The Inner Monologue

Once upon a time, in the Jim Crow South, “uppity” was a word whispered through clenched teeth — a warning, an accusation, and often a threat. It was never about arrogance or pride. It was about hierarchy. It was what white society called a Black man or woman who forgot to bow their head. The “uppity Negro” wasn’t rude or boastful; they were confident, educated, successful — or simply unafraid. The problem wasn’t their behavior. It was their refusal to be small.

We like to imagine we’ve moved past that. We tell ourselves we’ve evolved — that our culture no longer enforces subservience through slurs. But the strategy never disappeared; it simply changed costume. The old word has been retired, but the oppression tactic remains alive and well, wrapped in the soft language of civility, professionalism, and “fit.”

Today’s society has built a whole lexicon of modern uppity — polished phrases that punish people for asserting equality or dignity. It’s not called uppity anymore. It’s called being “too emotional,” “too ambitious,” “too aggressive,” “too political,” or “not a team player.” When a woman demands the same pay as her male colleague, she’s “difficult.” When a person of color speaks up about bias, they’re “playing the race card.” When a young worker questions an exploitative culture, they’re “entitled.” When LGBTQ+ employees bring their full selves to work, they’re “making things about identity.”

These words sound tame — civil, even. That’s what makes them so effective. The brilliance of modern oppression is its subtlety. It’s not enforced by law or whip, but by tone. By coded disapproval. By the vague social suggestion that you’re not one of us if you keep doing that. It’s the same demand: Know your place.

The strategy thrives because it masquerades as etiquette. It hides behind the language of professionalism, respect, and “cultural fit.” A woman raising her voice in a meeting is “shrill.” A man doing the same is “passionate.” A Black employee who asserts boundaries is “intimidating.” A white one is “assertive.” The word uppity may be gone, but its ghost has been absorbed into corporate speak, political punditry, and social media discourse.

It’s how power protects itself — by reframing dignity as defiance. Those who refuse to shrink are accused of overstepping. Those who demand fairness are accused of lacking gratitude. Those who tell the truth are accused of being divisive.

And make no mistake: this is not limited to one demographic or domain. The uppity strategy operates wherever hierarchy is threatened. It shows up when laborers organize and are called “unrealistic.” When young activists are told to “wait their turn.” When immigrants are told to “appreciate what they have.” When the disabled demand access and are told they’re asking for “special treatment.” When anyone on the outside dares to move as though they belong.

The psychological mechanics are ancient and simple. Hierarchies rely on the consent of the lower ranks. That consent must be renewed daily — through fear, shame, or subtle reminders of inferiority. The word uppity and its modern cousins are those reminders. They’re how the powerful tell the less powerful, your dignity offends me.

The danger of this tactic lies not only in the insult but in the self-policing it breeds. Over time, people internalize the warning. They learn to edit themselves. To smile smaller. To apologize before speaking. To suppress the urge to correct an injustice because it might make someone uncomfortable. The chains are psychological — but no less real.

Breaking them begins with awareness. We must recognize these words for what they are: tools, not truths. When someone is called “too much,” it often means they’re too much for the system’s comfort, not for the world’s good. When someone is told to “tone it down,” it’s usually because they’re finally being heard.

Reclaiming dignity means refusing to shrink to fit another’s comfort zone. It means wearing confidence without apology and meeting condescension with calm, unshakable self-respect. It means understanding that the accusation of being uppity — whether spoken or implied — is not a sign of failure but of progress.

The people who get called uppity, difficult, or entitled are the ones who disrupt the equilibrium of inequality. They are the ones refusing to act out the part written for them. In every age, those who insist on their full humanity are branded as troublemakers first, heroes later.

So the next time you hear someone called uppity — or its modern equivalent — listen closely. You are not hearing an insult. You are hearing the sound of power feeling threatened. You are hearing the beginning of change.

And if the word ever lands on you, wear it like armor. It means you are standing tall in a world that still prefers you small.