Please sir, with your permission, can I have some more rage?
Angry, but not too angry. Sad, but not crying. On the brink of tears, but still able to articulate what got me here. And most most importantly hand holding men through my anger and grief and doling it out in bitesized digestible packages. Because if I ever let them have a peak at what the real simmering pain and rage looks like, I would immediately be dismissed as a hysterical woman.
Placating and dumbing down my anger and arguments works. I am invited on telly and radio daily to speak about women’s safety and police reform. My muted versions of anger brings people onside and garners sympathy and understanding, so I continue to do it. But whilst reading Wandering Souls about Vietnamese refugees that came to England in the eighties; it struck me how often authors have to do that same placating. Without giving too much away, a scene is about the psychological warfare that occurred during the Vietnam War.
Had there been a nod to it in context; the parallel would have been drawn, but the author needs to explicitly spell it out to get the reader on board. So much of the book about the eldest daughter cooking, cleaning and trying to assimilate has a degree of being written for a White audience to explain, see we are just like you, we are relatable, we are human. Refugees are human and deserve kindness. But, I can’t help wonder. What if she had permission to actually write the rage, the humiliation, the really visceral anger of how many of her people were killed just trying to get to a shitty Army barracks where locals sneered and were racist.
Would I want to be lying in bed reading that book? Would it have any chance on the best sellers list? I often speak of how American White women will push almost any WWII historical fiction about America saving the world directly up those charts. Feeling smug in their assurance that America the Beautiful is why the rest of the world isn’t speaking German right now as the ghastly saying goes. Whilst those same American White women were responsible for electing Trump.
I can’t really fault the writers for playing to their audiences, hell, I do it every day. But in trying to think of the last book that actually represented the “Fuck this shit” and “Fuck the patriarchy” (a word I rarely use as not to be called a feminazi) was The Power by Naomi Alderman. And as the show is about to be out; I may get all riled up again.
But for now; I will continue with my palatable rage as I write and speak about the institutionally racist, sexist and homophobic Met Police (with a good dose of ableism on the side). And I will stay the right side of punchy and angry– enough so that they can feel my passion, but watered down so I don’t get sectioned.
And as you read about England setting up barracks again for refugees; please remember, dear reader, that there are no illegal people. And if you believe there are. Go Fuck Yourself.
Sincerely,
Jx