The Undercover Introvert

Quarantine Diary: I haven’t Worn Real Pants in 5 Weeks

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I’m not leaving the house much anymore, so figured I’d start a blog series to share updates of my oh-so-interesting-life-in-quarantine. My (lack of) exploits, thoughts, struggles, and, most importantly, snack choices. What better way to be alone, together than to provide these in depth peeks into my life that no one asked for!

Full disclosure: as an introvert, much of my regular life mirrors what would strictly be defined as quarantine conditions. My ideal day involves rising early, going for a run, listening to a podcast until I sit down at my computer to read articles while drinking several cups of coffee, having a small lunch while researching or doing some work in complete silence (my dog lightly snoring in her fluffy bed positioned within petting distance of my desk). Once I’m finished working for the evening and the end of my ideal day creeps nearer on sleepy feet, I have something delicious to eat for dinner, read or watch TV for the remainder of the night, and then hop into bed with my aforementioned snuggly dog. Did you notice that my ideal day involves never speaking to another human being? Yeah. Introverts did social distancing waaaaaaay before it went (involuntarily) mainstream.

To kick off this first post in the Quarantine Diary series, I want to take you through a list of the things I’m no longer doing in this crazy, upside down, COVID-19 infected world:

Wearing underwear

If we’re going to get to know each other, I believe we should dive right in. No dipping your toes into the water around here. I’m shoving you straight into the middle of Lake TMI…

For background, I worked remotely before it was compulsory, and after my morning shower, I’d plop myself down in my office chair dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants or ratty shorts and get to work. Admittedly, my habit was to go without underwear while working in my home office (because it’s constricting and stupid) and only put on a pair if I had to leave the comfort of my house to attend an event or meeting, which was most days of the week. But now I’m no longer leaving the house for work because all events and meetings have been canceled for the duration. So, naturally, I canceled underwear too.

I’ve seen plenty of women posting about giving their bras the middle finger during this crisis, and I applaud their collective enthusiasm. My personal preference is to wear a sports bra when working, but that’s how I’m most comfortable. To the ladies that have left all undergarments in the rearview, I salute you agents of unmitigated chaos! Give it a few weeks and I might be right there with you. Perhaps we can have a modern day bra burning in our backyards alone, together.

Putting on big girl clothes

It’s pretty much glorified pajamas over here all day, every damned day. I haven’t worn something that wasn’t crafted from stretchy, expanding waist-forgiving fabric in many wonderful weeks (years?). My standard outfit involves sweatpants or loose fitting shorts, a sports bra, and tank top. This outfit doesn’t change for Zoom meetings where I’m expected to turn on my camera. My secret: not giving a shit what I look like. It’s really great. You should try it. Pro tip: point the camera so it only shows from the top of your shoulders up. No one will be the wiser.

Shaving my legs

Ain’t nobody got time for this kind of negativity in their quarantine daily life. And since I’m neither leaving the house nor putting on the aforementioned big girl clothing, I really don’t see the need to shave my legs.

TBH, I’m becoming less presentable by the day and I couldn’t give fewer fucks. I have no idea how any of us are going to go back to the way things were when somewhat normal patterns of life resume. Once you’ve flown from the constricting, yet gilded cage of gendered standards of hygiene, how do you go back again? And, more importantly, will we even want to?

Driving my car

I run a statewide organization, mostly from my home office. But I travel my enormous state quite often for work, meaning I put some serious miles on the old sensible four door sedan. I actually don’t mind driving. It gives me some quiet time untethered from my computer and phone to center myself while I listen to the week’s podcasts. But I sure as hell don’t miss negotiating the shitty traffic in South Florida, Orlando, and Tampa. I don’t miss paying tolls either, or filling up with gas, or paying for a tire that blew out on one of our terrible highways. Unfortunately, despite my car sitting mostly unused in the driveway (save for biweekly grocery store runs), that loan payment is still spirited out of my account at the beginning of every month.

