This is an open essay discussing my views on being angry on behalf of yourself due to discrimination and other silencing opposition. It speaks of my recent experience with discrimination. For a sample of my professional writing, please check out my other blogs.
All my life I have swallowed down my anger as though it was a virtue. That’s not to say I haven’t been angry- I just have practiced gulping down that rising, flaming emotion and internalizing it. I have perfected the art of plastering on a perfunctory smile, or better yet, wielding a convincing calm. At least this is how I feel when it comes to standing up for myself.
Anger is something that I feel for other people. When I see someone taken advantage of or being mistreated due to a trait they can’t change or a vulnerability that can be exploited, I exert my voice and step in. And this isn’t a cause of pride or a moment when I should be pat on the back. I don’t deserve congratulations for doing the bare minimum. In fact, some people don’t even want you to be angry on their behalf because they are tired to the bone of living in a world in which they are perceived as the other, and they don’t need you preaching on their behalf. But the bottom line is I try to use my voice when I feel it’s needed. The one exception is that I seldom use my voice for myself.
But recently I found myself in a situation when I was on the receiving end of discrimination. Though my appearance may tell a different story, this isn’t my first time being discriminated against. I have been forced out of a Texas home on a 102-degree day because of the color of my skin and my religious beliefs. I have spent years being told these traits make me inferior as a romantic partner because I dated people who had different skin colors and beliefs. I have felt all of the fear that women feel and I have felt fists rail against me. And yet I have lived a very privileged life because of these same traits, and I do not know the fear that the Black American or the hatred that the Asian American might face daily. So in my life of occasional discrimination, I have also benefitted often from the privilege I was born into. But this isn’t always the case.
Recently I was in a situation where I was being told on a daily basis that I was inferior. To the right of me, I have a man point out my hair color and my skin color nonstop. He in one breath tells me that I am not a true foreigner like him because I bear the traits of the people of the land we both immigrated to. But in the same gulp, he tells me that I will never be one of them, because I speak an inferior dialect. And then he dares to complain day after day with an almost impressive lack of self-awareness that he is being discriminated against.
At the front of the room sits the teacher who is supposed to help us learn and adjust to life in this new country that I have sunk my feet into. Every day she takes her jagged nail and works to pick me apart at the seams, attempting to dig out the roots I have painstakingly planted and watered with my own sweat and tears. But this woman doesn’t know who she is picking at.
When I open my mouth, she mocks me. Rather than correct how I speak, she simply mocks it. She asserts to the class that I am inferior and she openly questions me being allowed a place at the table. I am a foreigner who entered this country not knowing a single word of the language and here I am, three years later in my final language course preparing to start a job. And rather than help me grow, this teacher tells me daily why she considers my voice is lesser than the others that she hears.
To her, my accent alone speaks of who I am as a person. I am an American, not a German-American with two passports and dual nationality like the woman who sits across from me and feeds me condescending smiles, but a true American. She has made up her mind about me from the moment I moved my lips, as she works daily to remind me of the place on the hierarchy she has assigned me. To her, I minus as well be a gun-toting hillbilly, because I will never amount to more.
People who have not been to Germany might have many opinions about the country, but I do not believe in categorizing people collectively or holding a current generation accountable for the sins of their ancestors. And I have met many lovely people over these three years and befriended all kinds of wonderful individuals. Yet, this woman speaks of a Germany I have not witnessed, a Germany in which no one in this room is welcome.
She told us point blank that we need to put photos on our job applications so that our future employers can assess our looks. She says that people who are adipös (obese) will be denied job opportunities and that we can under no circumstances admit to mental health issues if we want either careers or social standings. She spews opinion after opinion that she has assigned as fact since she was given this platform where she can pour her beliefs onto the classroom which is anticipating grammar practice, reading comprehension, and exam preparation.
Countless days have been spent having this woman deny my experiences and the experiences of others. When she asked how we practice diversity in our lives, I told her about the city-sanctioned Pride parade. She told me this is an invalid answer even though I clarified I am a member of the queer community. This woman said countless ignorant, incorrect, and anger-fueled statements because she didn’t want to expand her mindset. Every day she picked a new student to yell at and would force people to listen to her bigoted viewpoints.
Worst of all was the strange moral high ground this woman rides upon. She deems herself a feminist, but she constantly puts men down and makes assumptions about people based on where they come from. (Oh are you from Afghanistan? Naturally, you can’t shake a woman’s hand let alone respect her. Your men are all like this.) She is not a person who believes in equality, but rather someone who feels disadvantaged and uses her fleeting power to disadvantage others. In moments of her pure hypocrisy, I want to drag my fingers through my eyes as I hear her berating the way I speak. She doesn’t know I grew up with my words stuck together like peanut butter and I had to learn how to make them peel apart one by one to attain a polished English. But with everything this woman has said, I know she is not the kind of person who looks kindly on speech impediments. She is the kind to bark a laugh and curl her lip into a sneer.
And this is where I have arrived at the conclusion that I, too, am allowed to be angry. And I can be angry on my own behalf. Because when I hear this teacher mock me time after time with that glint of glee igniting behind her eyes, I know this is not someone who ever fought to use her voice. This is not someone who dropped foot in a foreign land and learned the language from the ground up. This is not someone who has been robbed from the inside out in life and reclaimed their voice to put the experience into words. This is not someone who sat in court and lifted their chin and spoke the truth no matter what it cost them, because they knew the violence couldn’t continue to go unchecked. And this is not someone who continues using their voice or experience to help others.
Sometimes I wonder if some of the pain I feel in my body is due to locking in my anger. Because when I put these words down onto paper, I don’t feel as physically plagued as I do on other days. I know that things run deeper than this, but it’s just a thought. Allowing yourself to be angry can be freeing.
I am saying right now that I am angry and I am also answering the “and then what?” that comes with this anger. To my anger, I say this- you are justified, you are valid, you are allowed. But I will not be like this woman. I will not permit my anger to fossilize into bitterness so that I become little more than a machine used to regurgitate my own thinly-veiled hate.
I will feel anger without hatred, and I will turn it into passion. And through this passion, I will express myself and I will strive to have the life that I know I deserve to have, and in this voice, I will continue to use my words to help others, as well as myself. Because I know that I deserve this seat at the table and I know that accented or not, I am not an inferior being. I validate myself, flaws and all, and I celebrate my still-forming accent because these are words I taught myself and this is a life I have fought to have.
(A special thanks to my friend who sits beside me and shares in my experience. We fought for our voices and we will not be disenfranchised by small minds, and that is why we now have a new teacher. And recognition goes out to those who do not mock the way I speak but actively offer encouragement and kindness. To add, outside of this classroom, I have largely been met with praise, guidance, and celebration on my journey as an immigrant.)