The family sat around the room talking idly about the day, the dog, and what had come out of both. Jay jay lay between Sveta and Angie, gnawing at his own paw. I mentioned that it’s probably not a good sign and, since the conversation had taken on a dark tone, Dad muttered “It’s the dog equivalent to cutting.” I threw him a sharp glance and shook my head.
“Not ok.”
Soon we both gravitated to the kitchen and he looked in the fridge. Amid the freshly stocked shelves of produce, odds, and ends, there lied two cups of rice pudding left. Now, this delicacy is hard to keep in stock in our house, so my father had been keeping tabs on it even more closely than that of the fruit and cider.
“HOW do we only have two left?” A metallic edge slipped into his voice.
“There are others behind those. They’re probably scattered.” My voice started to take on his own shade.
“Yeah, One.”
“Ok dad, chill.” Came the automatic response to over-reaction.
My father’s stature angled and his face darkened. “Chill is not the phrase when speaking to your father. There’s a difference between me and your friend. That was entirely disrespectful.”
I reeled as I weighed the truth of this statement (which was quite heavy) and tried to appoligize while still explaining why I had said it. None of this, apparently, was coherent until the last ditch effort.
“I’m not the only one who’s been disrespectful tonight.”
”Excuse me?”
Back track. “I’m not trying to make an excuse, I’m just saying that I’m not the only one here. I know that I was wrong, but-“
It went on. Not long, but I didn’t know what I was saying or trying to say by the end of the sentence. All I remember was
“You know, you’ve been a lot surlier as of late.” or something to that effect. The train of boiling temper left behind was almost visible.
I am mad. I am frustrated. I have venom on my lips that’s just waiting to be administered. I excuse myself to my room, turn on the bathroom vent and some music, and cry. I cry and cry and think of everything I possibly can to cry about since it never seems to happen when I need it to. Thoughts drifted to my past, my mother, and my father. The knife still left in my heart as he left and seemed to never come back was suddenly visible and ached. The idealistic hero of my story had slowly dropped his cape and become mortal. His temper tapers into a razor’s blade, able to cut just the surface of its victim, even with a simple sentence could fillet a tomato without it even knowing.
It is so much like my own.
One by one the things I could say to my father to tear him to pieces presented themselves. The menace danced in my head and blades loosed free in the experimental swing. It would feel so good to let my fury take the best of me, to let out my anger in the most natural way it craves. It would, however, devastate my father. Some things you cannot take back, right? I’ve always known that and always held my tongue. My blade did nothing to my mother, since she was a battered stone that heard, saw, and said nothing of consequence. There’s no satisfaction if there is no bite.
Slowly my mind turned to a more physical expression. Ever since my mentor Justine had shown me kickboxing against a sandbag I’ve craved the time to do it. My mind lingered in the gym she took me to, plastic grass under my bare feet and my hands already secure in their wrappings. What combinations would I use to release my energy and assert my bitterness? Right, Left, Right, Hook, Round house. Right, left, right, hook, round house. Left, right, right… wait-
Within the empty level of the building came a small boy, of perhaps 5 or 6, wandering towards me. He tilted his head and watched my pointedly ignoring movements. I concentrated on the bag and my own thoughts of my father and what it meant that I wanted to take them out in this way.
“What are you doing?”
Sigh. “Beating this piece of leather.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m frustrated.”
“At who?”
“My father. I have been for a very long time and I’m getting it out this way instead of-“ ‘Instead of beating him up’ came to my mind, but that didn’t seem appropriate for this audience. “staying mad and angry.”
“But if you’ve been mad and angry for this long, what does this do?”
“It’s temporary, but it helps.” Right hook, left round house once, twice. Guard.
He stared for a while longer. “Do you want to stay mad at your daddy?”
I tried to put it simply for a child. “This is the type of frustration-“ I ran through my mind what I could say, what would be the truth. What was I going to say, that some anger you need to keep for a while to heal? That’s bull, especially with my father. Was it? It doesn’t matter, I can’t tell a kid that. What do I say? That it feels good to let it burn? “It’s not ok to keep anger pent up inside, so I’m trying to find a way to let it out.”
“But you don’t want to be mad at him.”
“No. I don’t.” By this time I had relaxed and let the boy talk without even trying to guess his next words. I left him blank and he filled in the words. This was not in my mind, and I knew it. Even so, I was thinking of how to treat him to ice cream for being such a dear.
“Can I pray with you?”
“Sure.” I smiled.
“Jesus, thank you for this lady Brynn and what she’s doing. She’s trying real hard to do good by you God. Please give her wisdom with dis and help her to not be angry. I love you God. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” He looked up at me and smiled.
The words felt powerful and true. They brought me peace and a will to revisit the question of anger from my usual peaceful state. “Thank you! That’s was very sweet of you.”
He nodded. “Alright, come on now mommy.”
Reality broke. “What?”
“It’s time to go home now, mommy, come on. Let’s go get ice cream like you said you would.” He took my hand and led me toward the stairwell.
