How about —
why do you try to hold my anger above me, as if it strips me of any credibility? why do you have to dangle my unhappiness in front of me?
I’ve become the most ultimately unamerican I can be — I’m an unhappy brown girl caught in a white man’s world.
I’m pretty sure if you grew up being stared at or called a sandn***er you wouldn’t be too thrilled either. If you had to wonder whether or not your masjid was going to be shot up or if your mother was going to get cussed out at the grocery store you wouldn’t be so carefree.
My anger isn’t a sign that I’m weak and that my opponents control me. My anger reminds me I’m alive and I’m still here.