A whirlwind of emotions swept over me. A cyclone of
unattached feelings, settling on anger. No, rage. The lady in orange, was
discussing something with my Mother. I didn’t understand anything they were
talking about, other than that I wasn’t normal. They were trying to figure out
the easiest way to fix me. My Mother worked nights, so a meeting like this, was
interfering with her sleep. She seemed irritated that the lady in orange needed
to explain how to handle the issue. Later, she would tell my Father that the “N*igg*r
should have just done her job and not bothered us.” The lady in orange explained all the details of
my learning disabilities. The symptoms,
of my falling behind in class was due to dyslexia. I watched as the two of them
debated the problem. As I was a problem to be dealt with.
My rage grew as the
lady flatly explained the new education program to deal with “special kids”
like me. I kicked the metal legs of my chair. My Mother and the lady not
hearing me, as I did not exist. They simply discussed the problem. My knuckles,
white from gripping the metal chair, my rage finally snapped. I bolted from my chair, running through the
classroom door, and down my school’s main hallway. Only the cool air that hit
my face upon exiting the front of the school, stopped tears from flowing.
A vise-like hand
suddenly grabbed my arm, swing me around. “What the hell are you doing?!” My Mother inches away from my face. The smell
of Certs on her breath. “You are just talking about me like I don’t matter!”
What I was trying to say was that decisions are being made for me, in front of
me, but my opinion, my voice, never came to be heard. Her pure white nursing
shoes squeaked on the tile as we marched back to the councilor’s office.
I have always
avoided situations where it appears others are making decisions for me.
Without, of course a simple acknowledgment to my human existence. I always feel
as if I am on that cold metal chair my Mother slammed me into, barking a half-hearted
apology to the lady in orange. My rage always builds, and explodes… wanting to run. Friendships have been tested, supervisors
questioned, if the feeling of an arbitrary choice is made on my behalf.
It was the first
really hot, summer day in Denver. We were enjoying a street fair in Downtown.
The boyfriend and his best-friend wandered ahead of me. I chased the shady
spots, as the boyfriend let the sun absorb into his caramel-brown skin. It was
more golden. The way the rays of sun danced upon his broad shoulders. They
enjoyed the chalk art drawn upon the sidewalks, I enjoyed this beautiful man,
whom for some strange reason, chose me.
At the end of the
street fair, they kept walking. I tuned in their conversation. Ideas of what to
do next being debated. It was casually decided to end our time at the street
fair and go grab drinks at a popular bar nearby. They quickened the pace, as my
heartbeat sped up. I was eight years old again. Overhearing a plan where I had
no say. My fists clenched. Knuckles turning white. My vision narrowed. If I quickly turned the
corner, would I be missed? I felt my Mother’s death grip on my arm. Rage boiled
up, turning my face red. “I’m so sorry… what are we doing?” I purposely
attempted to stop every word from being dipped in sarcasm. Feeling like my anger immediately turns me
into an uncontrollable, line-crossing asshole. I stopped - - exhaled. I didn’t
hear the response that was given me. I instead began to question myself how I
could go from worshiping this beautiful boy in front of me to dragging up, and
inserting unresolved rage into the situation? It really is why they call it
unresolved anger.
