Now I think it’s one of the most useless questions an adult can ask a child—What do you want to be when you grow up? As if growing up is finite. As if at some point you become something and that’s the end.

relished the swerve.

“I’m not raising babies,” she’d tell us. “I’m raising adults.”

Now I think it’s one of the most useless questions an adult can ask a child—What do you want to be when you grow up? As if growing up is finite. As if at some point you become something and that’s the end.

This, unfortunately, was the box checker in me. I endured misery for the sake of appearances.

This may be the fundamental problem with caring a lot about what others think: It can put you on the established path—the my-isn’t-that-impressive path—and keep you there for a long time. Maybe it stops you from swerving, from ever even considering a swerve, because what you risk losing in terms of other people’s high regard can feel too costly.

I’ve wanted to ask my detractors which part of that phrase matters to them the most—is it “angry” or “black” or “woman”?

Their trust in the world seemed infinite, their forward progress in it entirely assured.

held up as the most powerful woman in the world and taken down as an “angry black woman.”