The Politics of Rage

Silent Rage in the White Academy

Much of my rage simply grows from the utmost love I have for people of color, and in particular for other women of color. This love between women is at the core of my rage— when I witness other women of color being made feel less than, being mistreated—my feeling of rage that I often cannot contain comes from the pain that I have been cursed and blessed to both witness and experience in my own life. I have learned to train that rage, rather than deny its existence (Lorde, 1984), listening to that internal rage, and using it to “move on” (Rich, 1979). Rather than regard rage as a negative emotion (Lorde, 1984), it can be considered as potentially healthy, serving as a way to heal from oppression and exploitation (hooks, 1995), as a means to decolonizing our minds, serving as a catalyst, and inspiring courageous behavior.

Feminist theorists of color have provided a framework for addressing how rage can serve as a tool of empowerment. These authors focus explicitly on expressed rage. Instead I ask, what happens to that silent rage—rage that remains unspoken? I define silent rage as a space . . . that inside space in which women of color define the self . . . a place in which we make ourselves subject, determining who we are spiritually, emotionally . . . a space in which rage can work to decolonize ourselves . . . a space in which we refuse to concede to White dominance. Patricia Hill Collins (2000) argues that this inside space has existed for women of color—willfully remaining silent to gain a deeper understanding about one’s oppression. And it is in the will to stay still and gain a deeper understanding about the power of rage as a source of empowerment that can free us from the oppression we experience day to day.

Silent rage is also a space of reflection—a reminder as to why I remain in the academy despite the hostile racial climate. Thinking about the countless women of color who struggle in the White academy, I am reminded as to the reasons why I must speak despite any kind of fear of repercussions. During these moments of silence, I gain clarity as to what my own purpose in the White academy is—that is to remain in the academy continuously renew my own efforts at making social change for people of color in the academy overall. Even more critical, supporting students of color is important because of how both their racial as well as status hierarchies work to further oppress them. I think about the many stories students of color have shared with me and often it is these stories that I reflect on during those moments of silent rage that are the catalyst that push me to speak.

Silent rage has helped me ask questions that I at one time in my life may have been fearful of asking. Silent rage has helped me understand how we, as people of color, can often become unconsciously complicit in upholding racism. Continuous critical self-reflection is essential in reminding ourselves about the need to be oppositional and about our own politicization and efforts to make change collectively. Silent rage must be critically interrogated because often in the White academy, Whiteness seduces in a variety of ways. I have reclaimed rage—I take ownership of it. Rage has provided me clarity in how the marginalized must consciously work daily to deconstruct White supremacy. Feeling rage also allows me to acknowledge, feel, and own my emotions about racism, helping me understand the origins of it, giving me insight into how a racist world functions, causing me to speak out against racism.

Silent rage provides me much insight into how White liberal ideology functions in the academy day to day. White liberals may publicly and consciously support diversity, simultaneously not realizing their unconscious racism that works to oppress people of color. White liberals that claim how physically being around people of color somehow makes them less racist, wearing people of color like jewelry to demonstrate how “radical” they are, while holding onto the very racist notions they claim to be against. At times I feel like I’m at a performance, while Whites are on stage acting for audience members, trying to outdo each other in terms of how down they are. “Do you like it?” The White woman asks, stroking her beaded necklace with her fingers . . . “It’s so urban . . . isn’t it?” Wearin’ it to look down, while oppressing people of color every day. Feagin’s use of the phrase, “sincere fictions” (Feagin, 2001) refers to the images of White merit and moral superiority that unconsciously shape the views and attitudes of most White Americans. These views are “sincere” because Whites sincerely believe that they are colorblind. They are also “fictions” because they ignore the reality of racism. As Bell (2003) argues, the very sincerity in believing these fictions is what makes them dangerous in that they prevent White people from questioning their own assumptions about race, recognizing the normative Whiteness on which these assumptions are based and consequently understanding structural racism and their own social responsibility to address. Whites invest in racial denial, which “tends to engender a profoundly invested disingenuousness, an innocence that amounts to the transgressive refusal to know” (p. 27). Whites invest in not knowing because knowing would mean complicity, and Whites would have to confront their White privilege (Kincheloe & Steinberg, 1997). Beneath the “innocence” of Whites, one can find “insincere” fictions, operating at a deeper level, “as a cover for unacknowledged racism and as a self-deceptive screen that protects a status quo from which Whites as a group benefit” (Bell, 2003, p. 237).

