Early & Alone #23: White-Hot
Women’s rage is a hot topic right now. The Kavanaugh hearings and now his confirmation have given rise to a wave of think pieces, memes, and Tweets about women's’ anger. And I’m angry too--I’m angry that men like Trump and Kavanaugh, entitled white men who’ve gotten everything they’ve wanted out of life, even after they’ve been accused of sexual assault by multiple women, keep succeeding while the women who try to stop them are dragged through the mud and run out of town with laughter and death threats. I’m angry that too many women I love have been victims of sexual assault. I’m angry that women often can’t walk down the street without being leered at or catcalled, our very existence an invitation to comment.
As a child, I’d get so angry that I’d throw myself down on the ground and try to bite the floor. Later, I’d ball up my fists, grit my teeth, and howl, letting the rage and frustration rattle my tiny body until it was exhausted. Almost invariably, the subject of this rage was my little brother, who knew just exactly what to do to elicit my anger (I bit him, too). But it was also the frustration of not being able to fully express myself, to explain how I was feeling, to properly process my emotions. I didn’t have the language nor the emotional intelligence. Though I have no children of my own, I recognize this frustration in those tiny humans, their tantrums annoying and nonsensical, yes, but also understandable, given the lack of ways they understand how to express the indignities of personhood.
It has been a long time since I have felt that kind of blinding rage. As a woman, I’ve learned how to live my life without visible anger, the frustration something to put away, to keep behind closed doors. The strongest emotion I seem to feel is sadness, a kind of washed-out absence of feeling. In the almost two years that have passed since Trump’s election, there have been countless incidents that should make our blood boil--the murder and epidemic incarceration of black men, immigration bans, separation of children from their families, attacks on women's’ rights to bodily autonomy, the tax laws designed to benefit the richest of the rich while routine medical care bankrupts everyone else. All of these things are pure, unmitigated bullshit, yes, but my blood remains at a simmer. I feel more helpless than angry--paralyzed by the need to howl but no longer knowing how.
As a white woman who has never been the victim of serious sexual assault, I am lucky. I am so fucking lucky. I worry that my inability to express rage, beyond some angry tweets and spirited arguments, is a symptom of my privilege, of my luck. I wonder what I could be capable of if I could allow myself to feel that rage, to actually get burnt from it, to let it come off me in shimmering waves.
When I was talking about this with a friend, I said I considered myself lucky because I’d never been through trauma. “But...you have, though,” she pointed out. “Well, yeah, but that’s different,” I said, waving it off as though having my husband leave me for a good friend of mine without preamble or regret was no big deal. But later, when I was thinking about the violence men so often perpetrate against women, I realized that emotional violence is still violence. People say all the time, after hearing my story, “I would have killed them,” or “How did you not _____ (insert revenge fantasy here)?” The thing is, though, that I never felt like I was allowed to be truly angry about any of it. While a fantastic TV show, no one actually wants to BE the “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” (or wife).
We need to learn how to be angry again, how to use our rage to make energy, to actually step up to the rampant injustices that are plaguing our country--and not just for white women. We need to let the anger shimmer off us in waves. We need to be incandescent, always.
What I’m Reading: I pre-ordered Nicole Chung’s memoir, All You Can Ever Know, months ago, so when it FINALLY arrived in my mailbox, I started it nearly immediately, ignoring the pile of other “to read” books on my shelf. For those of you in Boston, she’s reading at Porter Square Books on 10/22.
What I’m Watching: Season 3 of Insecure was my favorite so far, Issa shining through as she navigates being single, broke, and essentially homeless. Kelly also cracks me up every episode she is in.
What I’m Listening To: Last weekend, I went to see The Decemberists for the first time in a decade, and it was a fun reminder that it can be really comforting to revisit old favorites.
What I’m Wearing: Completely and totally embracing my shameless love of the 90s and, specifically, Angela Chase, I ordered the boots of my dreams and can’t wait to kick through the autumn leaves in them.
What I’m Eating: I’ve got a busy week ahead, so I’m planning on making a big batch of this favorite salmon farro salad for lunches. What’s your lunch go-to?