Like all profound repression, my rage unleashed made me afraid. It forced me to turn my back on forgetfulness, called me out of my denial. It changed my relationship with home - with the South - made it so I could not return there. Inwardly, I felt as though I were a marked woman. A black person unashamed of her rage, using it as a catalyst to develop critical consciousness, to come to full decolonized self-actualization, had no real place in the existing social structure. I felt like an exile. Friends and professors wondered what had come over me. They shared their fear that this new militancy might consume me. When I journeyed home to see my family I felt estranged from them. They were suspicious of the new me. The “good” southern white folks who had always given me a helping hand began to worry that college was ruining me. I seemed alone in understanding that I was undergoing a process of radical politicization and self-recovery.

bell hooks, Killing Rage: Ending Racism

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately thinking about the transformative and healing powers of radical rage. I’m often told that I’m too angry, too filled with negative emotion, when in actuality, I genuinely believe that rage - beautiful, healthy, necessary, and healing rage - has kept me alive and provided me with the strength to keep going. 

Rage gets shit done. 

Notes

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