Knowing that well-intentioned White liberals do more damage than good, I feel the need to speak. The danger in the White academy is that despite the tokenization that occurs throughout, Whites feel the need not to have to make any social change as the presence of some people of color seems to be enough. The silent nods (Uttal, 1990) that I receive when I feel the need to express concerns about not only the recruitment and retention of both faculty and students of color, a wave of anger comes over me and I feel the need to speak. Speaking with a friend that shared how our colleagues were responding, “I’m not so sure why Dalia was complaining, we have done things for diversity since I’ve worked here. I mean people (code word: other faculty of color) act like we (White people) haven’t done anything! We have, we’ve done a lot!” Such a small amount of black, brown and yellow faces, and yet we have managed to talk ourselves into having done so much (Berry & Mizelle, 2006).

Women’s silences are often coerced (Houston & Kramarae, 1991) and we have also been socialized to remain silent (Montoya, 2000), especially in the academy. The countless times I’ve been quickly dismissed and told by colleagues, “Please, don’t take this the wrong way . . . but you should be careful as to what you say . . . I mean . . . you can make people feel really uncomfortable.” It became very clear to me that I was simply done with my concern—not because I didn’t think the issue was critical for us to consider, but because most White faculty had already made up their minds about the proposal on the table. I didn’t dispute what was said even though I knew my colleague’s comment was troublesome and wrapped in White liberal ideology—the fear of recognizing that racism still exists can shame Whites into feeling guilt. Part of me really didn’t feel like taking the time to educate the White woman standing in front of me. However, I cannot ignore the fact that I remained silent, and part of me afterwards was disturbed, how so often remaining silent means one becomes part of the dominant discourse—a co-conspirator of White supremacy, knowingly or not . . . . It is often at these moments that women of color retreat to silence, as our spoken words remain unheard, our words rejected and/or deemed as “hopeless” and doing nothing to create social change. It is in these moments that we can concede to Whiteness, and remain silent.

When talking to colleagues of color and having conversations about the need to speak publicly about the need of addressing the daily experiences with racism on campus—and the response of some of my colleagues of color, “I’m not sure I feel comfortable with saying that . . . I am in support of what you’re about, but I can’t do that.” We have been socialized to repress our rage, as hooks (1995) says—to never make Whites the targets of any anger we feel about racism. We have been taught not to challenge Whites. This is the result of the White supremacist world we live in and reflective of how people of color continue to be colonized in the White academy. Remaining silent can only lead to becoming invisible, and can be the death of us in many ways—spiritually and emotionally. hooks (1995) argues that part of the colonizing process has been teaching folks of color to repress our rage, to never make Whites the targets of any anger we feel about racism, and it is this internalization that renders that renders us as powerless. The repression of rage (if and when we feel it) and silencing the rage of people of color-these are the sacrificial offering we make to gain the ear of White listeners. Remaining silent can also make one complacent—perhaps even momentarily convincing ourselves that everything is ok, and even dismissing any signs of racism that may occur in front of us, to us, and to those around us.

The implications of remaining silent for women of color can be detrimental for women of color in the academy. Remaining silent may lead to becoming invisible, and can be the death of us in many ways—spiritually, emotionally, and professionally. Voice and visibility go hand in hand in the demonstration of competence for women of color (Alfred, 2001), especially in the academy. For example, although women of color are rendered invisible by virtue of our femaleness and race, successful female faculty of color who can get the dominant group to listen to her voice will increase her visibility among the group. In the educational context, visibility is critical for women of color during the graduate school and tenure-track process. Moreover, in the White academy, a place that often serves to silence women of color, voicing oneself may also serve as a form of comfort, if not inspiration to other women of color who have been similarly silenced (Williams, 2001).

The challenge for me has never been in acknowledging my rage, but rather, taking care not to become consumed by it (hooks, 1995). Becoming angry is the easy thing to do—it is easy to become enraged when experiencing racism, but it is difficult to make the anger do something. There is more than just a need to break this silence; breaking this silence involves retraining ourselves to speak—to envision a new world of freedom. There have been countless times that I had to remind myself to speak—because to remain silent will only support White supremacy, and despite any risks, I have stopped trying to be quiet—the cost is too high and no longer an option.

