less a by-product of reality TV than its blueprint.”⁶

It is not that reality producers have mostly angry Black women to choose from when casting the latest ode to consumerism and trifling behavior. It is that producers specifically search for, hire, and elevate those willing to traffic in gender, race, and class stereotypes in exchange for marginal fame. A mad Black woman aloft like a Valkyrie, weave flying and eyes ablaze, gets ratings and days of viral video and lights up social media like a Christmas tree. A calm and reasonable Black woman handling her life like a functional adult? Well, who wants to watch that?

As Manigault-Stallworth told Time magazine, “When I was a good girl, there were no cameras on. The minute I started arguing, there was a camera shooting me from every angle.”⁷

She gave producers what they wanted, and they wanted the angry Black woman as spectacle and entertainment. The trope sells. Twelve million people watched the viral video “Sharkeshia” on the popular video-sharing site Worldstar Hip Hop. It showed a seventeen-year-old Black girl being confronted and brutally pummeled by her classmate Sharkeshia in a dispute over a boy.⁸ Shock sites, like Worldstar Hip Hop, profit from violence by and against Black women. Like reality TV’s Black female villains, Worldstar’s brawlers are leveraged to confirm the angry Black woman stereotype.

The proliferation of angry Black women in popular culture perhaps explains why so many Black women report that they are assumed to be angry by default.

First (Angry) Lady of the United States

“Generally speaking, I try hard to be happy and bubbly,” says Gloria Pruitt, thirty-five.⁹ “I recognize as a Black woman that I don’t have the luxury of having a wide range of emotions for fear of being called angry. I’m careful about how I present myself, especially with non-Black people. Whenever you have a conversation with someone, you feel like you’re carrying all of Black womanhood on your shoulders.”

Even America’s First Lady was supposedly angry. Since Barack Obama appeared on the national scene as a political figure, media and opponents have sought to paint his wife as an angrier, more radical, more aggressive, Blacker version of her husband—despite Michelle Obama being arguably more accessible and game than previous presidential spouses. She danced with Jimmy Fallon and mugged with basketball players, for God’s sake. She was at least as pleasant and friendly as her predecessors.

Yet Alessandra Stanley, in her New York Times piece about Shonda Rhimes, joined the ranks of many who had accused the then FLOTUS of being angry. That smiling, friendly, sack-racing, double-Dutch jumping First Lady must have been a ruse to hide MObama’s Sapphire within.

During the 2008 presidential campaign, a rumor spread of an explosive video of Michelle Obama giving a racially incendiary speech peppered liberally with the word “whitey.”¹⁰ As difficult as it should be to believe that a Harvard-educated executive and wife of a politician would give a presentation using a persona out of a Blaxploitation flick, the debunked conspiracy persists to this day.

As First Lady, Obama’s every nonsmiling facial expression was analyzed and seen as a sign of persistent displeasure. A New York Post headline, following a memorial celebration for Nelson Mandela, crowed: “Michelle Not Amused by Obama’s Memorial Selfie.”¹¹ Below the headline was a slideshow of eleven images showing the president taking photos and joking with British Prime Minister David Cameron and Danish Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt, while Michelle Obama sits beside him, her face in repose. The accompanying article imagines the First Lady “grit[ting] her teeth in rage” and speaks of her “icy glare” and “angry looks.” The Post’s response was a typical reaction as photos from the memorial went viral. The then FLOTUS was cast as the simmering harpy, eager to kill her husband’s fun with a pretty, fun-loving White lady (Thorning-Schmidt). The mean Michelle buzz became so thick that the Agence France-Presse photographer responsible for the photo series came forward to assure the public that moments before the images were snapped, the First Lady had been laughing and joking with those around her.

You Know How Y’all Are

I asked Liz Hurston whether she has ever been pegged as an angry Black woman. “I had to think long and hard about this one,” she said. “Not because there weren’t enough examples, but because there were too many.¹²

“This has affected me since birth, especially growing up in a religious household. My father, due to the pain of his own upbringing, doesn’t like women—particularly Black women. Now, he would never flat out say he hates Black women, but his actions and commentary over the years prove otherwise.

“My dad’s complaints about his mother, sisters, and other women in his life are all that they are loud, bossy, mean, and angry. That’s probably why he married my mother, who is very mild mannered and practically a doormat at times. Couple that with his belief that the Bible commands women to be silent and submit in all things to their husbands, and you have a home where girls are taught both directly and indirectly never to speak up, lest they be seen as ungodly Sapphires.”

