Lots of people who don’t agree with me call me “angry.”
Now, on a day-in-day-out kind of basis, I rarely feel anger. I do not get angry about other drivers or about my kids not cleaning their rooms or about not being able to find a parking spot or about having to pay for parking or about the casserole dish that inexplicably exploded in my oven last night.
I rarely react to daily life kinds of things in anger.
But, in a broader sense; in a sort of gently bubbling under the surface about the state of our society kind of way, of course I’m angry.
I’m angry that women make less money than men for work that is equally difficult and that requires an equal level of skill.
I’m angry that – in some parts of the world – women still can’t drive cars without the permission of their fathers or husbands.
I’m angry that women are beaten and raped and murdered every day by men.
I’m angry that I was harassed in the street three times on a 2.5-minute walk from my car to a local cafe to meet a friend before seeing The Vagina Monologues last night.
I’m angry that tens of thousands of girls and women are subjected to female genital mutilation.
I’m angry that today is Super Bowl Sunday and, therefore, one of the worst days of the year for domestic violence.
I’m angry that it’s only February and already six women in Ontario have been murdered by their male intimate partners.
I’m angry that people have the nerve to tone police rape survivors.
I’m angry that women around the world are constantly worried about not having or about losing their reproductive rights and bodily autonomy.
I’m angry that the suicide rate for men is so high, because patriarchy and toxic masculinity make it so difficult for men to feel like they can ask for help.
I’m angry that #MeToo has had to come to our own community.
I’m angry that people expect more of rape survivors than they do of men who are rapists.
I’m angry that girls and women still have to fight to go to school in some countries.
I’m angry that women of colour are scrutinized even more heavily than white women when they name their abusers.
I’m angry that Men’s Rights Activists lash out at feminism but never speak up about black men and aboriginal men and other men of colour being incarcerated at higher per capita rates than white men.
I’m angry that when a woman is sexually harassed, assaulted or raped, rape apologists come out of the woodwork to inquire: “what was she wearing?” “what did she think was going to happen?” “what was she doing there so late?” and on and on.
I’m angry that my son and other boys and men cannot express a full range of emotions without being belittled.
I’m angry that six-year-old girls and 73-year-old women and women wearing hijabs and women wearing t-shirts and shorts and women walking home and women at home with their male partners all get sexually assaulted and raped.
I’m angry that people are so uncomfortable with women’s anger.
How are you not angry?