[TRIGGER WARNING: REFERENCE TO SEXUAL ASSAULT]
This one is for women.
Usually, my recommended readings are for people with privilege to help them examine and understand said privilege and inspire them to do something about it. This one is for women, even those of us with much privilege (of which I am one). Because the wonderful Ijeoma Oluo has declared 2018 the Year of Rage.
Does This Year Make Me Look Angry?
The rage of seeing all that we love, all that we’ve been able to hope for, all that we’ve been told to sacrifice for the “greater good” burned to the ground by white men in a toddler tantrum because for eight years the president didn’t look like them, and because the next president threatened to look even less like them—that is not a rage that consumes, that immolates. It’s a rage that fuels, that arms. We are starting to taste the collective power of our rage. We are starting to see the possibilities of a reckoning and revolution. And, as scary as it is, we have no choice but to risk it.
If you wanted to avoid our rage, perhaps you shouldn’t have left us with so little to lose.
I think that since last November of 2016, my rage has felt impotent. I've felt like my anger was useless, clearly. All that energy I had put into fighting against the patriarchy and rape culture couldn't stop Captain Grab 'Em from being elected President, a phrase that still makes me want to spit. And maybe that was why I couldn't get excited or even optimistic about #MeToo and sexual predators facing consequences.
But this piece stirred something in me that I had nearly forgotten. This day, I feel the power of my anger again. She's right. We are starting to taste the collective power of our rage. And men are terrified out of their minds.
As they should be.
I'm ready to go again. I'm ready for 2018 to be the Year of Our Rage. The Year of the Power of Women.
Grab us and you'll fucking regret it.