Nicole Locklear, on male violence, Threads

Posting this with some hesitancy. The problem is bigger than Renee Good and has been going on longer. But I think I reached a breaking point yesterday.

Please be gentle: This is the Anger:

This is the anger they warned us about.

The one we're supposed to swallow,

Sweeten,

Apologize for.

The anger that comes from being told

From the moment we are born girls:

Be nice,

Be kind,

Be quiet,

Be careful,

Be soft.

And the bar for men,

Which is the only one that matters,

Is this low, this brutal, this obscene

Please don't kill me.

Please don't rape me.

Please don't take my body as permission to harm.

Not all men.

But always a man.

I am angry because history keeps repeating

And calling itself surprise.

Because for hundreds of years men have ruled

And we're supposed to act shocked

By the blood on their hands.

They stripped rights

They built wars.

They engineered famine and grief

And then told us to be grateful

For the scraps of safety they allowed

And now HE will get away with it.

He murdered her in front of everyone

And the country is already rehearsing it's excuses.

Policy.

Process.

Procedure.

Words that bury bodies cleanly.

Black women warned us.

They said they would not save us again.

They said that we had already chosen this.

And even though I didn't vote for this cruelty

Enough of us did.

Because it isn't all white women,

But it is always a white woman.

Standing close enough to power

To pretend she didn't hear the screams.

I am furious at the forgetting.

At the way women are taught

That compliance is safety

Until compliance is a coffin.

I am a volcano

Praised for my stillness,

Rewarded for dormancy,

Told my restraint was maturity

While pressure rewrote my insides.

Now the ground is cracking.

I want to rage without dying for it.

I want to scream without becoming a target.

I want to tear the lies down

Without becoming another name

They say softly for a week

And then move on from.

We used to be warriors

We used to be leaders

They had to erase that memory

Because a woman who remembers is dangerous.

I remember.

And I am angry because remembering hurts.

Because I was complacent too long.

Because I am tired.

Because I am older and wiser

And standing in the wreckage asking

Where the hell do we even begin?

This anger is not hysteria.

It is clarity sharpened by grief.

It is love with nowhere safe to go.

It is fear that refuses to lie down

I am angry

I am afraid

And I am done pretending

That any of this is normal