Learning to dance with Anger (no.7)

Post #7

Written June 2020

A wise person, whose feedback,  I very much appreciate noticed that some of my writing has been “calmer, more graceful, and still exudes generosity. And other writing seems angrier, and more forceful.”

I was taken off guard, because calling a woman, even her writing, angry is right up there, with calling her ugly.

I trust this person, so I chose to sit with these words.
Not respond.
Because the truth is-- I have been angry.
Actually, no, that feels too mild.
I’ve been rather pissed off.

And you know what, that is a pretty valid emotion to what is happening in the world right now.
Rage is the exact right response in our current times.

And thank God, for movies like Inside Out and all the talk about feelings.
At least our kids are learning that ALL emotions matter.
We don’t have to tuck ANGER away in the back room and pretend like she doesn’t exist. We can float her up high and proud and say “thank you for propelling me forward.”

I’ve spent the better part of my life masking my anger.
Staying silent when I wanted to call out.
A lifetime of self-silencing in order to please others, fit in, and not rock the boat.

Girls are taught at a young age–I was taught, at a young age anger is to be experienced in isolation, it’s best to keep your fury to yourself, those emotions would be scary for others.
Don’t be demanding or loud or express your needs.

Patriarchal cultures train marginalized groups to be ashamed of their anger. Suppress it.
Because you know what, pissed off women make change.
Pissed off women demand the vote, they change gun laws and create reform, like MADD, mothers against drunk driving, anger saves lives.

If we are constantly pissed off, ashamed or afraid of our own anger, we won’t learn to harness and use it.
Girls are reminded, it’s better if we don’t seem so angry.

And I’m embarrassed to admit, I’ve had those very thoughts, at times about women I admire, like Marianne Williamson or Elizabeth Warren.  I found myself confessing to a friend. “I really like her, I just wish she wasn’t so angry”. 

We are told that anger is a destructive force, something to be controlled.  We should set our anger aside in favor of a kinder, gentler approach to change. We continually minimize our feelings of anger, calling it frustration, impatience, exasperation, or irritation.

We are probed with questions like “what’s really underneath the anger?” Because, like doctrine, we’re sold “anger is a cover, a secondary emotion, for deeper emotions like sadness or fear”.  

“What are you really sad about Tasha?”

Excuse me. I not sad, I’m fucking angry. I know the difference.
Sad is when your dog dies.
Angry is when someone deliberately runs over your dog.

So, we learn to contain ourselves: our voices, our actions and most importantly, our speech.

Not long after I met M., I discovered my own inner rage.
And It terrified me.
I had no idea I had  that in me.
A darkness I shunned, a piece of myself I ran from.
To his credit, he was very upfront and self-aware of his anger.

And I, was overly confident in my ability to love him SO MUCH I could heal the source of his “pain”. I was certain I could mend all of his broken pieces back together.

Not spending the time to learn or understand his anger, it’s source, but rather just lather it with love—to order to make it go away.
Like a young girl first infatuated might do.
But I was not a young girl, just acting like one. 

Now-- I realize how much wisdom, care, and a holding of space it takes to run towards someone’s anger. 

To get curious, ask why, unpack it, not take it person, to make it about me, to not make the anger wrong. To simply see it as information, data.

A few months into our relationship, I was invited to a family gathering at his parent’s home. M. got into it with his 12 year old nephew about something or other. His sister stepped in and they went the rounds. It got heated and ugly fast.

M’s niece, in response to shield me, covered my ears, as I sat a few feet from “the exchange.” I was caught off guard by the awareness of this 6 year old’s effort to protect a grown woman from something she knew was coming. 
And within the hour the family were back to laughing, as if nothing ever happened. 
On the drive home, M had no idea why I was still shaken.

I confessed “that would’ve taken my family years to recover from a battle like that.”
He brushed it off with, “eh, that’s what Hispanic families do.”

My own family were no strangers to anger.
Our home was filled with regular outbursts. Spouts around money, fights around lack rang through the airwaves of my childhood.

When I was maybe 4 or 5, I started to believe, or rather hope, that if money didn’t exist, then maybe my parents wouldn’t have anything to fight about.
As I got older, I learned to hide out in my bedroom, with Motley Crue blaring on my boombox, perhaps an attempt to express my own contempt while drowning out the soundtrack of the same old fight.

I promised myself, over and over, I would never put my future children through this torment.
Their arguments were the backdrop of my childhood.
Always present, but Charlie Brown unrecognizable.

Once I left home, I spent my adulthood avoiding conflict, running from loud voices, hiding from intense emotions, my world HAD to be simpatico.
I could not tolerate others or my own big feelings.

Then I met M. and something came alive in me.
He swears- I hated it.
He’s loud and intrusive- I hated it.
He voices his every feeling and thought- I hated it.

He lives so fully self-expressed, while I tucked the unfavorable parts of me away--terrified of what might happen if those gates were unleashed.

Would anyone be left to witness my rage or would they all go running?
As I did-- with M.