I am told to calm down.
I am told they won’t talk to me until I calm down.
I am asked why am I yelling.
I am asked why am I so upset.
I am told my anger is why I am not taken seriously.
I am a survivor of sexual assault.
I have been sexually assaulted throughout my life by strangers and acquaintances alike.
In crowded bars, broad daylight, and dark corners.
By men like Donald Trump who have seen my body as up for grabs.
By men like Brock Turner whose life I dare not ruin after they’ve decimated mine.
By men like Brett Kavanaugh who wake up sober, with no recollection and thus no blame.
When will their gender and race no longer protect them?
When will my life hold the same value as theirs?
When will we stop exalting them?
I have filed police reports and internalized the shame.
I cross the street to walk in the light, I ask girlfriends to text me when they get home.
I am fucking angry because we didn’t ask for any of this.
I am fucking yelling because I still don’t feel heard.
I am yelling because Dr. Christine Blasey Ford isn’t allowed to.
She must be perceived as a “nice lady,” as Senator Lindsey Graham described her.
But, Brett Kavanaugh is allowed to yell.
He’s allowed to interrupt.
He’s allowed to be mad.
And soon he will be allowed to govern my body.
Their feet on our necks will press down harder.
I will not apologize for my anger because I am gulping for air.
I will not apologize for my voice that is making you uncomfortable because I am the one who has the right to be angry.
Instead I ask you, where is your anger? Tucked away behind your privilege?