Anger Is My Homeland
Anger Is My Homeland
A Metaphor
Anger is my homeland. I was born there, I was raised there.
It's a tourist country, really. Everyone visits, but not many people actually live there. The people who can manage it move out, but a lot of folks never manage. And there's always the people who choose to stay or move there voluntarily. Those last are frequently insufferable, let me tell you, and even a lot of the expatriates are obnoxious, too. I can say this, because I'm from the land of Anger, so I know what I'm talking about. I'm plenty insufferable.
Anyway, my point is, it's a really well-known place, and yet people talk about it like it was some rathole third-world country. Well, it's not.
"Why would you want to live THERE?" they ask, usually with a grimace, like someone just cut a fart so nasty it's wrinkling their suit, and they're politely trying not to notice. "It's a horrible place."
See, that's what a lot of people just don't get. Unless you were born there, it's going to be hard to explain what I see in my homeland. How beautiful it can be, how strong. Now, sure, if you weren't from there, and you got dragged there against your will like most people do, you'd hate it and think it was horrible. But if you're from there, or you go on purpose, it can seem a beautiful place, indeed.
Now, like I said, some people aren't born there, but they move there. These people Get It. Okay, they Get It maybe a little too well, but they do get it.
Being from the land of Anger is like being from anywhere - it shapes you, changes who you are, it is a fundamental part of you. You can't escape it, even if you move away. And if you live there, even for a little while, you are different when you leave. And not, as a lot of people would have you believe, necessarily for the worse.
So if us natives wake up sometimes, pining for home, don't be surprised. In the land of Anger, we get up on the other side of the bed every morning, so when we move out, we get up on the wrong side of the bed a lot. We can't help it. We try to adjust and move on, but it's hard.
Sometimes we slip back into our native language, especially when surprised or scared, or pushed to do something we aren't comfortable with. Or when we're tired, or sad, or plain fed up. We retreat to what we know best, and that's how we did things in our homeland.
When you're raised with certain customs, it's difficult to set them aside, even if they don't work very well. For people who have only recently moved out of the land of Anger, it can be nearly impossible.
Telling us we "should" change is like telling an immigrant they "should" learn to speak English. What? You think we don't want to? A lot of us DO want to. We want to learn English, or we want to learn to be less Angry, but it's really hard. Like learning a second language when you're forty, say. And it's also just a little bit insulting to the part of us that is and always will be from the land of Anger. Taking that away from us, or telling us to ignore it, would make us less who we are.
It's like any homeland. Part of me is always going to be there. It lives inside me. It makes me strong in ways that other people aren't strong, ways that other people don't understand. Okay, some of the traditions aren't so conducive to living in 21st-century America, and the beauty of the topography of my homeland isn't really obvious at first blush, but try for a moment to see the majesty of it: river rafting on the whitewater of rage, long treks through the seething bogs of resentment, scaling the walls of the canyons of hate, which run like scars carved by the twin rivers of Fury and Rage.
There's forests, too, full of monsters, but because we're from the land of Anger, we go in to hunt, we don't just wander in and let ourselves become the hunted. A lot of us were victims once, and now we know better than to go in unprotected. We have mountains, too - unclimbable peaks of razor-sharp ice. They surround the land of Anger like a fortress wall. Sure, they cut us off from almost all outside trade, and other countries who would like to be our friends, but they keep the enemies at bay. Check out the wonders of Sarcasm Bluff, or the Detachment Range's distant beauty. The Suspicions are lower, but they go on forever.
We're tectonically active. Our bedrock, which is primarily fear and pain, isn't really stable. We have earthquakes, we have geysers and boiling pools of water that put Yellowstone to shame. Volcanos, too, and those will fucking kill you, because they are never dormant for long.
Politically, we're all over the map - war, rebellion, protests, upheavals. No, we don't agree on anything except that we are all Angry. We all rule ourselves. Which is why the natives won't sign any wussy "peace treaties" neighboring countries try to push on them. We're convinced the other guy is just waiting for a chance to stick that sharp knife between our ribs.
Even people who have moved out of Anger and left it behind are notoriously difficult to deal with at times. When we try to talk other languages from neighboring lands, lands like Grief or Sadness, or Depression, or Anxiety, or Fear, it often comes out heavily Angry-accented. And, being from our own land, we don't always hear how our Anger influences what we say. When we're hurt, it often just sounds like a bunch of Angry talk, and the same for when we're feeling vulnerable, scared, or confused. Startle us, and we revert to our mother tongue. We can't help it.
So cut us some slack, people. Don't tell us to be less Angry. That's like telling a Londoner to be less British. All it does is alienate us, make us resent you, and make us feel that secretly (or not so secretly) you think less of us for being from where we're from.
We need your patience. We need you to understand that while we may have adjusted to 80 or 90 percent of our new lives, there's still that 10 or 20 percent that is, and always will be, Angry and proud of it.
I can't talk for other Angry people here, but I don't mind questions about where I'm from. I'm grateful for a chance to talk about it once in a while. I want to get along out here, and I do my best, and I really appreciate the help I get from friends and loved ones. Just understand: I am not a casual tourist. I was born and bred in Anger from a long line of Angry people. It's not something I can just leave behind. It's part of me.
It doesn't mean I don't like it here, or that I don't love you. It doesn't mean I won't try to change to fit life out here. It sure as Hell doesn't excuse violent or abusive behavior. But it does mean that when I get that look, when I clench my fists, when I lapse into sudden silence, I'm remembering home, feeling its winds blow through me. A part of me, friends, will always be there.
