As a li’l, I had a reputation of being Good. Obedient and self-contained, the most consistent behavioral complaint I got was that I laughed too much (true story). I have specific memories of overhearing adults remarking to my mother that it was so refreshing to see such a “well-trained” young lady. She LOVED that, and it was obvious even to my little eye that much of her (parental) identity was tied up in how I presented myself – how I represented her.
And that pissed me off. Because even though the “good” thing was partially true, I was also precocious and not a little sneaky. I mean, a major reason I was so aware of my rep was because of this habit I had of tucking into the blind spot outside ol’ momma bird’s bedroom door to eavesdrop on her phone calls. Plus, I had (have) this temper.
My temper.
My temper, y’all.*
I’m told I get it from my daddy. It’s deeper than that, though. I get ancestor mad.
Still, the constant exposure to this story of myself as Good™ compelled me to maintain (the façade of) it, despite how often it felt inauthentic. Also – for reasons lengthy and ancestrally psychological – displays of downswing emotions were immediately quelled with the handy tool of shame.
It was suffocating, having those aspects silenced and judged as NOT good, but I possessed them and they refused to stand down. Trapped in a feedback loop of being so mad because I was so mad, with no outlets for expression, I came up with (self-destructive) coping habits. They didn’t work; left on the heat too long, any pot will boil over.
As I matured, my coping mechanisms, by then habituated to the point of futility, were no match for my rage. For the better part of young adulthood, I lived in a state of barely controlled fury. I wove anger into my personality like a thread – and, look, I have keen social skills, y’all. Keen. We’re talking charismatic like whoa, so while that bright red thread didn’t exactly clash with the other colors, it always stood out enough to take an unmistakable toll.
Left on the heat too long, any pot will boil over.
Obviously, I worked something out because I’m still here and not incarcerated for involuntary manslaughter due to blackout anger. [Note: my temper is the reason I started meditating in the first place as society frowns extra much on statuesque black women choking folks out in the street, for some reason.]
I’m more coordinated now. The blend is subtle, when I want it to be. 😉 It’s not self-immolating anymore. I work on it. I may always be working on it, since – for reasons lengthy and ancestrally psychological – I’m in a partial state of rage almost all the time. And that’s okay, it’s great even, and here’s why: because I’m simultaneously in a state of bliss almost all the time, too. We possess the capacity to hold ALL of ourselves, all our messy/spooky/awesome aspects, responsibly, with compassion and neutrality. Emotions are simply avenues via which we can explore how we’re constructed and observe how we operate; we can use that data to inform the ways in which we serve our world.
Emotions help us figure out our “why”.
My anger is a tool of my liberation. I’m pissed off with purpose. I stay conscious of all my reasons “why”. I claim and celebrate my entirety without shame. Anger, joy, disgust, envy, love – to experience them and all their friends – that’s my birthright. To honor them and cultivate ways to express their quiet, tectonic magic – that’s my obligation.
It’s yours, too, if you’re into it.
