A love letter to every woman who’s ever been told she’s too much.
For too long, “uppity” has been used to shame women who dared to rise, speak, and shine. This is where we reclaim the word — and the power that comes with it.
According to most dictionaries, uppity means arrogant, snobbish, or persnickety. An uppity person acts as if they are more important than they really are. It’s a word meant to scold — to keep a person in their place.
Well, consider this your official notice:
I know my place.
It’s wherever the hell I decide to stand.
For generations, uppity was the go-to insult for any woman who dared to take up too much space, speak too loudly, or — God forbid — refuse to smile on command. It was a warning label, a whispered accusation, a way to remind us that we were ornamental at best, optional at worst.
But here’s the thing: we were too much — too alive, too curious, too smart to stay small. We were the ones who laughed too loudly in the boardroom, cried in the courtroom, or said no when the world expected silence. We were the women who didn’t sit pretty. Instead, we stood tall.
So I’m reclaiming the word.
I’m taking uppity out of the insult bin and polishing it into a crown.
An uppity woman is not arrogant.
She’s awake.
She knows her worth, her history, and the power of her voice.
She doesn’t confuse humility with invisibility.
The uppity woman is the great-granddaughter of suffragettes, witches, healers, and factory workers who carried picket signs in one hand and babies in the other. She is the descendant of women who refused to be property, who snuck education under the table, who found ways to thrive between the cracks of not allowed.
She’s also the woman next door — the one who shows up uninvited to her own life and refuses to apologize for it.
I come by it honestly.
I grew up in a world that told a spirited young woman her only reason to go to college was to find an educated man — not to be educated herself.
When I applied to Cheyney, a historically Black university, my parents thought they were protecting me. They feared my life would be “too difficult” if I fell in love with a Black man. So, I rebelled. I left home, burned my pantyhose, and became a free-spirited hippie — my first glorious act of defiance.
Another friend came from a wealthy family that wanted her to attend an elite private school — not to expand her mind, but to increase her chances of finding a “suitable” husband.
And then there was the friend whose father, a so-called man of God, told her that a woman’s place was in the home, wearing an apron and making dinner for her husband — that college was a waste of money.
She, like me, stuck out her thumb and hitchhiked toward freedom, becoming her own wonderful brand of uppity.
At some point along the way, I’d had enough.
I ripped off my apron and raised my voice.
I cried out loud.
I pointed fingers at the guilty, no longer willing to play by their rules — rules I never agreed to.
In her letter to Vonnie and me, our mentor Rosemary Thurber — one of the quiet revolutionaries who taught us what dignity looks like — embodied the essence of an uppity woman. She, along with other strong, independent women — Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Alice Paul, Susan B. Anthony, to name a few — beautifully modeled the power of quiet confidence by refusing to be hurried, hushed, or handled.
And so, The Uppity Woman Chronicles begins — not as a rant, but as a love letter.
To every woman who’s ever been called bossy, difficult, emotional, or intimidating: welcome home.
This is our word now.
We’re turning it inside out, like a favorite old jacket that fits better this way.
Here’s to the women
who stopped shaving their legs,
tossed the high heels,
and reclaimed their names.
To the ones who stopped shrinking their dreams
to fit someone else’s needs.
To the women who stood up
and started telling the truth —
even when their voices shook.
Here’s to the ones who wear age
like an accomplishment, not a flaw.
To the ones who still laugh
at the absurdity of it all.
To the ones who know rebellion
can be as simple as saying,
“Actually, I’m fine just the way I am.”
So yes, I’m uppity.
Gloriously, deliciously uppity.
And if that makes anyone uncomfortable —
well, maybe it’s time they got a little more uppity too.
If you’ve ever been called uppity — or wished you had been — you’re in the right place. Welcome to the Chronicles.