Here’s the thing. I’m done making Angry for you. I’ve been making it for going on 39 years, and I’m tired now. That’s too much time to spend making Angry for other people. I’m going to make my own Angry now.
And I’m not going to share it. It’s for me. I’m going to start hanging on to it. You can have the Sadness. I’m still making that. More than ever, really. But it doesn’t seem to work for me anymore. It just piles up and gets in my way. So I’m giving it to you.
I see what you’ve been doing with my Angry, and I don’t approve. You use my Angry to manipulate others. You use my Angry to sidestep facing yourself. You use my Angry to justify or excuse your lack of scrupals. You use my Angry to make your world in your image. You use my Angry to misdirect and obfuscate.
So you don’t get to use my Anger anymore. It’s mine. And you can’t use it that way. Too bad. So Sad.
Suddenly I seem to have come into a pretty big pile of Angry. The first thing I’m going to do with it is clear out all this Sadness. I’m going to use my Angry to transform my Sadness. And I’m going to give that Sadness to you. But it won’t be called Sadness anymore. It will be called Compassion.
I’m going to take my Angry use it to turn my Sadness into Compassion. For you. You have every need for my Compassion. You don’t understand what’s wrong with you. You couldn’t even begin to ask yourself the big questions. You think, at the end of the day, your big house and your big car matter. That used to make me Angry. Now it just makes me Sad.
The other thing: You don’t know Love. You think you do, but you’ve confused it with comfort and habit. And if, on the off chance, you, deep down, do realize that I’m right, you’ll blame someone other than yourself. That is so Sad. I’m Sad for you just thinking about it. It used to make me Angry– how can you so misunderstand something so central to the human condition at Love?
My theory: Deep down inside, you don’t think you deserve Love. You do though. You have no idea. That’s so Sad. And if I tried to tell you, you wouldn’t listen. That used to keep me giving you lots of Angry, too.
But I figured out something the other day. You ’ listen and it makes me Sad that you don’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway. You will never get better while you’re wrapping yourself in all that Angry I’ve been giving you. You will keep fighting and obfuscating and running away, so long as there is Angry to keep you motivated.
So you can’t have mine anymore.
I have no right to play the discrimination card. I am a white, 34-year-old, dude. I have been given all the breaks. The world is mine for the taking, so long as I put on my suit and tie and go to Rotary Club once a week. I have a golden pass card to the secret society of movers and shakers. It’s not fair, really, how much good stuff I can get access to just by using the secret handshake that was issued to me alongside my lily white wang.
However, I was subject to not one, but two discriminary events today. And I’m going to blog about them. Beware my anglo-entitled sense of rage!
Dadscrimination the First.
The scene: the Sharon Lynn Wilson Center. Whoever was working the lobby today was systematically stopping dads and
asking demanding to see their tickets. She let nearly every mom and daughter walk right through, never even raising an eyebrow to them, but no single father walked bye without getting her hairy eyeball.
Please consider this a vote against any kind of fiduciary support you might be considering throwing at the Sharon Lynn. Seriously, that place better served the people when it was a dog park. It was classier when it was a dog park.
Dadscrimination the Second: I was not allowed to help Gaia prep for her recital today. Dads are not allowed in the pre-school dressing room. There was no sign, no prior warning. Just a flock of exquisitely coiffed uptight rich-women swarming in on me and explaining that the existence of my aforementioned lily white wang makes some of the other moms uncomfortable.
“Dads aren’t allowed in here,” they said. “We don’t want you making the girls or their moms uncomfortable.”
That phrase fails the discrimination test. Substitute any other noun in place of the word Dad, and you’ll see how unreasonable it is. Try a few of these out in place of Dad in the previous paragraph. Jews. Indians. Lefties. Leotards. Discrimination is discrimination. And discrimination is wrong.
Just because I don’t have standing to cry discrimination, doesn’t mean discrimination isn’t happening. And just because I’m not usually the victim of discrimination, doesn’t mean it’s not just as unfair, hurtful and demeaning when it happens to me.
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