Acknowledging the existence of time

I think we can all agree that time is canceled. It just doesn’t exist anymore, at least not the way it used to. And, even if it did, we’ve moved beyond our childish dependence on it. If we must, we can still have the generic catchalls of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, but when we start trying to get all fancy by naming days of the week or what month it is, things go to hell in a hurry. Let’s stop pretending that March only lasted 31 days when we know damned well it was at least 125. And April is shaping up to be at least double that…

Working remotely only accelerates this gradual softening of time. When your job can be done at home, it means your work day never has to end. Ever. You can continue working late into the night, at the crack of dawn, during the weekend, or on holidays. It’s great! Now the days blend together, creeping past with painful slowness while simultaneously racing through your fingers. I swear it’s been at least 3 years since we started this social distancing stuff. But it’s also only been 15 minutes.

Here’s my promise to you, captive quarantine audience: as long as sheltering in place is our reality, you can expect moderately regular posts about the weird, wonderful, and banal things going on at Chez Moi. Remember all the beautiful letters and journals produced during other trying times in our history, like World War II or the Great Depression? Well, these posts won’t be that. I’ll mostly be talking about my snacking habits and dropping a cascade of F bombs. But if it helps get you through another 75 hour day, I’ll consider that a win.

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So You’ve Been Called Out: A White Person’s Guide to Doing Better

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As someone who writes and talks about race, racism, and white supremacy a lot, I’m used to pushback whenever I point out our racist institutions or racist behavior in individuals. And as a black woman working in mostly progressive spaces, I’m also used to the constant stream of microaggression and casual racism within our ranks. Occasionally, the racism isn’t so casual at all, but those instances are somewhat rare. What’s not rare is the automatic response whenever I or another person of color dares to point out racist behavior in some of the white folks dwelling in these so-called progressive spaces. A torrent of defensiveness is unleashed at the mere suggestion that the white person in question needs to correct their conduct. This reaction is almost always amplified to outrageous levels because, on the whole, progressives believe themselves to be completely ‘woke’. Anything that puts that wokeness in jeopardy is met with brutal defensiveness.

And because this defensiveness is a constant, I’ve come to know it pretty damned well. It’s the kind of thing that never travels alone. It always arrives in the company of several tried and true excuses for why the behavior or comments weren’t problematic at all. These excuses are so common, so often used, so seemingly set in tired, frustrating stone, that you can set a clock by them.

Suffice to say, I’ve heard each and every one of these excuses more times than I can count, and they’re always brandished by self-identified allies taken fully aback by an uppity negro questioning their solidarity with black and brown folks. So, I figured, why not review them one by one? And, while we’re busy reviewing them, let’s also outline in detail why they’re complete and utter bullshit.

That’s Not What I said!!

Yes, the double exclamation point is absolutely necessary. TBH, I could’ve added upwards of three more. This gem of a go-to response also doubles as a great example of gaslighting, wherein the white person tells the black person that what she heard with her own ears (or read with her own eyes) just isn’t true. It didn’t happen that way. She has to be mistaken. Of course, she’s not mistaken, and this plaintive denial only makes a bad situation worse. That’s not what I said usually pairs well with you’re twisting my words, why are you lying?, and why are you trying to make me look bad?!

I Have Black and/or Brown Friends

There’s no piece of evidence more convincing to a defensive white person newly called out for making a racist comment than a conveniently leveraged roster of nameless, faceless black and brown ‘friends’. These alleged best buds of color serve as a convenient barrier behind which a white person can hide from any and all accountability for problematic words and actions. It’s pretty damned gross, but it happens ALL THE TIME. Black and brown folks don’t exist to shield you from blame for whatever you just did, said, or posted online, white folks. Stop doing this.

And, furthermore, I’d like to go on record by calling bullshit on these folks having black and brown friends in the first place. More like, they’ve seen black and brown folks before. They work with them or went to school with some. That’s likely it. You can’t tell me that you have genuine, deep friendships with people of color and you see no problem with using them as proof that you couldn’t utter a racist comment.

But let’s pretend that you actually do have a black friend (again, doubtful). Just because this single black individual is allegedly fine with your bullshit doesn’t mean that I am, simply because I’m also black. You do understand that’s not how this works, right? I would never expect you to act the same as another white acquaintance because you’re white too. Thinking all black people act essentially the same is part of the problem, as well as further evidence of the impossibility of you having genuine friendships with black people.

