Anger Belongs to Iranian Mothers

Sometimes I get angry with the Dalai Lama-- ironic, I know-- who says that "anger is not helpful,"

is "no use in solving problems." As a woman and a mother of young children,

I beg to disagree.

I'm not arguing for manufactured outrage or defending pain deformed into rage

because some groups of people are

not supposed to cry. We all know those tend to be the groups

telling other groups they are

too loud, too bossy, too aggressive, too negative, too too too too much. They also tend to be the groups

who worship loud, angry men who tell other men all the reasons they should be angry, tell them whose fault their anger is, laugh at and deride the anger of the ones they help oppress.

Only, I tend to take the point of view

of the late Archbishop Desmond Tutu,

that funny, humble Rabble-Rouser for Peace:

"Righteous anger is about those whom one sees

being harmed

and whom one wants to help."

Anger is evolution.

It's the seed of revolution.

It's an instinct for survival,

and not just of the individual self.

Survival of the species,

of the weak and vulnerable,

of the ones who'll have to live with our mistakes. Anger is how we keep going sometimes when by all rights we should give up and die,

give up and let our innocent babies die.

Anger belongs to Iranian mothers

"who have also suffered

from the structural misogyny of the regime,

and who support the protests of their girls."

Anger belongs to the parents of children

whose smooth, tiny bodies are ripped apart by rifles

because powerful people hand angry men weapons

in exchange for more money, power, supremacy.

Anger does not belong to you, Alex Jones.

It belongs to the children

whose education and future

are being stolen by selfish adults

screaming so loud they can't possibly hear

the wisdom the smallest voices have to offer.

Really, I am angry with my father who says he’s been through hard times, too, and "always kept a positive attitude." He is telling me--

in his Midwestern way--

not to express my fury at inequity at systemic dysfunction at exploitation at my lack of autonomy at my inability to keep my children safe.

You men, you do not understand what it is to be told all your life to smile to quiet down to stop complaining to sit still and be good.

I’m not saying you haven’t suffered. I don’t deny your pain. But your pain is not my pain; you will not deny me my rage. And when has telling someone to calm down ever done any good anyway?

You don’t want my anger, so you’ll never have all of me. I will breathe my way through frustration

when it's only caused by impatience,

a button lit up by trauma or lack of sleep.

I will ask what it's telling me,

if it's pain I can soothe myself,

from a stubbed toe or a papercut ego.

I will ask what I'm afraid of and

not ridicule the answer.

I will love the fear

until it rolls over,

relaxes

and lets me stroke its soft underbelly.

But I will hold my anger sacred when I know it is legitimate: a catalyst for change on the side of justice,

harnessed by collective responsibility. I will not hide it behind a good girl’s smile because it makes you uncomfortable. In fact, I kind of like to watch you squirm.