But as women of color we can also fear our own rage. Why do you, woman of color, refuse to listen to my anger? Do you not see that avoiding this rage that we both hold against racism, is what binds us together? Are you afraid of confronting your own rage? I understand that it is easier for you to surround yourself with Whites because this will allow you to “forget” racism. Your quest for less pain is undoubtedly understandable. But this quest is in reality, “Our cruel refusal to connect . . . it is easier to be furious than to be yearning” (p. 153). It is easier to crucify myself in you than to take on the threatening universe of Whiteness by admitting that we are worth wanting each other. I hear your words that work to deny the existence of other women of color. Refusing to listen to each other only causes more pain; your pain is in the refusal to confront your rage and to not connect; my pain is in bearing witness to yours/our pain that grows from oppression. How many times have I witnessed other women of color in the academy remain silent when our female colleagues of color are put down. And when you do speak I hear: “Who does she think she is? Does she think she’s better than us? She ain’t ever gonna make it through tenure! Is she really Black [Fill in any racial/ethnic background]? Refusing to love each other is at the heart of colonization (Memmi, 1965) which destroys relationships. I speak as a woman of color that is a survivor, not a victim. My anger signifies growth and illumination, and so rage is central to my understanding of racism. Do you not see that colonization is killing our spirits and your refusal to listen is a symbol of that colonization?

Rage is necessary in becoming subject—becoming critically conscious and becoming a whole human being, but it is only part of the process of becoming subject. More specifically, although silent rage is a path to becoming subject and becoming critically conscious, it is only part of the process of achieving social transformation. Silent rage does not guarantee empowerment or social change, but rather, serves as a possible path one can take in the journey of making sense of self that can lead to social action. However, in order for change to occur, we must move from silent rage to language and action (Lorde, 1984). Remaining silent will only guarantee our erasure. We can easily be coopted, silenced, and/or may not be heard by the colonizer. Remaining silent at the margins will only allow the colonizer to define who we are. Lorde (1984) argues that unspoken anger is useless to anyone and expressing that rage is what makes the emotion empowering. Although silent rage can serve as a momentary internal space in which to redefine self, recognizing and naming the source(s) of racism, and a deeper understanding about the intricacies of racism, it is only when we speak out about social injustice and take action that we become subject. Rage expressed and translated into action is a liberating act—an act that allows us to work against White supremacy (Lorde, 1984).

When speaking out we need to challenge White words. Not challenging White words simply ensures we remain invisible. As marginalized people, we need to refuse the mistreatment we so often experience. Lorde (1984) writes, “. . . if we accept our powerlessness, then of course, any anger can destroy us” (p. 131). Rage has most often been what has fueled my motivation to refuse any feelings of powerlessness I may have when dealing with racism. We cannot accept our position of subordination, because if we do then that may very well be the death of us. Refusing one’s powerlessness entails not only the need to speak, but also to take action. If we remain silent, accept our subordinate position, and accept White supremacist notions of being less than, will only contribute to our own victimization, guaranteeing our own erasure. We must overcome our own fears, and speak to make collective change (Bell, 2002, p. 46). We also cannot deny our own rage, for doing so will only keep us from recognizing how we have been and continue to be marginalized in the academy. By denying our rage, we will silence ourselves, instead of demanding the full respect that we deserve. If we deny our rage, then we erase ourselves. We need to recognize the power of rage, whether it is silent or spoken, and the power it provides us.

Dillard (2006) writes about how our very words have power and do their work spiritually, whether it is giving a conference presentation, having a conversation with our colleagues or teaching in the classroom, our words have the power to open the way for our humanity. However, we also need to go beyond words, and do our work with purpose—and that purpose is to serve humanity. As we grow spiritually as researchers, our words gain more power to affect those around us, to actually serve, transform, and ultimately to heal.

As women of color, we also have to recognize the love within ourselves, the need to love ourselves, to love each other (Jordan, 1990). Although, recognizing love is not enough; one must undertake to love and respect ourselves as though our very lives depended on it. We must trust that we will learn to love ourselves enough to love others. It is this love that I believe is central not only to the process of healing, but also the path to creating community with each other. We need to nurture our own spirits, and those of our sisters around us.

