The TGIF lineup differs from the societal mores or our sincerely piqued interest in frivolous diversions during these politically wild and tumultuous times. In Youthquake’s return essay, we dive into the beautiful and destructive catharsis of feminine rage. Get into it below.
“Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.” – Socrates.
As someone who lived in previous absolutes, nuance isn’t something that came effortlessly for me. Unable to fully accept that life isn’t black or white but often very mixed with intense shades of foggy greys, I experienced a complete decomposition— physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My stability decayed while experiencing burnout like never before. An invisible growing resentment had attached itself to me like a parasite I was naively unaware of. Quickly losing my once calm-headed demeanor with a short-tempered shell that engulfed me due to a lack of control and emotional security. Regularly becoming irrationally annoyed left me with a burgeoning chip on my shoulder and a growing attitude problem. Suffice it to say that at my worse, I was stubbornly obstinate and inflexibly close-minded when it came to my loved ones or their choices that I didn’t necessarily agree with. If their version of integrity or honesty didn’t align with mine, my judgments were swift and severe— like a guillotine.
Once quick to suss out and read people as objectively observant with a piercing intuition, all seemed to vanish along with my once-sharpened conscience, which became a spectral haunting me instead of guiding me. Causing a rising in fierce inner and defensive anger that blindsided my unprepared soul, I kept internalizing my anxiety/depression that culminated into anger throughout the years since life wasn’t going how I expected. I hadn’t unpacked my anger or betrayal in therapy since I wasn’t admitting an issue with my need to cope or a problem asserting boundaries, emotionally attaching myself to those I held closest and dearest. My plummeting demise was inevitable for my rebirth.
Unable to discern situations, people, and emotions or rely on my intuition— which has always been a hidden ‘superpower’— I felt uneasy trying to live that I wasn’t even surviving. I was drowning and sinking in anger with a broken heart and multiple betrayals, which inadvertently re-opened many childhood wounds as I lost loved ones figuratively and literally. Those previous best friends and soul-mates were an active everyday presence in my life, including a great love that I never truly experienced in its full potential or understood completely— all left me seismically broken and a misunderstood villain in their perspective simply for standing my ground while finding a shaky yet firm set of boundaries.
Despite my strange dreams or omens, denial kept me unemotionally prepared for the results. Instead, I let my past hinder and even paralyze any ounce of optimism or drip of wonderous possibilities due to my propensity for fight or flight. Diminishing any instinctual spidey sense that I had seemingly hardwired as I trusted the wrong people and doubted the right ones.
Still finding myself and becoming more outspoken and hasty with a sharp-tongued, my inner dialogue turned into loud opinions that were out of the norm for a usually shy and internally nervous person. This emotional fuse box demolished any filter I had while growing increasingly disconnected. Unintentionally and heavily triggering those around me led to arguments and ghosting with plenty of those who disliked assertive, resilient girls that didn’t “know their place.” Not yet self-aware enough to pull through life’s steep lows, I indulged in my unchecked grief that culminated into incensed anger. It’s not that I was looking for a proverbial fight. Still, I was in many particularly when feeling defensively cornered or pushed around— including clashes between the Titans with my parents on numerous occasions.
I was called angry, defiant, a provocateur, and mostly combative. However, the one that got me to see my ancestral anger activate and soar through me was being called “difficult” or “too much” by people who’d rather I shrink myself to accommodate their comfort. This included my parents, whose strict immigrant and endocrine religious household didn’t like opposing opinions or questioning the status quo because it’s perceived as spoiled and ungrateful.
Stifled and hardened by a harsh environment, I grew up having to be strong emotionally by nature, leaving childhood’s plush safety and whimsy to responsibility and a strict religious endocrine that still gives me PTSD. So, like many great women before me, I took my frustrations out on my hair years back as I bleached and dyed it blue as a little act of rebellion against becoming an expected casualty of conformity. Never having a party phase, my selfish gratification acted out. Still, mostly, I was devastated that my Abuela passed away and wanted to do something out of expected character from the sweet, subservient, good girl I’ve always had to be— I can now see this was the beginning of my blackout, rageful time as I tried to escape with self-destruction.