You Don’t Know My Heart

This tired excuse is usually either shouted or accompanied by tears. If typed in response to a post or comment, it comes ready with some exclamation points, is in all caps, or both. The translation for this excuse is: forget what I just said or did to you; let’s focus on who I’d like folks to think I am. Because that’s the long and short of all this defensiveness. No matter who you are, getting called out on your inappropriate behavior is uncomfortable. So is knowing that you did or said something that hurt people. I get it. We all like to think we’re good people, and many of us actually are. I truly believe that. But every single one of us was raised in a society that was built on a foundation of racism and white supremacy. Some racist shit is going to come out of your mouths, white folks, often without you realizing why it’s problematic.

If you’re called out on it, instead of taking that as a brutal indictment of your character, understand it for what it really is: an invitation for you to be better. Personal growth is something that shouldn’t stop for any of us as long as we’re alive. Don’t you want to be better tomorrow than you are today? I sure as hell do. And if I’m doing or saying something homophobic, racist, ableist, Islamophobic, transphobic, or antisemitic, I want people to call me on it. Immediately. Why would anyone want anything different?

Everyone Knows I’m Not a Racist

I just had a white woman tell me this the other day. I laughed out loud, of course, but it also made me wonder, aren’t I part of the ‘everyone’ to which you speak? Very telling. I guess you meant every white person knows you’re not racist. But I digress…

This sounds like something Donald Trump would say, TBH. And can we all agree that if you’re sputtering excuses that make you sound like Trump, there’s a problem? Allyship isn’t a state of being. It’s a journey. And the work is never done. You don’t reach a state of ‘genuine ally’ that, once attained, means you can’t behave in an ignorant, hurtful manner. Don’t brandish your DIY ally badge at me like it wipes away the impact of your terrible behavior. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you don’t get to announce to marginalized communities that you’re their ally. That’s something that gets said about you. Like coolness. Loudly proclaiming yourself cool just means you’re not cool at all. Only calling yourself cool doesn’t hurt anyone, but calling yourself an ally while refusing to listen to POCs when they point out your hurtful behavior actually is causing harm. And following that up by using the blunt end of your defensiveness as a weapon against said POC only multiplies the damage done.

I’m Fighting For You and You’re Just Being Divisive

Calling a black person divisive is a white person’s best chance at quickly ending a conversation that could be damaging to their self-image. Because defensiveness is what happens when the idea of who we are comes face to face with the reality of who we show up as in the world. When someone calls you out for racist comments or behavior, they are implicitly pointing out the gap between who you say you are and who you show yourself to be in your day to day life.

It’s always struck me as odd that the pointing out of racism is considered more divisive to some white folks than the racism itself. But, that’s the situation in which black folks and other POCs find themselves in this country. That’s bad enough, but it’s also the situation in which we find ourselves in progressive spaces and movements. And, if we point it out, woe be to divisive, ungrateful, angry, troublemaking us.

Just because you’ve never been called out before doesn’t mean you’re good to go. Since the situation so often turns nuclear when we point out racist behavior, many POCs don’t even bother to bring it up. Sometimes, it’s just easier to put it behind us and get on with our day, especially since much of the fallout usually ends up burning us. If a POC actually calls you out, keep that in mind. She probably dealt with many dozens of microaggressions before she finally broke and said something to you. She probably calculated the pros and cons using the same automatic equations POCs know all too well. Because, most of the time, it’s just not fucking worth the trouble, no matter how unfairly we’re treated.

I Don’t Even See Color

I wish I had a couple dollars for every time a white person has told me this. I’d have a fuckton of dollars. But, instead, I just have enough pent up frustration to power another thousand articles like this one.

White folks, we all see color. It’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise. What’s more, I want you to see me as black. I just don’t want you to lose your damn mind and treat me like a second class citizen solely based on that blackness. And, for the record, that’s what Martin Luther King, Jr. wanted too, despite your carefully curated understanding of his I Have a Dream speech. The Promised Land had nothing to do with being unable to see racial differences. That’s just ridiculous and lazy. It’s about treating each other the way we hope to be treated: with fairness and respect. It’s about equality, accessibility, and inclusivity in all facets of American life.