Anger Destroys, Love Creates

Audre Lorde (1984) states “Every Black Woman in America lives her life somewhere along a wide curve of ancient and unexpressed angers” (p. 145). Being raised in a Pentecostal faith tradition my anger remained stifled. “Be angry and do not sin: do not let the sun go down on your wrath (Ephesians 4:26, NKJV) I remember hearing this passage of scripture quoted ubiquitously in many sermons. But how could I be angry and not sin? Isn’t it a sin for me to be angry? My quest for the answers to these questions shaped my approach to anger. Anger destroys, love creates. I feared anger because it frightened me; an irrational, pathological, and ultimately dangerous force. The examples of anger I had witnessed both in my father and afterward in my Black schoolmates, only served to confirm my fear, which to me justified distancing myself from it. Somehow I managed to convince myself to remain silent believing I had no anger to confront. I failed to recognize my own complicity in a system of oppression that assaulted me on a daily basis. The pivotal moment in my consciousness began with reading the words of my sister bell hooks. Speaking about a series of racialized events that occurred while traveling with her companion K, hooks (1995) states:

It was these sequences of racialized incidents involving black woman that intensified my rage against the white man sitting next to me. I felt a “killing rage.” I wanted to stab him softly, to shoot him with the gun I wished I had in my purse. And as I watched his pain, I would say to him tenderly “racism hurts” (p. 11).

Reading these words I experienced a stinging sensation, a twinge of familiarity. Indeed self-admission of my own rage proved to be more painful than the countless racial assaults I endured. Why did I stay quiet when White people called me a “credit to my race” or teachers commented on how articulately I spoke? What did it mean that I was “different” from other Black people? I wanted to know, demand an explanation perhaps but I never asked.

Confronting the sense of rage that hooks forced me to admit produced a myriad of emotions all of which converged within me at the same moment. I could not bear the silence any longer; it no longer comforted me. As Audre Lorde states:

I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you (1984, p. 41). Instead I yearned to speak now more than ever. No, my silences had not protected me. In fact, it was in my silence that the anger swelled. A newfound sense of urgency compelled me, willed me even to speak or in other wards “transform silence into language and action.” According to Lorde, “transforming silence into language and action” requires a level of deep self-revelation” (1984, p. 42).

That is one must be willing to speak in the face of fear—fear of being scorned, judged, condemned, challenged, annihilated; ultimately of making oneself visible (Lorde, 1984). However, visibility means exposing our vulnerability, which is where we as Black women will find our greatest source of strength. In the absence of such vulnerability we will remain muted while our sisters, our lives, and our children’s lives are sacrificed and distorted, yet no less afraid than when we started our journey to voice. Lorde asks: What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? (p. 41).

The words I have yet to speak are this, I am angry and I make no apologies for my anger. Anger is a natural and appropriate response to racial injustice (hooks, 1995, p. 26). Why not anger? Women express anger at exclusion, unbridled privilege, racial misrepresentations, silence, ill-use, stereotypes, defensiveness, being misnamed, betrayed, and against co-optation.

I learned to fear my anger whether toward White people and especially toward Black people from my parents, mostly my mother. Similar to Lorde, my mother too was raised in the Caribbean before coming to the United States A land of opportunity and plenty for her “she never talked about color” and her silences disarmed me (Lorde, 1984). Hate is a taboo word in our house. Growing up I remember being told “hate is strong word and we don’t hate anybody.” As if my mother didn’t have reasons to hate; White patients’ who refused to be cared for by a “Black nurse,” coworkers who asked her to interpret the attitudes and behaviors of other Black people, or Black coworkers whose eyes accused her of acting better than them.

Nevertheless, my mother maintained her stance on hate and strongly discouraged the use of anger. For example, having ended up in an all-out brawl with a White male classmate who called me chocolate, my mother scolded me severely for my behavior. A typical second grader playing on the monkey bars during recess I had not expected to be called “chocolate” simply because I refused to come down from the monkey bars so my classmate could play. It made me angry. However, my mother seemed to be fixated on the fact that I resorted to violence to solve my problems. Being called to school to speak with the principal my mother assured him that I had been taught that tried and true adage “violence is not the answer.” Without any conscious effort on her part, she reinforced the notion that anger is sin and sin is anger. Anger destroys, loves creates.

Judging by her reaction that day I assumed it best to reserve emotions of anger or rage for moments confined to the privacy of our home. I put my anger away never to be spoken of again except with family members. And it stayed hidden in the deepest recesses of my heart, or so I thought. Why then, did hooks’ words stir such virulent passions of emotions in me? Could the answer perhaps be my Blackness, my femaleness?