Not realizing that I wasn’t living for myself but rather to appease my parents’ immigrant guilt and familial expectations, as disappointing my parents was a great personal unhappiness. Except I was omitting myself from my own life, withering alone in self-misery and wallowing in unhappiness— until I found someone who made being miserable a little less solitary. Misery indeed loves company, yet their company was the only glimmer of hopeful light during an ashen bleak time. Then I selfishly self-combusted, lost control, and struggled to find my autonomy. Brisk to reach for those figurative scissors to cut and run, I’d remove myself to settle nicely into delusion and martyrdom while peppering in self-isolation.
Unable to regulate my emotions unless it was frustration or straight red-hot anger, I wasn’t ready to claim my part in accountability due to ego— my pride had to take in many knockout rounds as life humbled me with reality. As first-generation kids, the invisible reminders and overbearing guilt of the plight of our elders are constant—we were to never forget where we came from as our roots are what help ground us. My parents never wanted us to fully assimilate into American culture or customs. We were anticipated to be conservative— not be heard or seen too radically to rock the boat. Internalizing so many arbitrary rules that I was programmed into following throughout the years, it was no wonder I steadily spiraled irately due to the feeling of being voiceless and solitary. I was generationally morphing myself like my family members— a pious attitude while viewing the world as unjust and cruel, despite the hidden beauty and poeticism among layers of horridness.
Grounding me probably too little and too late in certain situations, I faced the karmic boomerang that came to collect without securing an insulated landing for a voyage of self-exploration. Simply leaping into the unknown, I had no choice but to wonder solo.
I began prioritizing myself by exploring the outer limits of my internalized anger, which I’ve written plenty about and are in the Youthquake archive. Now years into this introspection odyssey, I honor myself more than ever and find much-deserved equanimity. Does this mean I have it all together, and life is seemingly perfect? Quite the contrary. Still dealing with the aftermath of my rageful era and utilizing my bitch one, I incorporate my anger to release previous versions of myself I created to survive. For others, it’s been challenging to realize I’m different from what I used to be. I’m less melancholic but still angry. Sometimes still a little too easy.
Whether it’s work, dating attempts, or my endless frustration with freelancing— which I’ve completely unintentionally given up to focus on Youthquake full-time during slivers of time I have to myself. However, I can regulate my emotions and process why I’m feeling how I do. Releasing organized religion long ago, I embraced spirituality over oppressive religious structures. It taught me that the universe constantly rearranges itself to support our idea of reality, except ensuring we’re grounded is key. Hindsight and therapy also taught me that grounding humility meant I had to break down to rebuild, looking inward cognitively to know myself without pettiness or vengeful anger in favor of overall spiritual wisdom or guidance, as the healing magic I always sought was in the inner work I was avoiding.
Except my moral compass was rusty. An inherited creature releasing generational anger, there’s a fascination and poeticism of women gone mad. Relishing in mutually assured destruction, women’s sentiments and actions are often justifiable and understood yet snappily vilified— while being objectified and devoid of humanness for our mistakes. Our ire is perceived as illegitimate when it’s cathartic, even motivational to release. Men can bounce back from their blundering oversights, as women are misconstrued if we stick to our proverbial guns when challenging cached power and authority. We’re made to look discredited and unserious, emotionally unstable while our sexualities are weaponized and dissected— as simultaneously descended unattractive by society’s standards.
Realizing the catch-22 of girlhood turned womanhood is the ongoing accompanying brutality and wretchedness hidden in its wholesomeness. I never realized how tightly I was clinging to my fit of fury as a young girl. Yet without feminine rage, there’d be no stimulant for transformation— politically or socially. Feminine rage dates throughout the ages, portraying many examples of women as wicked, manipulative, and seductive. The word misogyny, which derives from the Greek misos— meaning hatred and gunē meaning woman— is the hatred or contempt for women, which was notoriously unrestraint in ancient Greece. Pandora, harpies, the Keres, the gorgon, Medusa, Scylla, and more warn of dastardly ‘bad women’ warning labels or examples. These tales of Goddess vs. monsters were enthralling to me growing up. Still, as a young kid reading Greek tragedies, the women hating other women portion went over my head until my twenties as the noughties were a sexist cesspool, and I had deprogramming to accomplish.
