Punches

Someone asked me today why I am so angry

So I punched them in the nose.

They screeched in anger, clutching their bruised nostrils

Bewildered, they ask,

“The FUCK was that for?!”

I shrug, and go about my day.

Later, I offer them a donut and a coffee

Which they accept.

“So we’re good, right?” They glare at me

And turn their back to me.

“Why are you so angry?”

“You fucking kidding me?” they ask,

Eyes wide with indignation.

I shrug, and go back to work.

I borrowed their sweatshirt.

I was cold, and theyweren’t using it.

“Is that my sweatshirt?”

I nod, happy that they noticed my appreciation for their thing.

Even though I am much bigger than them,

I make it fit.

I made it my own.

“How,” they ask. “Did you manage to fit into it?”

“I had to rip it in some places,” I tell them, excited about my new creation.

“Like your hoop earrings and your cornrows, I’m just borrowing it.

I watch as their eyes and nostrils widen

“WHAT THE FUCK IS-”

They start, but I hold up a hand.

“Why are you so angry?”

Their anger seems to grow exponentially.

They leave me,

Trying to understand what I did.

Certainly it can’t be because of this morning?

Still baffled by the person’s hostility

I take to the timeline.

I tell them about how nasty the person was to me

I explain the situation, trying to understand;

“I mean, you punched them in the nose,”

Said one user.

“How you gon punch somebody then ask y dey mad,”

Asked another.

Some attempted to explain

The context of being punched in the face,

And how for a long time,

It was seen as an act of violence

One that could escalate.

Not like saying the N-word

Or believing that all black women are ugly

Or angry.

When I insist that I don’t understand,

They try a different approach.
“What if someone punched you in the nose?

Stole you sweatshirt?

Can you see where that may be a problem?”

As a black femme

I have to take punches every day,

In silence.

I’ve learn to take the hits,

But I can’t quite quell the angry.

Because no sooner have I recovered from the last punch to the nose

That I take a hit to the ribs.

And before I can straighten myself out from that,

I get swiped at the ankles.

Every day, I have to see

Other’s praised for things that only earn my mockery.

Things about my style of dress,

My voice,

The things I love,

Only to have someone snatch it

From my hands,

And claim it as their own.

My personality whitewashed

Made more palatable for the mass.

Erasing me from my own creation for their personal gain.

I’m nothing but a mass of emotional

Mental,

Sometimes physical bruises.

And yet, I should be happy.

Happy that I am even acknowledged.

Others just called me names

Bitch, Cunt, Violent Whore

But none of them understood;

They were just being divisive.

I get that they are upset

I really do.

However,

Every day, I deal with punches.

On a regular bases,

I have piece of my culture

Plastered all over the mainstream,

Without a face like mine profiting from it.

You had a day to handle it.

So again,

I ask,

“Why are you so angry?”