As Black women we are born into a society in which our very existence is considered hostile. We are taught by our mothers the art of survival, the ultimate expression of her love for us, acquiring strength and endurance as weapons, yet still deeply wounded. Wounds of passion, as hooks calls them is the subject of my focus here. How could those Black women I considered sisters hurt me so deeply? Gloria Anzaldua (1990) claims that as women of color we remember the pain we have endured as well as the pain we have inflicted upon others. Whether it is our shame or self-hatred, we poke at each others wounds because we know exactly where those wounds are (Anzaldua, 1990, p. 142). Perhaps, that is why I felt most betrayed by my sisters whose eyes reflected their anger as silently they accused me of being too passive in making demands of the White administration at our undergrad institution. Didn’t they mean “too White?” I know I heard that before—eighth grade, “Mom, the Black kids say that I’m acting White.” In other words “you’re not really Black Afua.” Wait a minute; I am the vice-president of the multicultural organization on this campus. My life and time is devoted to making it easier for my sisters, for you to go to school here. It is your anger that impedes us, prevents the White administration from giving into our concessions. They are frightened as am I by your anger; I don’t understand it nor see its value. Don’t you get it? White people are not going to respond to your anger, they will only respond to your pain. Anger destroys, loves creates.

I mistakenly assumed that our Blackness meant we had solidarity in sisterhood. However, as Lorde asserts an economy of the same (shared histories, experiences, pain etc . . . ) does not guarantee that bonds of mutuality will be forged or that forming such bonds will be an easy task either (p. 153). Frequently though we stifle our own efforts to move toward a true “Black sisterhood” because we fail to navigate the obstacles to achieving this goal, just as we refuse to deal with the angers and fears that preclude us from realizing the power of a genuine sisterhood (Lorde, 1984, p. 153). Often the realization of our dreams is admitting the distance that exists between these dreams and our present situation (Lorde, 1984, p. 153). Such realizations mean hard work—the fruits of our labor which have the potential to shape our future and destiny (Lorde, 1984, p. 153).

My sisters and I needed to see ourselves in each other. By that I mean I had to acknowledge the anger that comes from my doubly marginalized status as both female and as a Black, before I could extend a hand to those I would be proud to call my sisters. In the same vein, I wanted to confront my sisters about the colonial act of “Othering” we as women of color have become so invested in. Anzaldua (1990) contends that because we have internalized the external oppression of our White colonizers we act out of that oppression by “Othering” people in our own racial group. That is we reproduce colonial patterns of behavior, such as isolating and ostracizing each other forcing the “other” to the margins of the group. Sisters I want to understand why is it that you feel it necessary to authenticate my Blackness. Is it the way that I talk, write, speak? And yes if you must know I grew-up in a Black middle class family. Should telling you this warrant your suspicion or reason for doubting my commitment to fighting racism on this campus? I don’t think so. I hear your anger sister but do you hear mine. Is this what Lorde meant by self-revelation? If so, no wonder I have avoided hearing your anger or mine for so long. So my journey brings me here. Where exactly is here though? Sitting on the couch of my therapist weighed down by the pain and agony I feel about being Black and female.

I find that I cannot control my anger at White people either. My fear is that I will always be angry, unable to find my way out of the black hole. You have opened this Black woman’s Pandora’s box of fear, silence, and anger that was once tightly secured. As I had grown accustomed to doing I attempted to close-off these feelings of anger. I didn’t want White people to feel uncomfortable or threatened in my presence. However, it was the anger that made me see my own oppression in the faces of my sisters. But could I harness my anger to benefit myself and my other sisters as well? Lorde argues that anger can be transformed to action in service of the future and vision we desire. The act of transformation is itself libratory and empowering for it is in the process that we find our allies among those from who we differ significantly, as well as our enemies.

Pause. Do you mean to tell me that anger can create as well as it can destroy? Anger creates love. Is there such a thing as the love that hate produced? Our Black mothers understood the secret that between the power to kill and the power to create the latter is always greater choice (Lorde, 1984, p. 151). Killing simply ends life whereas creation is the beginning (Lorde, 1984, p. 151). Genesis 1:1. Funny, here I am where I started. There must be a way that I can use my anger to create. Anger not hate is “a passion of extreme displeasure that may be excessive or misplaced but not necessarily harmful” (Lorde, 1984, p. 152). To be angry then is not a sin, nor is it a sin to be angry.

Displeasure is a natural human emotion—how much more so for the Black woman who has endured so much hate in her lifetime? I am angry at the hate. I refuse to be silenced by your polite stares, nods of the head, and empty promises? You may hear me but are you really listening. Hearing without listening is a common problem among White feminists (Uttal, 1990, p. 319). White feminists tend to overlook the intersection of race, class, and gender in structuring women of color’s lives (Bronstein, 1993; Uttal, 1990, p. 319). How dare you assume that we experience oppression in the same ways just because I am woman, a female like you? Lorde called my Black sisters and I to task for making such an assumption and now I am calling you to the same consciousness. Might your soul be awakened to mine if you see me, a Black woman not only marginalized by her gender but also by her race? Could it possibly inspire you to be moved with the same rage I am at tyranny of oppression and racism that oppresses all women? Anger creates love.

