What a Weekend - Part 2: Rage is a Fire
When we were younger, say 12 and 14 years old, my brother and I would fight like the dickens. It never required much of an altercation between us to get going. An insult that went too far. A threat to property that seemed legit. Inevitably one of us would end up taking the step towards violence and the shit would be on. Mostly, I remember a lot of wrestling— gross, sweaty, teenage skin rubbing against each other. There were a few times when it probably crossed into the neighborhood of “criminal act”.
I was the baby and typically the loser, being weaker and more sensitive than him. I could never hurt him, not really, and because of that he always won. Why? Because he didn’t mind crossing the line. He could stop the voice in his head that I couldn’t. No matter how angry I was or how much I wanted to hurt him, a little voice always said “he’s your brother, you love him. You can’t.” And I wouldn’t. You know how many times I had him vulnerable to a brutal blow and held back? About as many times as he didn’t.
See, the thing was, we wanted to fight. We both enjoyed it to some degree. By the end, I was in tears and regretting my need for blood, but in the moment, I wanted to fight. And so did he. Whatever untold, unresolved grievances we had with each other would be trotted out once more, and in our own self-righteous, justified anger, we would visit blows upon each other. I’ve got the scars if you want to see them.
As I said, this was a two-way street. I incited him and he incited me and we danced our violent dance together. But it was never a fair or just fight. For starters, he was older than me. He had a few years of puberty on me, and let me tell you, it makes a difference. He was also a much better athlete. I don’t think I’ve ever beat him at anything. He was faster, stronger, everything. And he was more ruthless than I was. His own experiences with bullying taught him that lesson, I think. That mercy was for people who got hurt. He told me once that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who get trampled and those who do the trampling. I’ll let you figure out which of us was which on your own.
The ruthlessness he showed me was terrifying. It was infrequent but not random. I knew what circumstances could lead to his exploding temper. We all got that from our pops, a bad temper. It was a fury that I could never match. I could never hurt him as he could me. He was always protected, in a way, by his ability to inflict pain on me with impunity. He could always escalate beyond me and that trapped me into a position of hopelessness, frustration, and rage.
Rage is an interesting thing. It’s like anger, only it seems to burn much hotter, much faster. It feels like you get superpowers when it comes. If anger is a festering puss-filled blister then rage is the oozing, bloody mess when it pops. It hurts, but it feels good too.
It presents a lot of different ways, sometimes in unpredictable ways. If I had a dollar for every time I yelled at a total stranger in rage because they were driving like a dickhead, I’d have a little bit of money but not enough to live off. Who hasn’t snapped at a friend because you couldn’t yell at that person you wanted to? It’s about as human as you can get. Rage moves wherever the wind blows it. It consumes and destroys. It gets harder to put out the longer it burns. Fear is an accelerant. It narrows the human perspective. It closes off thought and initiates an internal response of either “oh shit, run” or “oh shit, you better run.” Put that onto a bonfire of rage and you got some heat baby. Time to make a stew.
It’s not clear who (or for what motivations) is doing the looting and arson. There seems to be some evidence that it is coming from outsiders. But I’m not sure in the big picture of things that it matters. It is happening. Yes, of course, it is extremely important to find out who is doing it and why. There is a difference between ANTIFA (more on them this week), Nazis, anarchists, and looters. Narrowly focused on Minneapolis, it is very important to understand what has happened here. But expanding to the broader sense of the country, it is troublesome that anyone feels this is a good or productive idea.
Whatever the motivations or perpetrators, I think we can agree that these protests are an expression of rage. And there is plenty to be upset about. You can literally go to anytime in American history and find examples of white supremacy brutalizing blacks without punishment or repercussion. For my entire lifetime, I’ve witnessed a cycle that repeats over and over again. An injustice is thrust upon an oppressed people, usually the murder of a minority, often a black man. The white power structure first tries to cover it up by failing to do anything at all. If the victim is lucky and the press gets a hold of it, they might have to get rid of it by dragging their feet “investigating”. Then there are protests and depending on the size of the crowds and attention span of the media, that informs how quickly the white power structure responds. If you end up lucky enough to get charges and a trial, there is a very low chance of being found guilty. Unless the agent of the white power structure happens to be a minority themselves, then all bets are off. This goes on and on until the next incident, which starts the cycle over again.
There doesn’t seem to be an end to this without broad, systemic changes. And really, that requires the aid of white people. Listen, it’s been nice having other people do our dirty work. We got very wealthy that way and became a superpower. Spread democracy worldwide. But in order to accomplish incredible things, an even larger price was paid by the ancestors of our fellow black citizens.
It was not a choice. It was thrust upon them and they bore the burden as well as any people could. Look at all that was achieved even with the yoke of white supremacy. I mean, jazz? That alone is amazing. And only a few short decades after their grandparents were treated like animals to boot. When we celebrate black accomplishments we should always remember that they were won with one hand behind their back. Jackie Robinson couldn’t have been a utility infielder. He had to be one of the best ever. Their strength and perseverance should never be forgotten or taken for granted. Imagine what we can do, together, when we have true equality (if such a thing is ever attainable)?
As the protesters and police stood in opposition to each other this past weekend, I couldn’t help but feel an imbalance in power. The police, with their military gear and weapons, advanced on unarmed citizens, the very people they are sworn to protect. And as they bashed their shields and batons into their fellow countrymen, the air filled with tear gas and pepper spray, I wondered what the protesters could do against such an incredible force. If they returned the violence that the police incited, they would, uhh, probably disappear forever? It wouldn’t be good for them. Yet if they ran and backed down from the very people who they saw as oppressors, wouldn’t they be acquiescing to the system that wants to oppress them?
You can see the dilemma. And this is only one tiny sliver of the situation, one ingredient in the stew. Toss in everything else and you’ve got a situation that honestly has me surprised we aren’t talking about dozens of deaths. One thing you can count on in America is that there will be guns. Oh yes, my friend, there will be guns. And they’re being held by people who are also full of rage. My biggest fear is that some kind of paramilitary force will evolve where local police will allow “militias” to help them keep the peace. This would be the worst-case scenario for our country and we cannot allow it to happen.
Our cities are burning. And the ones that aren’t may soon be. A fire that has been seething beneath the surface is exploding out. Our white ancestors, without our consent, played with matches. And now, we have a choice. We can allow it to consume our country, destroying many lives along the way. Or we can have an honest assessment of white supremacy and privilege and begin to make systemic changes. The choice is ours.