anger management

Little Women was one of my favorite books in the world when I was a child and young woman — actually, until a few years ago when I reread it for the first time in a long time.  I think I will always love my memory of it as a part of my life, but it’s true that you never step into the same river twice, or read a book the same way again.

I still have my mom’s copy from when she was little; it has a dull, dove-grey and blue patterned cover and the pages are soft with being read.  My mom and I, and my daughter, loved Meg, Amy, and Beth; like all writers, I probably loved Jo the most.  My favorite scenes were when the girls and Marmee sat in the living room, knitting for the soldiers and talking by the fire.  The intrusion of Mr. March and others was my least favorite part.  Go back to the war!

Marmee is perfect.  So it was shocking to me (and I definitely hadn’t remembered) that Louisa May Alcott has the most gentle mother in literature say, “I am angry nearly every day of my life, but I have learned not to show it; and I still try to hope not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do it.”

What has reading that line probably twenty-five times during my childhood and adolescence done to me?  If Marmee feels angry every day of her life, and never shows it, what hope is there for a lumpy, hostile 14-year-old growing up in 1983?  It’s not comforting that I have that in common with Marmee.  It’s frightening.  I don’t think I like the idea that beneath her sweet, calm exterior, Marmee is seething with rage.  Obviously, I can work on not showing it, and maybe someday I can work up to the ultimate goal of not feeling it.  I know this is not very healthy, but it still seems like a good goal for a very angry person to have.

Thinking back on my life, I realize that during college I turned my anger inward in self-destructive ways (another essay).

As a young mother, there were times when I desperately wanted to be alone.  I wrote in my journal about my frustration and inadequacy because I wasn’t always the calm and caring kind of mom that I wanted to be.  Later I realized that most of my mom friends also had moments when they just needed to lock the bathroom door or sit in the car and scream, but right then the intensity of the feeling was frightening.

When I reflected on this issue during my thirties I wrote, 

“I can remember a lot of times when I witnessed someone being mad at someone else.  But I don’t remember being angry.  Last night I asked my husband to think of a time I was mad at him and he reminded me that three days ago I got all pissy because I was talking to him about my day and he walked out of the room to call his Great Aunt Eva in Florida.  To me, this does not qualify as anger.  This house would be burned to the ground if I had really gotten angry.”

So I guess I’ve always been afraid of my own anger, and secretly admired those who expressed their anger openly, no matter how inappropriate it might be.

From my teaching journal:

“I have this student named Ken who has a lot of issues.  One day I have a pass for him to go up to guidance for the anger management group and when I give it to him he starts yelling, “I don’t want to go that fucking anger management class!”  I have to laugh and I kind of love Ken briefly at that moment because it’s all out there with him; no trying to hope not to feel it.

At school on Friday, a kid starts punching the door of Ralph’s classroom while he’s teaching.  The kid is just walking by in the hall.  Apparently he got in a fight with his girlfriend earlier.  After dealing with the kid, Ralph sees that there is blood all over the door from the kid’s hand.  He has to call a custodian to come and clean it up.

In the faculty room, we like to say that those kind of kids made “bad choices” because it makes us feel superior.  Marmee would agree that it’s a bad choice to act on your anger — swearing, hitting, blustering, bleeding.  We adults like to speculate about full moons and the relative proximity of vacation week.  We blame it on the parents (those of us who aren’t parents).”

I used to be proud of the fact that I didn’t let my anger out into the world, that people described me as low-maintenance.  But that gets exhausting.  Something happened when I turned forty.  

And the house did burn down, a little.  Things got uncomfortably hot.

  

Now when I look into the future, I see myself through the charred doorframe, laughing and smoking a cigarette.