If I want to speak to my sisters both Black, White, Latina, or international women, I must be careful to recognize the particular struggles they face so as not to obscure the complexity of their identity. Even as I struggle from the margins for self-love and self-determination it is incumbent upon me to afford the same level of human agency to sisters who are different than me (Jordan, 1990, pp. 174-175). Against my mother’s admonition we will need to talk about color. And we are going to need to be allowed to get messy (Jordan, 1990). “If I speak to you in anger, at least I have spoken to you . . . ” (Lorde, 1984, p. 130). We cannot craft a true vision of a shared future if we are not willing to doing the work, to work through the differences that bring us closer to each other as (Uttal, 1990, p. 320 ). As Uttal notes we would do well to take a lesson from many feminist groups of color. There is real commitment to working through the pain, confusion, and misunderstandings to come to the realization of that shared vision we all cherish so deeply (Uttal, 1990, p. 320 ). So indeed my anger has meaning, purpose even, and so do yours my sister. I am not destined to be continuously consumed by the rage I feel. Undoubtedly, being consumed by my rage would produce hate—an emotional or habitual state of mind in which aversion and ill will are combined to do harm (Lorde, 1984, p. 152). Oh, I get it now. “Do not let the sun go down on your anger” for it shall become hate. And hatred even towards the oppressor brings death (Lorde, 1984, p. 152).

How shall I use my anger? In search of a vision that is rooted in ending racism, injustice, and oppression of all kinds. Yes, I think so. June Jordan asserts that as a Black feminist she reflects on how her own work is moving toward the ending of global oppression. Jordan (1990) says:

How is my own life work serving to end these tyrannies, these corrosions of sacred possibility? How am I earning membership in our worldwide movement for self-determination and self-respect? (p. 176).

I answer your question by saying that I want to rescue the souls of the young women of color who will come after me. The anger I feel when I think about the cruelty of being female and colored in this world motivates me to fight, struggling to build a bridge called my back upon which they can stand on. Indeed anger creates love.

Conclusion

We cannot deny our own rage, for doing so will only keep us from recognizing how we have been and continue to be marginalized in the academy. By denying our rage, we will silence ourselves, contributing to our own erasure, instead of demanding the full respect that we deserve. As marginalized people we need to refuse the mistreatment we so often experience. As Lorde writes, “ . . . if we accept our powerlessness, then of course, any anger can destroy us” (Lorde, 1984, p. 131). Rage has most often been what has fueled our motivation to refuse any feelings of powerlessness we may have when dealing with racism. We cannot accept our position of subordination, because if we do then that may very well be the death of us. Not accepting one’s powerlessness entails not only the need to speak, but also to take action. It is our rage that we so often hold onto that reminds us of the need to be oppositional to the social structures, individuals and collectives that work to uphold White supremacy.

Rage also serves as a reminder of the need to renew our efforts at politicization, especially when as women of color we begin feeling like we have no control in this racist system. Stated simply, rage nourishes our commitment to eradicating racism. It is the commitment to take action, and actively make social change that is necessary to create collective and meaningful social change.

As women of color we also need to recognize each other and be supportive of one another, and work with each other to create community. Community is the product of struggle (Mohanty, 2004), unstable and contextual and constantly shifting therefore, we need to continue to reevaluate it, as well as our own positions within it. We also have to recognize the love within ourselves, the need to love ourselves, to love others fully (Jordan, 1990). Although, recognizing love is not enough; We must undertake to love ourselves and respect ourselves as though our very lives depend upon self-love and self-respect (p. 174). We must trust that we will learn to love ourselves enough to love others.

It is this love that we believe is central not only to the process of healing, but also the path to creating community with each other. We need to nurture our own spirits, and those of our sisters around us. This self-love is a “radical political agenda “(hooks, 1995) because it changes how we see ourselves (p. 119). Self-love is a means to refuse colonization (Cordova, 1998). Strengthening self through love, “. . .Makes room for a collective spirit and the commitment to community and humanity” (p. 39). If we build communities where humanization is central to our lives, then we can challenge the nature of colonialism and colonial relationships. At the heart of colonization is dehumanization, and building community becomes critical to our survival.