The problem isn’t that I’m black and you’re white. The problem is that we live in a society designed to benefit you because of your whiteness and oppress me because of my blackness. You didn’t have anything to do with how that system was constructed, but any racist attitudes and behavior uphold that system instead of tearing it down. Don’t you want to stop upholding that unfair, oppressive system? If so, think of being called out as a blessing. It opens a door to a better way of showing up in this world. It leads to personal growth. And once you walk through that door, you can turn to help others through it as well. Or you can ride away from that opportunity on a tidal wave of your own self righteous defensiveness, which helps no one, least of all you.

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An Introvert’s Guide to Social Distancing

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I’d like to speak to my fellow introverts first.

Fam, this is our time. We’ve been preparing for this our entire lives through diligent preemptive social distancing. All those evenings and weekends spent in your own magnificent company. The texts and phone calls from friends that you left unanswered, lest someone try to lure you out of your house. The doors that stayed locked even after someone knocked. The legion of excuses you employed to keep from accepting invitations to social engagements. I already know you have all the reading materials, comfy blankets, caffeinated beverages, snacks, and snuggly animals that you’ll need to get to the other side of this crisis. Know that I’m with each of you the best way I know how: by not being with any of you at all…

Okay, extroverts, now it’s your turn.

Things are getting real out there, so I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The road ahead is going to be difficult for you. For me, on the other hand, not much has really changed in my day to day life. Recent events have forced me to come to terms with the fact that my innate penchant for avoiding most social situations meets the basic definition of living under quarantine conditions. And I’ll still be living in as much self-imposed silence as I can muster long after this global pandemic subsides and everyone else returns to their lives as social butterflies. But if you’re finding yourself panicking at the thought of several weeks’ worth of canceled events combined with the harsh reality of your suddenly barren calendar: welcome to my world. It’s quiet, isn’t it? Why don’t you sit back and let a life long introvert guide you through the unfamiliar landscape that has become your home sweet home for the duration…

Your Best Friend Is You (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Talking to Myself)

If I’m being real, I never actually learned to stop worrying. I worry about everything, all the time. Currently, I’m worried about the ramifications of this virus on vulnerable people across the globe, both those that might become ill and those that will be destroyed financially by losing even a single paycheck.

But I do love talking to myself and have since I was an odd little girl. This skill is a requirement if you’re going to spend a lot of time one on one…with yourself. It’s all about getting comfy in your own skin and not minding the feeling of being alone with your thoughts. Once you’re hunkered down in blissful solitude, you’ll notice it’s actually pretty great. I don’t spend as much time alone as I used to, and I miss it. Whenever I cobble together some alone time, I find myself going back and forth, as though chatting with another person. You’ll find this happening to you as the social distancing goes on. Lean into it. Talking to yourself is definitely not a sign of acute psychosis, despite what passersby who have overheard my conversations with myself in the past might think.

All joking aside (and I wasn’t really joking about the nonstop talking to myself), learning to enjoy time by yourself is critical to surviving however long we’re stuck inside our own houses. I use my alone time to ground myself, to recharge. Without it, I tatter at the edges and risk unraveling completely. I get that, as extroverts, you recharge by being around people (WEIRD), but try on this alone time for a little while and see how it feels. For me, it’s both a requirement and a blessing. Though I wouldn’t have wished for a global pandemic to suddenly and decisively clear my entire calendar, I can honestly say I don’t mind slowing down. Not to mention canceled plans are literally my idea of a good time.

Your Pet is Now Your BFF

If talking to yourself seems weird (why the judgement, extroverts?), you can always turn to your pet for conversation and moral support. During your self-imposed exile of indeterminate length, this creature will fill the role of your fuzzy, non-judgmental best buddy. I worked from home for years before all of this social distancing stuff was mandated, so my dog knows the drill. She chills with me for hours as she lounges in the comfy bed I set up for her right next to my desk. I talk to her all day long, and goddamn if she isn’t a great listener, even when she’s asleep, which is often. Pets have a calming effect on me. They don’t expect or demand levels of engagement that other people do just by their mere presence. Your pet is cool with you never putting on real clothes. She’s A-okay with you placing the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat or eating nothing but popcorn all day (just help a puppy out and drop a piece here and there, okay?).

