Your Rage Went To The Polls
Previously: Regulations For Your Rage
Your rage went to the polls. Your rage went to vote because its forbears fought for that.
Your rage gave a speech and never uttered the name of the person it decimated.
Your rage never wakes up on the right side of the bed because the bed was built for someone else.
Your rage told the story of what had happened to it years before. Your rage’s lawyer sent a letter.
Your rage covered its children’s ears as it watched the news.
Your rage saw a video of men casually discussing sexual assault. Your rage was in a video of men laughing about sexual assault.
Your rage burned steady like a flame for years. Your rage, at its worst, is never alone.
Your rage is too sensitive, it was told. All men talk like that, it was told. Men don’t talk like that, it was told.
Your rage dares someone to hand it a working mic. Your rage dares someone to interrupt.
No one was listening to your rage, until more privileged rage said the same thing. What a good point, you heard.
Your rage is a global conspiracy. Your rage makes excellent risotto. Your rage stood calmly at the debate and laughed.
Your rage made this up for a book deal, for a movie, to make money, someone says. Behind you a rage line forms, perhaps hundreds deep.
Your rage donated to charity with its own money, on which it had paid taxes. Your rage bought no portraits of itself. It needed none.
Your rage turned a map blue and people talked about taking away its right to vote.
Your rage knelt for the anthem.
Your rage, placed strategically behind a candidate it did not support, lifted its copy of Claudia Rankine’s CITIZEN.
Your rage’s black or brown body is sometimes undocumented, sometimes an immigrant.
Sometimes, your rage (an immigrant) wins six Nobels. Sometimes, your rage (a woman) wins none.
Your rage forces even its worst opponent to admit that it is a fighter. It never quits, your rage. Knocked down, it gets up again.
Your rage goes to mosque and temple. Your rage wears a cross and a Star of David. Your rage is an atheist. Your rage hears a dog whistle.
Your rage wore its Black Lives Matter T-shirt to school.
Your rage knows that “go teach kindergarten” is a thing you say to someone you admire, and not as an insult.
Your rage remembers the first time someone touched its body without asking.
Your rage knows no borders or nation-state. Your rage has no passport. Your rage left someone behind and knows no one ahead.
Your rage is sometimes also your intense grief over an irrevocable and devastating change in something you cherished.
Your rage is in mourning for the place it knew before this election season. Your rage is grateful for the truths this election season told.
Tours of your rage are available by drone.
Your rage doesn’t know how to behave around small children. Hide, or speak frankly and honestly?
Your rage remembers standing in a room implausibly full of people who understood, and longs to return.
Your rage opposes the Dakota Access Pipeline.
Your rage is not impressed by the endorsements, unendorsements, re-endorsements. What is this, the hokey pokey?
Your rage has turned off cable because of the all-white, all-male panel discussing this political season.
Your rage went to the polls to vote. Someone threatened your rage at the polls, but your rage had friends to hold its hand.
Your rage watched democracy erode in its ancestral home. Your rage watched democracy erode where it lives.
Lead image: Al Ibrahim/flickr