What Are You Angry About

I am angry about religion, capitalism, how we are not given time to grieve properly, school systems, the homes I lost

Not to talk about my father, but I had to explain compromise to a 50 year old man. He doesn’t realize that both sides bend, so I ask him what he is going to give. My father loves the bible, that precious book. He worships the obedience, the comfort. That book is too big to bend.

Here, the sky turns lovely each hour and a little girl’s name is written on my hand in marker because I promised her I won’t forget it next week. Her name is Jericho. I say it again and again in my mouth, Jericho, I can’t forget Jericho, I remember the story of Jericho: God commands Joshua to walk around the walls. “Then the Lord said to Joshua, “See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands, along with its king and its fighting men. March around the city once with all the armed men. Do this for six days.” I remember the story, but I can’t remember the meaning. Many men still walk around the walls, blowing trumpets. They march; there is nothing else to do in Jericho. 

Here, underneath the sky, I wake up at 6am each morning to write a book. At 6am, I am already late. The sun shines through my window. I have 24,296 words, but I still don’t know what I am writing about. Today the book is about anger, that tiny slip of self. I stir honey in a pot and wait; I can be patient. I will be angry while I am patient. I will have some things to say while I am patient. 

The girl’s name is not Jericho. It is Jasmine, like rice or tea.

Out the window, the wind shakes an apple tree. Each branch sways, saying yes or no. It reminds me of the Southern Oregon breeze, the dry shaking of biddy-biddy and cordgrass. I write while the world shakes. I want to be the wind: parentless, yet wise.

I want to remember each student’s name, though there are hundreds every day. They come like ants into the garden. We taste lemongrass and mugwort and thistle. They say no to things they don’t like, such as chard. My father would call it difficult, he calls me difficult, he marches around Jericho every day. The same walls, the same trumpet.

…

I call this my “oh fuck” stage. I am angry with love. Oh no! these marvelous children demanding change. Hundreds of them, like ants. Oh no, they have come to change the system. Oh good, yes please. Let’s march around Jericho with trumpets in our hands. Maybe I will remember the meaning of the story. Perhaps I can hold beauty and anger in two arms.

What are you angry about?