Books are Powerful Magic

When I was but a wee introverted girl, I discovered that books were portals that could take me wherever I wanted to go. I devoured them as quickly as I could get my hands on them. They still work as magic portals, and you can have as many adventures as you like, provided you make the time to plant yourself somewhere quiet and dive in. I’m hoping the strong suggestion against leaving my house will result in more hours getting lost in the pages of a good book. And with the ability to download titles digitally (OverDrive is your friend, y’all), there’s absolutely no need to leave your house at all. I really can’t understand folks that don’t prize reading, but if you’re one of those people, this situation is likely going to get much worse before it gets better…

Just kidding. Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, and cable TV still exist. Get a hold of yourselves, extroverts! Pop some popcorn, snuggle up in a nest of blankets with your furry BFF, and laissez les bons temps rouler. In other words, binge until you can’t binge anymore!

Food is Life

The real secret to living life like an introvert involves prioritizing personal comfort above all else. Extroverts, what makes you happy that doesn’t involve going outside and hanging out with people like a weirdo? Besides alone time, pets, and books, food is a huge component of my daily selfcare plan. And this is something I have in common with most, if not all, of my extroverted friends. We can bond over a good meal and drinks, which is fabulous, but I also like to curl up with a book and a snack all by my lonesome. On nights alone, I like to cook an intricate meal while listening to a podcast and talking to no one. The joy in not communicating, in just being there, by myself, in my head, while onions and garlic sizzle fragrantly on the stovetop, or something savory roasts in the oven. For me, food is everything, and eating it alone while reading a book or watching a movie is my little piece of heaven on Earth.

That’s really the long and short of what makes this introvert tick. And despite the fact that some of us are born introverts and others extroverts, you can ride out the next few weeks by surrounding yourself with the things that make you happiest: good food, books, pets, and movies. Take long showers. Exercise more, if that centers you the way it does me. Take a long walk (still allowed!). Check in with those you care about most via text message (vastly superior to phone calls, IMHO). Write in a journal. Sit in your backyard at night and watch the stars. If all else fails, you can host a virtual dinner party on Google Hangouts to be alone, together with everyone else practicing this social distancing thing for the first time.

Above all, take care of yourself. Your best friend is you.

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Sexism 101: Internalized Misogyny

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In case y’all haven’t noticed, we live in a deeply sexist country. I don’t think I really understood the true depths of that sexism until 2016. I knew the country’s founding documents — you know, the ones talking about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? — had been written solely to benefit rich, land owning white men. If we look back at the Cliff’s Notes version of our history, black, brown, indigenous, and female folks have had to fight tooth, nail, and whatever else to gain the same access to freedom, education, the ballot box, property, etc. that said men received by virtue of their being born rich and white. These fights are still going on today.

But, I guess what I’m saying is, though I knew we had a long way to go where matters of racism were concerned, I thought we’d gotten a whole lot further along the road to enlightenment where issues of sexism were concerned. I mean, there are lots of white women running around, right? And they benefit from systemic white supremacy the same way white men do, right? Wrong. Their access to power runs through the white men standing next to them. They don’t own it. They only borrow it, which means that access is precarious at best and can be torn away at any moment.

I digress.

Back to the 2016 election. Actually, let’s take it back a little further to the 2008 election. I supported Hillary Clinton from the beginning in that primary. I just figured there was no way in hell this country was ready for a black president. But an accomplished white woman? Now, that was doable. Also, I really thought someone would assassinate Barack Obama, and that feeling never dissipated after he won the primary and eventually the presidency. It only intensified. That was something about which I’m glad to have been proven wrong.

