“‘He’s not worth it’, that’s what they always say. But why do so many things seem to be worth more than women’s anger?”
This quote from Annie Lord’s Notes on Heartbreak quite literally made me stop reading, put the book down and stare out the window for a good few minutes. It’s a phrase women hear a lot in various forms: ‘“It’s not worth it”, “Is it really worth the fight?”, “You’re better than this”. I used to think that this was about lifting women up, raising self-worth, fighting emotionally based stereotypes about “overreacting”. But reading this quote made me think: why do so many things seem to be worth more than a woman’s right to react?
One of my most visceral memories from my school days was myself and three of my female friends being called into our Head of Upper School’s office to discuss ongoing harassment that many of us were experiencing from boys in our year. We were fifteen. One didn’t feel comfortable swimming in the school pool as she would see boys staring at her from the windows throughout the session. Another received comments about her body at the school gym. A third girl had been cornered by a group of boys on her way back from a lesson. The empty classroom echoed with the quiet sniffs and tears of all of us, expressing a level of vulnerability that was excruciatingly difficult to admit. The teacher took careful notes, thanked us for our time and promised to help fix a school culture that sought to demonise and objectify women. Upon members of our year group finding out about this meeting, we were called “pathetic”, “attention-seeking”, and that we “should take it as a compliment”. The girl who enjoyed the gym no longer attended for the rest of the year. We were fifteen.
In my final year of school, I found myself back in the office of that same teacher I had spoken to three years prior. I had been playing a friendly hockey match, and the captain of the boys’ first XI of my school made a comment about me bending down to take a shot at the goal. I left the game, walked off the pitch ten minutes later, and was greeted by my best friend who hugged me and walked me to my car. At a school event a few weeks later, the same friend called the boy an expletive that I shan’t repeat here. The teacher heard and said, “For the record, I didn’t hear that. Well done”. Someone once asked me who in my life would be the biggest compliment to be likened to. It would be that friend. Fiercely brave, principled and, most importantly, not willing to let anyone tell her she wasn’t allowed to be angry.
I remember feeling so guilty talking about it. Feeling like I wasn’t justified in being upset, that it wasn’t that serious, that it would all blow over. But when I was sitting in that office at the age of eighteen, I admitted I was so angry. I was so angry that three years later I was still having the same conversations, that the same behaviours were still occurring and that I was even in that office at all.
Annie Lord’s quote is about her tumultuous experience following the end of a long-term relationship, and the feeling that her anger was not justified, that her frustration wasn’t acknowledged. The suffocation of female emotions for the sake of decency, or to protect a man, to remain polite is far too common. Why is a woman’s anger “not worth it”? I think it is an expectation, not necessarily something we are taught. The fear of being perceived as “too emotional” or as behaving “irrationally” is ingrained, as if it were our factory settings. Additionally, the expectation that any anger will be ridiculed or ignored prevents women from expressing it. Take the easier route, keep everyone happy, suffocate the urge to scream, feel the dead weight of the emotion sink into a nauseous sense of confinement.
I wish I had gotten angry. Now twenty, and I hope a little wiser, I’ve reflected on that time quite a lot. My instinct was always to be upset, to be hurt by what someone said about how I looked or how I acted. That felt like the more polite and proper way to react, the more internal option. Seeing my best friend in a black-tie dress, high heels and a full face of make-up, speaking back to a boy to defend me remains one of the most empowering things I have seen. She rebutted every excuse, spoke plainly and clearly and with every ounce of anger I couldn’t express. She didn’t feel guilty or regretful or bad at all. She was standing up for me and women everywhere.
My point is that the misguided instinct to feel guilty as a woman at feeling frustrated and angry is incredibly dangerous. It doesn’t help anyone, especially yourself, to swallow discomfort and hide it away. If I could speak to fifteen-year-old me, I would tell her that she didn’t deserve that. She was a child. But I would also say she learnt a great deal of bravery from the women around her. From that teacher who listened. From her friends who spoke up. I hope twenty-year-old me does right by that girl.