And when I'm angry, it feels just a little bit like going home.
A Metaphor
Anger is my homeland. I was born there, I was raised there.
It's a tourist country, really. Everyone visits, but not many people actually live there. The people who can manage it move out, but a lot of folks never manage. And there's always the people who choose to stay or move there voluntarily. Those last are frequently insufferable, let me tell you, and even a lot of the expatriates are obnoxious, too. I can say this, because I'm from the land of Anger, so I know what I'm talking about. I'm plenty insufferable.
Anyway, my point is, it's a really well-known place, and yet people talk about it like it was some rathole third-world country. Well, it's not.
"Why would you want to live THERE?" they ask, usually with a grimace, like someone just cut a fart so nasty it's wrinkling their suit, and they're politely trying not to notice. "It's a horrible place."
See, that's what a lot of people just don't get. Unless you were born there, it's going to be hard to explain what I see in my homeland. How beautiful it can be, how strong. Now, sure, if you weren't from there, and you got dragged there against your will like most people do, you'd hate it and think it was horrible. But if you're from there, or you go on purpose, it can seem a beautiful place, indeed.
Now, like I said, some people aren't born there, but they move there. These people Get It. Okay, they Get It maybe a little too well, but they do get it.
Being from the land of Anger is like being from anywhere - it shapes you, changes who you are, it is a fundamental part of you. You can't escape it, even if you move away. And if you live there, even for a little while, you are different when you leave. And not, as a lot of people would have you believe, necessarily for the worse.
So if us natives wake up sometimes, pining for home, don't be surprised. In the land of Anger, we get up on the other side of the bed every morning, so when we move out, we get up on the wrong side of the bed a lot. We can't help it. We try to adjust and move on, but it's hard.
Sometimes we slip back into our native language, especially when surprised or scared, or pushed to do something we aren't comfortable with. Or when we're tired, or sad, or plain fed up. We retreat to what we know best, and that's how we did things in our homeland.
When you're raised with certain customs, it's difficult to set them aside, even if they don't work very well. For people who have only recently moved out of the land of Anger, it can be nearly impossible.
Telling us we "should" change is like telling an immigrant they "should" learn to speak English. What? You think we don't want to? A lot of us DO want to. We want to learn English, or we want to learn to be less Angry, but it's really hard. Like learning a second language when you're forty, say. And it's also just a little bit insulting to the part of us that is and always will be from the land of Anger. Taking that away from us, or telling us to ignore it, would make us less who we are.
It's like any homeland. Part of me is always going to be there. It lives inside me. It makes me strong in ways that other people aren't strong, ways that other people don't understand. Okay, some of the traditions aren't so conducive to living in 21st-century America, and the beauty of the topography of my homeland isn't really obvious at first blush, but try for a moment to see the majesty of it: river rafting on the whitewater of rage, long treks through the seething bogs of resentment, scaling the walls of the canyons of hate, which run like scars carved by the twin rivers of Fury and Rage.
There's forests, too, full of monsters, but because we're from the land of Anger, we go in to hunt, we don't just wander in and let ourselves become the hunted. A lot of us were victims once, and now we know better than to go in unprotected. We have mountains, too - unclimbable peaks of razor-sharp ice. They surround the land of Anger like a fortress wall. Sure, they cut us off from almost all outside trade, and other countries who would like to be our friends, but they keep the enemies at bay. Check out the wonders of Sarcasm Bluff, or the Detachment Range's distant beauty. The Suspicions are lower, but they go on forever.
We're tectonically active. Our bedrock, which is primarily fear and pain, isn't really stable. We have earthquakes, we have geysers and boiling pools of water that put Yellowstone to shame. Volcanos, too, and those will fucking kill you, because they are never dormant for long.
Politically, we're all over the map - war, rebellion, protests, upheavals. No, we don't agree on anything except that we are all Angry. We all rule ourselves. Which is why the natives won't sign any wussy "peace treaties" neighboring countries try to push on them. We're convinced the other guy is just waiting for a chance to stick that sharp knife between our ribs.
Even people who have moved out of Anger and left it behind are notoriously difficult to deal with at times. When we try to talk other languages from neighboring lands, lands like Grief or Sadness, or Depression, or Anxiety, or Fear, it often comes out heavily Angry-accented. And, being from our own land, we don't always hear how our Anger influences what we say. When we're hurt, it often just sounds like a bunch of Angry talk, and the same for when we're feeling vulnerable, scared, or confused. Startle us, and we revert to our mother tongue. We can't help it.
So cut us some slack, people. Don't tell us to be less Angry. That's like telling a Londoner to be less British. All it does is alienate us, make us resent you, and make us feel that secretly (or not so secretly) you think less of us for being from where we're from.
We need your patience. We need you to understand that while we may have adjusted to 80 or 90 percent of our new lives, there's still that 10 or 20 percent that is, and always will be, Angry and proud of it.
I can't talk for other Angry people here, but I don't mind questions about where I'm from. I'm grateful for a chance to talk about it once in a while. I want to get along out here, and I do my best, and I really appreciate the help I get from friends and loved ones. Just understand: I am not a casual tourist. I was born and bred in Anger from a long line of Angry people. It's not something I can just leave behind. It's part of me.
It doesn't mean I don't like it here, or that I don't love you. It doesn't mean I won't try to change to fit life out here. It sure as Hell doesn't excuse violent or abusive behavior. But it does mean that when I get that look, when I clench my fists, when I lapse into sudden silence, I'm remembering home, feeling its winds blow through me. A part of me, friends, will always be there.
And when I'm angry, it feels just a little bit like going home.