So, naturally, when HRC ran again in 2016, I was a supporter. We had our first black president, which I hadn’t thought even remotely possible, and I therefore thought getting our first female president would be a BREEZE (next step, a black female president!). And when I saw the asshole that ended up being her Republican opponent, I really thought we were in for some smooth sailing. Remind me never to get into the prediction business…

Everything that could go wrong in that race went wrong, but the sustained and scathing media scrutiny of HRC surprised me in a way that it just couldn’t when it happened again during the current election cycle, this time focused on the many women running for the highest office in the land of the free. Because I saw the process clearly for what it was: this country’s collective refusal to accept a woman daring to rise to the highest level, the level reserved for men. That’s what this electability argument is all about, and you’ll hear it trumpeted from the rooftops by men and women.

Madeleine Albright once famously said that there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. That hell is happening now. We’re living in it. We were born and raised here. Many of us just didn’t realize the full extent of the shitty landscape until after 2016. I’ve been a proponent of burning down the patriarchy since I understood what it was, but the fact that women might be its most loyal foot soldiers never quite hit home the way it did during that election. I can call it out now because I possess the ability to see it clearly for what it is. But when I watch other women jumping to do the work of the patriarchy and tear down another woman before she rises too high, it still saddens me.

Ladies, we’ve got to talk about internalized misogyny, and why it’s one helluva drug.

It’s bad enough when guys limit us because of our gender, but it’s doubly fucked up when another woman does it. But this happens all the time. Why?

Think of it like hazing. It’s absolute, unmitigated hell to get through, and you’d think, given your experience, you’d never want to pay that forward to anyone else. But you do, and with glee (just an FYI here: I’ve never been hazed, nor have I hazed anyone else; fuck that shit). Internalized misogyny works the same way, except the hazing never ends, even once we start paying it forward to other women. And remember what I said about white women and their proximity to white male power? Well, if you don’t tow the patriarchal line, you might lose some of that power. And that’d be like being forced to sit next to the lavatory in Coach after traveling your whole life in the cushy comfort of Business Class (First Class is still reserved for white dudes only, ladies, sorry). The horror.

Don’t get it twisted. Internalized misogyny isn’t just for white women. It may be a garment that fits them the best, but we have women of color out here wearing it too. It doesn’t quite fit the same way, but we can make it work. And it’s not really surprising. The foundations of this country aren’t just racist. They’re sexist too, and that means we’ve all grown up in an environment where women were judged to be inferior. This omnipresent misogyny infects us, and we eat it up, eventually learning to turn it against each other. The patriarchy hides. It protects itself. And its greatest trick is convincing women that we can’t support one another. It makes us believe that there’s only space for one woman at a time in a position of power, though not the top position. It makes us think that the only road to success runs through other women, that we have to tear each other apart and step on each other’s backs to get to the next level. Success is being the badass exception that proves the rule about female inferiority. Whose rule? The patriarchy’s, silly. It sets the music, and we dance.

But what if we’re tired of dancing? What do we do about it? How can we change the toxicity of our culture? The way we were raised? How we learned to treat other women and girls?

Step one: admit that we have a problem.

Step two: commit to doing something to solve it.

That means policing your behavior. That means challenging those around you. That means calling out misogyny wherever we see it, especially in ourselves and other women. If we can’t be on our own side, how in the hell are we going to deal with any of this mess? This isn’t a quick fix, ladies. But this shitshow didn’t come together overnight, which means it’s not going to be dismantled overnight either. This kind of massive shift in our collective behavior means we have to get used to being uncomfortable. It just so happens that discomfort is the condition for change. And, goddamn, we’re already uncomfortable enough with the patriarchy’s bootheel on our necks. Might as well go for it.

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Angry Women Get Sh*t Done

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Immediately after the 2016 election came to an end and the results were clear, I dressed in all black and began mourning the country I wanted America to be. This wasn’t necessarily the country it was, but the idea of it as a shining beacon in the slowly receding darkness of its own reality. My already flagging hope for the future had taken what I worried was a mortal blow, leaving me stumbling through the next few days as I nursed what felt like a repeated sucker punch to the stomach. But after a few days, that deep sadness morphed into something different.

I became enraged.

