What we talk about when we talk about rage
Since Tuesday night, what keeps rising like a burn blister on the surface of my brain is all the times Iāve been told youāre being sensitive. All the times Iāve been told youāre taking things too seriously, too personally. All the times Iāve been told, youāve had every privilege, what are you complaining about? All the times Iāve been told to shhhhhh. All the times Iāve been told to take it easy.
I cannot shake these voices and I cannot shake the feeling they provoke.
Thereās a cauldron that exists inside me that starts to seethe when these sorts of things are said, when I am being dismissed, quieted, condescended to. And when the fire under this cauldron is lit, to a white hotness that is nearly blinding, what it takes with it is my ability to be the articulate and intelligent person I know myself to be. Something else takes over, a pre-lingual fury, a heat that erases logic and coherent argument and civility. In these moments, the experience is not just my own self being demeaned or silenced; it is the entire history of women being demeaned or silenced. And the weight of that, the condensed and hot feeling of outrage is, at times, more than I know how to deal with, and certainly, in these moments, more than I know how to rightly express. What goes is the impulse to kindly and gently explain something. What comes is a wanting to smash faces. If it were a sound, it would be a scream so loud it would make birds fall out of the sky.
This is rage. It is a feeling of blood in the cheeks, heart bumping in the throat, whatever pocket that holds tears getting filled up behind the eyes ready to spill, it is a stuttering, frenzied horrible, horrible feeling. It comes from the helplessness of knowing: I cannot make you understand. You will never, never know. Like approaching a smooth white wall that rises forever that you cannot penetrate, that you cannot climb over to reach the other side, a maddening, impenetrable stop.
This is rage, and I am finding myself wanting to admit that it is in me. It is not attractive. It ranks as one of the very worst things I know I can feel. It is scary. It frightens people. It makes them uncomfortable.
But I have been made to feel uncomfortable. Every woman I know has been made to feel uncomfortable. In ways subtle that grind like a dull file across a piece of wood, in ways explicit like an unasked for touch from a stranger. And right now I feel uncomfortable, and that cauldron is simmering and I do not want it to cool. As ugly and frightening as it is. Because there are things uglier and more frightening. The poet Mary Ruefle writes āAnger is an emotion that is produced by fear. There are no exceptions.ā
There are no exceptions. This is rage. And this is fear. And I feel afraid. That suddenly there is increased license for the type of silencing, demeaning, assaulting that erases a personās personhood.
For a long time I thought it went without saying that I support the safety and rights of people of color, of the LGBT community, of Muslims, of immigrants, of women, of every disenfranchised group trying to stay safe and have a voice. Doesnāt that just fucking go without saying? No. No. It doesnāt. Not right now. So I say it. I am behind you. I am so behind you. We have each otherās backs. And I hope I never see anyone being silenced, insulted, demeaned, assaulted. And if I do I will come to your aid as I hope you would come to mine.
In a much-read piece from the New York Review of Books, Masha Gessen writes rules for surviving an autocracy. The whole piece is worth your time, but this section in particular has been echoing in my head:
Rule #4 Be outraged ā¦ In the face of the impulse to normalize, it isĀ Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā essential to maintain oneās capacity for shock. This will lead people to call you unreasonable and hysterical, and to accuse you of overreacting. It is no fun to be the only hysterical person in the room. Prepare yourself.
Prepare yourself. Prepare yourself. I cannot stop hearing it. Prepare yourself.
Take it easy. No. I canāt. And wonāt.
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