Last Saturday, I snapped.

Cyn Santana (who I swore was herself a Black woman) said something earlier this week that had everyone all atwitter (get it?). She said that she’s been told by Black men that Black women aren’t attractive because of our attitudes—suggesting that Latinas and women of other races don’t have attitudes. Or rather, it’s just that theirs are acceptable.

Black women cant be loud. We can’t correct people when they’ve mistreated us. Our life, or at minimal, our safety, often depends on it.

Just ask Sandra Bland.

Before I get to last Saturday, let me admit something about myself. My fatal flaw, if you will. I let things pile up. In 7th grade, I was told by a friend that if I continued to do that, and not defend myself (properly) in the moment, then the smallest thing would end up setting me off, and EVERYTHING would come out at once.

That has stuck with me. Twenty years later. And I thought I had a handle on it, I swear I did. But I didn’t. I’ve gotten better, but not perfect, you know?

Anyway, back to last Saturday—I went to a bar where I observed two white women wielding their power; no matter what they said, how ridiculous and wrong it was, people listened. It was considered cute, it was accepted. I jokingly called myself an anthropologist that evening, and even wondered what it was like to have that kind of a command. Not out of jealousy, but sheer curiosity. I laughed because their interactions reminded me of the Michael Che bit where he discusses the power white women have.

I laughed and drank my Boulevard.

I was the joke to them. Invisible until I wasn’t.

The server dropped my pizza:

Them (to me): “Damn girl (in their best "sista girl” voice), I thought you just dropped your beer, not your whole pizza!”

Me (to them, annoyed): “Eye didn’t do it!”

I immediately felt bad for the poor man under my feet who was cleaning the pizza, I felt I should’ve taken the rap for him. Taken their condemnation, but I couldn’t.

I’d go on to save them from their fool selves when a Black man was about to verbally rip their heads off. I also saved him from them.

Isn’t that our role?

Anyway, my party and I decided to go to another bar, a place where he and I just were the night before. I sat my things at the bar and went to the bathroom.

“POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND!” is what I heard on the door. We all know that “knock”, it’s threatening. Demeaning.

Call it pride, but I wouldn’t be demeaned. I headed to my things at the bar and asked who did that. One bartender sold out the other. I asked that bartender why he did that, why he felt it necessary. He challenged me and asked me to repeat myself. So I did. I also grabbed my things and started heading towards the door. As I headed out, he yelled after me, “Get the fuck out! Get out before I call the police!”

This was when I felt I was no longer in control. I snapped. Instead of continuing to walk, flipping him the bird, I turned around...and said,

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?!”

Admittedly, not my finest moment.

The look on his face was fear.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to see.

He wasn’t expecting it. Or maybe he was, and hoped I’d react that way so he’d actually have a valid excuse to call the police. Maybe he was having a bad day, and the loud-mouthed, Black girl deserved it.

Still not proud of my behavior that night. I snapped. I was terrified. As I was rushed outside by one of my new friends, and as she attempted to calm me down, two white women inserted themselves in our conversation.

Because it’s still fresh, I won’t detail what happened next, but I was sorry for it. Still am.

I was sick of Black women being ignored.

When I got to the garage, I happened upon an officer—a young, Black man. I was in hysterics. I deserved to be. I was crying, and had at that point, even peed on myself. Looking back, I’m not sure what I wanted him to do, I think I just wanted him to listen. I asked to file a report—he instead wrote me off as drunk, and looked at him and told him to “get me home.”

I did something for the third time that night that was out of character—I told the police officer to do his job.

I had the audacity of a white woman. Except I’m not white, I’m Black. So my tears weren’t taken seriously. My fear wasn’t taken seriously, my trauma.

He rushed me to the car. Because, being a Black man, he knew what could possibly come next.

I sobbed when we got to the car. Uncontrollably and inconsolably. On a normal day, none of that would’ve affected me in the way it did. But that night, I had enough. I was sick of being disrespected, being invisible.

Full disclosure: I used to wonder why Sandra just didn’t put the cigarette out. It’s not that big of a deal. Sure, the officer was being a prick, but report him later and get home alive. I can’t fully articulate why, but the events of last Saturday made me understand why she didn’t.

She was tired. I was tired. I am tired.

Fortunately, I was able to get away with my life. I thank my protectors that night, and I’m sorry for putting all of us in that position.

So, what now? I continue to use my voice, responsibly. Because that’s what’s under attack. Last Saturday felt like a recurring nightmare where I’m on a crowded street, trying to speak, at first in a normal tone, and while something is coming out, no one is listening. So I yell, still nothing. Everyone walks on like I’m not there. I understand.

Black women are often forced to be voiceless in order to be respected. We don’t have the luxury of other women, including other women of color, whose proximity to whiteness protects them.

People thought Angela Rye was overreacting as she cried while being pat down by TSA. I was pat down last October, and it was humiliating. As a survivor of sexual assault, it was also retraumatizing. But I couldn’t say that. I wouldn’t be taken seriously. I’d be called dramatic, as she was.

It’s infuriating. And perhaps that’s what I felt last week: fury. For every time I was overlooked, not taken seriously, dismissed, not protected. For every time it happened to women who look like me.

I have a voice, and I’ll continue to use it. I’m sorry for a few things that happened last Saturday (sorry again, sis), but I am not sorry for expecting respect. I’m also not sorry for demanding it.

This Black girl, is not voiceless, and no longer cares whether or not it’s accepted.