As a result, Liz has always been quiet and reserved, often to her own detriment.

“It’s funny that I’m probably one of the most introverted and meek women most people have ever met, yet my silence is confused with anger. On the rare occasions when I do speak up for myself, I’m accused of being an angry Black woman.”

Liz notes a conversation with a supervisor when she was repeatedly urged, “Don’t get upset.”

“I didn’t raise my voice or have an angry tone the entire time I spoke to [her]. Of course, like a normal human being, hearing ‘don’t get upset’ actually makes me upset because I’m not being heard.”

Black women do get angry. Everyone does. But the angry Black woman stereotype denies them their warranted rage.

“You know how y’all are.”

A friendly plumber tossed this gem from under my bathroom sink while sharing a tale about calming his wife—a Black woman—who was angry at a client for attempting to stiff their small business. I hoped that “how [Black women] are” referred to the type of people who become reasonably upset when someone undervalues their hard work and threatens their family’s livelihood, as any business owner would. It didn’t.

Black Witch says the characterization of Black women as irrationally angry is frustrating because “A lot of things that Black women talk about are valid issues. But the angry White guy gets a show on CBS, NBC, Fox News. He gets to be the head of the Congress. If he’s an angry White guy, he’s passionate. If he’s an angry Black man, he’s militant, but he’s a leader.

“It’s really degrading, because it doesn’t allow you to feel. There’s nothing you’re supposed to be angry about. A lot of our anger comes from not being listened to. [People] ignore our problems and think we’re crazy—just foaming at the mouth.”

Writer Deesha Philyaw grew up around women who had many legitimate reasons to be angry. And she admits to once associating a certain sort of anger with Black womanhood—even trading on it herself as a young girl.

“In my teen years, I had a no-nonsense persona that masked a lot of insecurities and self-doubt. I was all talk and bluster. Looking back on it, I suspect that I was mimicking some of the Black women I knew—friends of my family who would physically fight people when they were angry. They cussed someone out at least once a week. Often, their partners and ex-partners bore the brunt of their behavior. Sometimes it was White folks at work.

“At the opposite end of the spectrum were the women in my family. They were long suffering, often doormats for the sons, brothers, and lovers in their lives. I loved these women, but their unhappiness was palpable, and I didn’t want that for myself. I was also too chicken shit and too much of a softie to be cussing people out and fighting,” she laughs.

But Deesha stresses that the women she knew who were easily angered and aggressive were not “angry Black women” to her. In other words, they were not defined by their need for better coping mechanisms.

“I thought of them as Black women. And I was committed to being a different kind of Black woman: I wouldn’t act out and be controlled by my anger, but I wasn’t going to be anyone’s doormat either. I’ve never worried about anyone applying the label to me, nor have I kept quiet for fear of being labeled. Only recently, through social media, have I learned that this trope is being used to stifle Black women’s justifiable expressions of anger and to paint a picture of Black woman aggression where there is none.

“As an adult, I disagree that this is a Black thing, or a woman thing. I assume that anyone, regardless of race, who has those frustrations and limitations, and few coping skills and resources, would and does act the same way. It’s just that Black women seem to have had it codified: neck-rolling, side-eyeing, finger-pointing, and our own glossary of ‘reading’ terms.”

Liz says, “Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry because I can’t and don’t know how to express my anger. I’m angry because all of my feelings and my sisters’ feelings—hurt, pain, joy, accomplishment—are met with derision.

“I’m angry that someone like Shonda Rhimes can be maligned in the most respected newspaper in the country because there were no Black female editors at the New York Times who could’ve said ‘This is ridiculous. Try again.’

“I’m angry that Black men don’t seem to have our backs. I’m angry that Dean Baquet [executive editor at the New York Times] basically Kanye-shrugged and defended [Alessandra Stanley]. I’m angry that [Stanley] herself blamed Black women for being too stupid to get her point. I’m angry that when Shonda Rhimes justifiably claps back, many people think she’s living up to the angry Black woman stereotype.”

Our anger and aggression are even unwanted in environments where those emotions are expected, according to Kimberly “Bunny” Hopson, a former reporter who is retired from the Roller Derby scene.¹³

“If you’re Black and an aggressive player, which I am, you’re automatically branded as dangerous, scary, and mean.”

I should remind the reader here that Roller Derby is a contact sport.

“Yeah, okay, just because I knock you on your ass and have a serious look in my eye when I run you down, doesn’t mean I’m going to knife you, break your skate plates, and steal your purse.