Fortunately, my thirst and curiosity for self-discovery led me to where I am now. Many repeated lessons and patterns later, still a work in progress, but surviving as opposed to being society’s victim— miserably unhappy, yelling at clouds. Healing my inner child and embracing living presently are the exact bursts of healing and nurturing that my Abuelos taught me— that and the importance of our souls connecting with nature and animals. Currently, I’m keen to pause and appreciate despite the chaos I can’t control around me to breathe and reboot. Or whatever I need to healthily do to unleash my rage, even grief, instead of having it consume me while taking others down with me.
Looking back, it sounds silly that I spent so much time fixating on aimless rules that I thought I had to follow. No matter how many versions of myself I tried to be for others, what I want for myself is crucial, whether family or friends understand it. I don’t care if they don’t respect it, but there’s no other choice but accept. My well-being is a priority over strained expectations. Growing older means allowing more nuances and room for growth by hopefully learning from what we didn’t know when we were younger— we’re imperfect human fuck-ups. Retrospective moments helped me to realize what I want and deserve since not all those who wander are aimless. So for those who are seeking truth beyond tradition, I see and appreciate your subversiveness. It’s a little luxury to wander without plans, and I’ve happily indulged in my aim to live a little softer and accept the wicked multitudes of who I am and others.
Since I adore shades of grey and nuance in my wiser years, this film list has plenty of women— and Elliot Page, who are justly in their emotional spirals. Pop off, ladies.
Coffy (1973)
Foxy Brown (1974)
Widows (2018)
Set It Off (1996)
Monster (2003)
Thoroughbreds (2017)
Diabolique (1955)
A Woman Under the Influence (1974)
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962)
A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014)
Ginger Snaps (2000)
Possession (1981)
Audition (1999)
Hard Candy (2005)
The Craft (1996)
Pearl (2002)
The Love Witch (2016)
Harley Quinn: Birds of Prey (2020)
Thelma & Louise (1991)
Nine to Five (1980)
Shiva Baby (2020)
Teeth (2007)
Assembling some beloved favorites from incredible and incendiary women, we curated a musical anthology to figuratively burn it all to the ground. Ranging from Fiona Apple, FKA Twigs, Japanese Breakfast, Sleater-Kinney, Lady Gaga, PJ Harvey, Björk, Garbage, Hole, Florence + the Machine, and Lana del Rey— the gang’s all here.
“A male loner is a hero of sorts— a rebel, an iconoclast, but the same is not true of a female loner. There is no virility in a woman’s autonomy, and there is only pity.”
― Carrie Brownstein, Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl.
Apple Music, HERE.
I’ve explored a myriad of emotional depths as the self-destruction of feminine rage doesn’t know how else to express itself— until the activation occurs without safety protocols. Anger’s the most commonly alluring and quite intoxicating in its power. While I never reached violent levels of anger, I completely understand women who act out against systemic oppression and countless years of the savagery of gendered connotations. This isn’t advocacy for violence, merely a suggestion to utilize our rightful anger for transformative and revolutionary inner power— fuck likability, I’m all in favor of fully embracing accountability.
The past few months have been a blur of non-stop work with hardly any spare time. Let alone any writing time; I’ve managed to write this overdue piece after a seemingly endless writer’s block. Most of my time was spent planning my dad’s highly deserved surprise birthday party with dinner and a movie (mi madre chose Elvis) under the stars.
However, I’ve managed to squeeze in viewings of Super Mario Bros., Tetris, and Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves— all for my inner child because who wants to be a serious adult all the time? I’ve also managed to watch Netflix’s Beef— an encapsulation of pure unadulterated hatred— Amy Lau (Ali Wong) is a bastion of feminine rage. Conversely, Danny Cho (Steven Yeun) reminded me of my evangelical past.
Meanwhile, Hulu’s Pretty Baby: Brooke Shields was gripping and has stayed with me since watching it. As a longtime fan of Brooke Shields, whose early films like Blue Lagoon and Endless Love (thanks to my dad, who’s a sucker for romance films) were coming-of-age staples in my sisters and my girlhood. Despite watching Pretty Baby in high school, I wouldn’t say I enjoyed the film. The inevitable misogyny is what young girls face, not only from strangers but from those meant to keep us safe. Girlhood can be a holy experience in its duality, good or bad it’s quite extraordinary. Yet it’s rampant with hideous multifaced layers in a patriarchal society; I highly recommend the doc to anyone curious about what it feels like in this world for a girl.
Con Amor,
Naomi x