What is Female Rage?
Female/feminine rage is a term that pops up all over social media; from TikTok to Instagram, you can’t escape it. But what really is female rage? According to a blogger named Becca, “Feminine Rage is an expression of emotion that comes from experiencing sexism, gender inequality or any form of injustice directed at women. It has been described as ‘a feeling of powerlessness and frustration combined with the determination to make a change in the world.’” I understand this issue more than I care to admit. As a political science major, I have researched and learned about the depths of feminism and the injustices that women in the world experience. I know there are a lot of positive things to look at, like the feminist movement. But it is still heartbreaking to see all the ways we still need to fight.
I did not truly understand what female/feminine rage was until Nov. 4 of last year. I had just turned 18, and I was excited to vote for the first time. Kamala Harris was an inspiring role model for me. As a woman who went to a state law school and became a powerful female political leader, she showed me that I do not have to go to a prestigious law school like Harvard or Yale to make a difference. I was excited that the first time I voted for a president, it would be for a woman. My mom and I proudly looked at our voting stickers when we got home. There was a brief understanding there — it was hope.
The election results took a long time. I was worried, seeing the red spread across the map. Stressed, I searched the internet for possible relief. Internet creators were hyperactive over TikTok, explaining the red wave. It was a common occurrence in U.S. elections, and they stressed that the swing states would show blue soon. I went to sleep that night, still hopeful that everything would be alright in the morning. This could be it, I thought, the first female president.
When I woke up, I immediately checked my phone for the results. There it was — finalized — that Donald Trump was going to be the next United States president. I refreshed the results. Surely, there had been a mistake. But no. I took a deep breath. I was shocked. My dad — who I believe is a true genius — predicted this before the election even started. I should have listened, but the possibility of the first female president blinded my rational thinking skills.
Part of me died that morning. I was so disappointed in the people of America. It felt personal, like a setback. I think the reason it was so painful was because I knew people who supported and voted for Trump. (Living in a red state is not something I take pride in.) I did not want to function that day; I wanted to mourn. Unfortunately, the world decided to keep spinning. I dressed in all black, went to my community college classes and made it through the day barely speaking.
When my mom got home from work, we looked at each other in sadness. Just like the day before, we understood each other. She wrapped me in a hug and held me and all my grief.
Since that day, there has been a part of me that has been broken. It woke me up and made me want to fight and protect all the women who have to go through the pain of inequality.
With the current administration in the U.S., my feminine rage has only grown more intense. I tried not to let it consume me. Journaling about things was a small sanity holder. But it wasn’t until I went to a haunted house that I realized I could breathe again.
The Dead Factory
I have always been a nervous wreck when scary movies are involved — I don’t like to be scared. I try to avoid situations where jump scares are present. Until one Friday, a new friend of mine invited me to a haunted house with her roommates. Normally, I would have declined. I had never gone to a haunted house and for good reason. But this was a new friend, and I didn’t want to let her down. So I put my fears aside and accompanied her to a haunted house called The Dead Factory.
My friend knew I was scared because I had been vocalizing my doubts the entire car ride. She reassured me that it would be fun, but I was still skeptical. When our group was called, we went inside the building entrance to listen to the rules. Once the rules were finished, my panic set in. I genuinely thought about running straight out the door. I could not do this. My heart was beating out of my chest, but I couldn’t feel it. All I could think of was the jump scares I was about to be exposed to.
My friend kept me in the middle of the group, so that way I wasn’t directly attacked. The entire group was in a line connected by our joint hands (I needed full protection). Making our way through the house, I felt a fear I hadn’t been exposed to in a while.
As a woman, I am constantly monitoring my surroundings, especially at night. For all women, the night is more dangerous alone. Any man can be seen as a threat, even if they are harmless. It is hard, as a young woman, to not let your brain wander that way. Even though some people say, “that sort of thing is never going to happen,” I always prepare myself for it.
In The Dead Factory, I was scared in a way that was new. I knew they could not hurt me, they weren’t allowed to. There were rules in this setting. And that gave me an out to be vulnerable. Being scared is one of the most vulnerable things a person can be. This haunted house was a way to be vulnerable without getting hurt. It was a place of freedom I had not expected.
The biggest shock, however, was when I screamed. And I screamed a lot. There were jump scares everywhere, and I screamed like an axe murderer was about to gut me. What I did not expect was how good it felt.
Women are told, “Be quiet,” “Don’t be so dramatic” and “This is not a big deal.” We are taught to be invisible. When we scream, we are looked at as crazy or sensitive. But sometimes, a woman just needs to scream it all out. The rage, the pain, the suffering. Female rage is taught to be smothered and kept invisible. It is only seen in women who have been pushed to the breaking point. Society labels them as crazy instead of recognizing the anger they have suppressed for years.
It wasn’t until I walked into that haunted house and screamed my voice raw that I realized a weight had lifted off my shoulders. All the anger that had been building in my head since last year finally had an appropriate outlet. It was acceptable for me to scream, to be loud, to be afraid, without being looked at as a weak, emotional woman. I was allowed to be earsplitting with my voice and not looked at any differently than the people around me.
My advice to all women, and anyone else experiencing feminine rage, is to let go. Go to a haunted house and let yourself scream. Yes, it will be scary, but it will be worth it.
Note: While doing research on this article, I found an article by Her Campus at Northeastern writer, Emma Drozd and wanted to share it with my readers.