I used to be so laid back my parents thought I was on drugs. Okay. My father never thought I was on drugs but my mother wondered if I was an alien or adopted or somehow contained genes that had nothing to do with her.
My father ran a small, fine furniture store. First he worked under the owner--a huge man with a very white face and a very red nose--then he bought the business and worked under the wealthy people who bought his wares. I cannot count the times my parents would have heated discussions about that store--my mother insisting that my father did not deserve to be trod upon and my father repeated endlessly, "But the customer is always right, Pahmela."
My parents were not laid back (nor are they laid back now). They weren't reclined in anyway, actually. They were talkers and doers. They didn't roll with anything. Yes, like good Christians they accepted everything but they settled for nothing they could change with hard work. Even if it was an enormous amount of hard work. "God does for those who do for themselves," my mother was proud of coining, usually followed by, "Now, go (fill in the blank with anything near impossible), E.J.!"
I was the kid who got bullied at school and shrugged it off. The bullies would stop because my unaffected stare bothered them. I was the teen that dated casually, didn't really mind getting "dumped" or lied to. Hey. No big. A shrug. I diffused any high drama around me. No one ever told me to chill out... I was already carrying ice cubes.
With this ultra calm (hey! who said apathy?!) came an interesting bedfellow. I trusted people. Everyone. I was never suspicious. I was never hesitant. If I was invited to a party by a stranger (and you know I love to dance), I went. Alone. I never gave it a second thought. Want my cell number? Cool. Wanna meet up and go for burgers? Heck, why not?
What happened?
Life happened.
Those of you who know me now--through work or gaming or raving--know that I am so far from laid back I may have a steel rod tied to my spine. Yeah, I can still go dancing. I even still occasionally date--when I'm not buy dancing, or working, or painting--but the world looks differently to me now. It's still as exciting and delightfully dangerous and full of good and/or challenging surprises, but it's also full of ugly tidbits in the most unexpected places. These tidbits are never tasty and they always have teeth.
Who is to blame if a long time friend gives your phone number to a new friend who puts down her cell phone and a guys picks it up and gets your number and runs it through the reverse-directory and finds your house, where you live alone, without an alarm or a gun or a dog, and knocks on the door and introduces himself and you smile and he hits you and the next thing you know you're waking up on the floor and all your stupid valuables are intact but you aren't?
I believe that Camille Paglia would say I'm to blame. I've tried hard but I can't really disagree.
I start to see life through my mother's eyes. I start to see, yeah, you roll with it just the same (or you die) but you don't have to be *okay* with it. You don't have to just nod and shrug off every load of carpe diem that culture, fate, life, whatever throws at you. It is so freaking okay to get angry.
And you know what? If you think I'm only talking about women and rape and other issues like that, that have become so common they're powerless, toothless cliches (and that's the real danger, by the way), you're mistaken. I'm talking about so much more. I'm talking about the twentysomething man beaten down by his over-bearing girlfriend until not only is he completely emasculated but a nonhuman. I'm talking about the thirtysomething anyone working at a job that means nothing to them but bills getting paid with all hope and expectations tied entirely around what stranger wins another humiliating round in a reality TV show. I'm talking about the companymen and women who get a pink slip after forty years of service; the ignored and silenced parents of autistic children told again and again that their instincts are bogus because they aren't supported by the leading scientific research, and I'm talking about every other small, medium or large injustice that we've all told ourselves is okay, just part of life, not a big thing.
When is it okay to get angry?
Even Christ got angry.
My publisher has this cool Rabbit Atrium. A walk-in deal where you can check out these beautiful rabbits all running loose and very happy. Then some loose dog comes and kills them all. I told you all this tale before.
The State of Washington is taking the owner of the dog to court. Meanwhile, my publisher's mailbox is getting blown up and egged and tagged. Because *they* (my publisher) are the good people, right? They are the ones following the law. Paying their taxes. Playing by the rules. While their mail carrier and their neighbors say nasty things about them (to their faces and behind their backs). That kind of garbage wears on a good person. Heck, it wears on any person.
So what is the healthy way to get angry?
Don't tell me to mediate or connect with my inner infant or something. Talk to me about Christ flipping tables over and work me down from there. Talk to me about the sheer aggression I can channel into an eight- by twelve-foot canvas. Talk to me about taking back not the night (love the night) but my own darn life. Step off the road to no where and stop, sit your butt down, and ask yourself what is my impassioned path? What am I supposed to be doing? Who will it effect? How will I feel with myself when it's all done?
The rolling stone gathers no moss. Nothing clings to the rolling stone. It knows how to move forward. And it also knows how to find the right path, crush obstacles, remain insanely strong and listen to nothing that and no one who tells it to stop, slow down, that can't be done, there's just no way.
My bedtime prayer: Jesus, going into this month, when our financial backer for the project has pulled for a bigger fish, when sweet Jennifer has sworn her loyalty until the end, when my father is MIA, when the bills--mortgage, property tax, income tax--are looming, when detractors and naysayers bite at my supporters, let me roll on strong and sure, like a stone. Even if I move slowly, allow me to move. Allow my path to be clear.
With you... all of you... all things are possible.
E.J.