I wanted to scream, to burn shit to the ground, to roam the streets bellowing my refusal to accept the country as it was. And that fiery anger led me to do something I never thought I’d do: I got political. I became an active member of my local Democratic Party and joined every other progressive group I could find. That didn’t feel like enough, so I started a grassroots organization with a few other pissed off women that also wanted to get shit done. Instead of howling into the void, we figured out how to make change happen in our community. We built coalitions of other pissed off people, mostly women, and held our elected representatives accountable. When that didn’t work (I’m from a ruby red district in the Sunshine State), we rolled up our sleeves and worked to get local candidates elected. When the 2018 midterm cycle began, I threw myself into working for a gubernatorial candidate and hit the ground running. I’m still running today, and I’m still livid. I haven’t stopped being furious since a few days after November 8th, 2016.

Now, let’s cut back to the present day.

In a recent primary debate, a certain female candidate eviscerated one of her male opponents so completely, I was waiting for someone to hiss FINISH HIM. She then proceeded to carpet bomb the rest of the participants with devastating arguments and critiques while simultaneously making an ironclad case for her own electability. In short, there were a lot of things she came to do on the debate stage that night, and playing wasn’t one of them.

But after that performance, in pure this is why we can’t have nice things fashion, there was quite a bit of buzz that essentially centered on how angry this female candidate seemed, and how that was unfortunate, because this was a contest of ideas and likeability, and no one likes an angry woman. The immediate application of this annoying double standard especially rankled me, considering two of the male candidates spend the better part of their debate performances yelling at the audience, and one of them appears perpetually enraged, as though an entire coterie of grandchildren just ran through his precious flower beds after being repeatedly warned to stay the hell away from them.

Here’s the larger question in all this: why is male anger seen as a sign of righteousness and female anger is seen as a sign of instability?

We’re living in a political climate that’s akin to an endless dumpster fire that just keeps getting hotter and more destructive by the minute. We don’t have time to play nice. I want my presidential candidate to be angry. I want the person to be able to summon the flames of hell if need be, and focus them directly on the problem. This isn’t debate club, y’all. This is a fight for what the soul of our nation could become. It’s a fight for our shared future. Will we continue down this path of destruction and widespread inequality, or will we start to veer in more constructive, equitable, and sustainable directions? We have a man sitting in the White House (or gallivanting about the golf course, more like it) that would use the Constitution to wipe his ass if we let him. He’s damned near doing it now, and his cronies are more than happy to ask how high before he even thinks to demand they jump. This isn’t a drill, folks. It’s a five alarm fire. We need a fighter. We need someone enraged by the status quo and committed to do whatever’s necessary to change it.

The criticisms of that debate performance stem from society’s penchant for only allowing women to operate in one of two speeds, and they just happen to reside at the opposite end of the spectrum: serene and refreshing as a southern breeze or batshit crazy, hysterical, irrational. If a woman shows even the slightest hint of anger, that automatically labels her unfit for certain high level positions for which society agrees men are just better suited. And if she remains sugar and spice and everything nice, well, she’s too soft for those positions anyway, isn’t she? Just leave it to the men, sweetie.

This double standard is amplified to nearly insupportable levels if you’re black or another woman of color. God forbid any woman be angry, no matter the situation, but if she also happens to be a person of color, she’d better learn to balance on eggshells while keeping her emotions locked the fuck down or face swift repercussions.

As is my custom when faced with the worst American society has to offer, I’m calling B.S. on all of this. I categorically reject the implied premise of your argument that this female presidential candidate is unfit because she unleashed her righteous anger on several of her opponents.

This isn’t a tea party. It’s a race to see who is best equipped to do what’s arguably the most important job in the world. And, anyway, world history is basically the story of pissed off men conducting their conquests and wars while women mostly looked on from the sidelines, smiling sweetly as they lay the table for a home cooked dinner. It’s about damned time we have some women take center stage for a change, and if that means slicing through a number of less qualified men to get there, I’m here for it.

I don’t care who you are, what you believe, or who you’re supporting. If you can look at what’s going on in this country and not feel a deep seated, unquenchable rage, then you must not be paying attention. And if you’re still clinging to outdated gender norms, that shit is on you. Women are pissed. We’re running for office. We’re winning. Get over it or get the hell out of the way.

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