“Once you’ve received that brand, even for one exhibition bout, all of the referees in the tristate area know you and are wary. I have a reputation, apparently,” laments the five-foot-nothing Bunny.

“It’s pointless, but I really do try to tone myself down during games. The thing is that Roller Derby is practically born for the promotion of an alter ego. Who I am on the track is a facet of my personality, but not the central part. I can’t even help being aggressive.

“I am extremely focused on one task: knocking you down, whoever you are. Many teams call on me to sub or play for them because of it, but it’s as much a curse as it is a blessing. In any given game, I’m fouled out or ejected before the second half because of nit-picking from refs who just know for sure that I pushed some girl down in cold blood. I’m still a high-penalty player even when I’m not ejected.

“White players can curse, cheat, kick, and do whatever else they want, so long as they stay White. But me? I get called on stuff I don’t even do sometimes.”

Perceptions of our anger leave us vulnerable in more important places than the roller rink.

Swallowing Anger, Losing Respect

Tracy Elba,^* thirty-nine, was a producer with a postgraduate degree and a shelf full of awards when she got called up to the TV news big leagues—a job in a top-three market. Even with more than a decade of experience under her belt, she was unprepared for what she encountered. Newsrooms are notoriously high pressure and fast paced, but this …

“It was seriously dysfunctional,” Tracy says. “People screamed, slammed things, got in each other’s faces and cussed at each other. I say cussed not cursed. It was hostile. Granted, it’s easy to feel slammed in that kind of environment. But out of the four newsrooms where I’ve worked, this was the worst place. You had to be tough to survive and willing to take a whole lot of shit.”¹⁵

She entered her new gig a superstar. The ratings on her show were great. By chance, she caught breaking news on her cell phone one afternoon and saw her footage lead the evening news. The station’s president and general manager seemed to love her and stopped by her desk each day to say hello. But, she says, too much public praise made her a target in the competitive environment. She found herself on the wrong side of a powerful executive producer.

“He buried me with assignments, then enumerated mistakes in my unfinished work and sent them to higher ups. He yelled at me and demeaned me—treated me horribly. I was the only Black person on his team, and I felt like I had no allies.

“I didn’t go to HR. That’s the thing that I didn’t do. I wanted to be strong. I thought I could power through it. I thought I could solve the problem by using my smartness, my niceness, and my contacts. I thought I could get ahead of it.”

And she didn’t want to be an angry Black woman. Tracy admits that many of her colleagues went toe-to-toe with senior producers—bumping heads in the newsroom and sharing drinks later. But she didn’t feel that path was open to her. And it seems she was right.

“One day, after a show, he cursed me out in front of everyone—a whole row of producers. It got so bad that another producer was begging him to stop. I had had it. I raised my voice: ‘You will NOT talk to me like this. I know you’re my boss. But you’ll never, ever talk to me like this in front of everyone ever again.’

“He slammed his hand on the desk and walked away. I got in trouble for yelling at him—disrespecting my supervisor. From there on out, every time anyone would yell at me, I would just take it. People had said, ‘When he does that, you just have to give it back to him.’ A Black woman can’t do that and expect for the results to still be positive.”

Tracy insists she’s not a crier, “but that newsroom would send me home crying every day.” Her hair began falling out and her milk dried up, keeping her from nursing her six-month-old baby.

“Those people hated me—they hated my soul. I had never had that. I was used to shining. This is the first time that I felt like a failure. After work one day, I went over to my sister’s house. I told her ‘I just don’t know who to be in that newsroom. If I curse somebody out, I’m in trouble. If I take it, I’m in trouble.’”

Tracy, who used to rock a full-size Afro, laughs ruefully: “My sister thought maybe if I straightened my hair, they would like me better.”

Not long after the incident with her executive producer, Tracy was fired.

“The day they let me go, I cried in the parking lot. I didn’t let them see me. But it was a relief. Being fired was better than quitting. I would never have quit. I knew how hard I tried. I knew I had given my all.

“I never thought I would see myself in an unemployment line. I had more experience, more education, and more accolades than anyone in that newsroom.”

One month later, she had a new job.

“I’m killing it there,” she smiles. “I have my confidence back.”

But the experience taught her something.

“Those people were crazy and dysfunctional,” she says. “I’m not an angry Black woman. I don’t have to curse anybody out. But I do have a right to stand up for myself. I do have a right to be treated with respect—to demand respect. I wasn’t wrong for doing that. We are never wrong for doing that.”