THE
ENIGMA OF ANGER
Reflections on a
Sometimes Deadly Sin
Garret Keizer
"Be not too
hasty," said Imlac, "to trust,
or to admire,
the teachers of morality: they discourse
like angels,
but they live like men."
Samuel Johnson, Rasselas
Only
three limbs of a sugar maple tree, none
thicker than my arm but each broad enough
to shade a horse, lay in a sprinkling of
sawdust by the side of the road. On the
trunk above them, three pathetic stumps
oozed sap. This was my tree, one of the
beautiful ancient maples that line our
rural Vermont property where it meets the
road. Those trees had caught our eye even
before my wife and I had seen the
"For Sale" sign on what is now
our home. I love to walk past those
maples on afternoons when I finish work,
and evenings before turning again to more
work; I had especially longed to do so on
that cloudy June day before unbuckling a
briefcase full of final exams that would
keep me up much of the night. Mine was a
smug little joy, I realized even then, as
much the pride of ownership as the
appreciation of nature, but I didn't
care. We want our joys to be harmless; we
don't need them to be noble. But now even
that small joy was cut short by the sight
of those sawn-off limbs, enigmatic and
almost insulting at my feet.
The
town road crew had cut them off the tree;
I was sure of that. The men had been
grading that section of road in the
afternoon just before I came home. I was
less sure as to why they had cut them.
The limbs had not hung out over the road.
They had not been near any telephone or
power lines. They had not been rotten or
in danger of falling off. The only
plausible reason I could imagine was that
the road crew had cut off the limbs to
make it easier to turn the grader, though
there was an access to a hay field where
they might have done the same thing less
than a hundred feet away. Could they
really have been so lazy?
But
then, there didn't have to be a plausible
reason, did there? Maybe one of the men
had just felt like sawing off a few
limbsno different, really, from a
kid in my classroom feeling in the mood
to toss a rumpled wad of paper over my
shoulder and into the trash can or to
stick out his foot when another student
walked byexcept that no kid in my
classroom would dare do such a thing.
Well, some of the men around here (I
muttered to myself) believe that nothing
grows out of the earth or slips through a
birth canal for any purpose better than
to be cut down or shot. Today the limbs,
tomorrow the whole damn tree, what the
heck. If there's dynamite available, so
much the better. And I did not think it
irrational to suppose that there was a
message intended by the gratuitous sawing
off of those limbs, something like the
message I'd found soaped on my car
windows on the first Halloween after we'd
moved in: "F you" plus
"Ain't Vermont great?"a
message to the flatlanders lest they get
too cozy in their precious little
farmhouse and forget who was really in
charge around here. We had scarcely lived
in town long enough to strike up a
conversation, let alone to make an enemy.
That
was going to change. Tomorrow morning at
7, or whenever the town garage opened, I
was going to deliver a little message of
my own, which is that if you want to
touch something that belongs to me, you'd
better talk to me first or be prepared to
talk to me afterward; and talking to me
afterward, as I was fully prepared to
demonstrate, is never a good way to start
your day. And nobody had better give me
any regulatory drivel about "right
of way" either; you want to pull out
your little rule books, I might show you
a few rules you never heard of. Three
healthy limbs sawn off a tree for
absolutely no reason. And I knew how
this stuff workedyou don't teach
school without learning how these things
work: It's a matter of incremental
aggression, beginning with something so
deliberately small that you'll look like
a fool if you complain and ending with
something so outrageously nasty that
you'll feel like a fool that you didn't.
So much for that bit about choosing your
battles. The battle I choose is every
single battle that chooses me, and I
fight to win every last one. Go on, tell
me it's only three limbs off a tree. I
want somebody to tell me it's only three
limbs off a tree. How about if I break
only three limbs on an idiot? God, was I
mad!
God
was
I mad?
I am a
descendant of angry men. My father had a
temper. I used to help him work on his
cars, and it was rare that we could
finish a job without at least one minor
flare-up. It was just as rare that we
closed the hood with hard feelings. My
father once confided to my mother, who
wisely shared his confidence with me:
"Gary could tell me to go screw
myself, but I would still know he loved
me." It was the truth. It had been
the truth for men in our family before
either of us was born.
My
great-grandfather, a Dutch Reformed
minister, is said to have cursed his
Heavenly Father following the deaths of
his wife and two young daughters from
tuberculosis. He is also said to have
refused to sign a doctrinal confession
affirming the damnation of all heathen
souls. Though after long wanderings he
returned to the pulpit (first crossing
the Atlantic to the United States) and
though it's doubtful he ever lost his
faith (one doesn't curse what one doesn't
believe to exist), the image of his
clenched fist shaken in the face of
heaven, and perhaps in the faces of his
seminary too, has long been with me.
So have
the stories of his son, my grandfather
and namesake, another angry ancestor I
never knew. One day he came home from
work to discover that a neighbor had
conveniently emptied the contents of his
cesspool next to the sand pile where his
son and daughter played across the
street. My grandfather threatened to
hoist the neighbor up by his ankles if
every trace of filth was not removed
within 24 hours. "And when you're
finished, you cheap Holland
bastard," roared the minister's son,
"you get on your knees and
pray."
The
phrase "Dutch temper" and the
phrase "cheap Holland
bastard"uttered by a Hollander
no lessare two signifiers of my
heritage, a patrimony passed with fiery
love from father to son. They are not the
only signifiers, however. Life would be
too easy if they were. My first reading
of the Gospels was from a New Testament
presented by my great- grandfather to my
father when my parents were first
married. That too was part of the same
heritage, and it ensured that my Dutch
temper could seldom exist without
Christian remorse, nor Christian meekness
without some inner resistance. The story
of my journey in faith has often amounted
to the story of my struggle with anger.
I am
writing about anger for at least three
specific reasons. All of them are vividly
personal, though I trust that they are no
less common than anger itself.
- My anger has often
seemed out of
proportionthat is, too
great or too little, but more
often too greatfor the
occasion that gave rise to it.
- My anger has more
often distressed those I love and
who love me than it has afflicted
those at whom I was angry.
- My anger has not
carried me far enough toward
changing what legitimately
enrages me. In fact, the anger
often saps the conviction.
It's
fair to say that I am writing not only about
anger, but also in anger. In
other words, anger is in some ways my
inspiration as well as my subject. I can
give three reasons for that as well.
First,
I have grown increasingly impatient with
the blithe reductionism of the so-called
self-help movement. I have grown
impatient at seeing the laudable idea
that life is a series of struggles to be
undertakenor questions to be asked
or burdens to be bornereplaced with
the idea that life is essentially a set
of problems to be solved by the adoption
of the right program (spiritual or
electronic) or the purchase of the right
product (pharmaceutical or electronic).
I have
also grown increasingly angry at our
full-bellied acquiescence to social and
economic injustice. I'm referring to the
notion that everything other than the
perfectible self is too vast and complex
to admit to any remedy whatsoever, and
that our best course of (in)action lies
in ironical detachment or in the
cultivation of an abrasive attitude that
delivers some of the release, but packs
none of the punch, of well-aimed rage.
Our advertising and even our arts convey
the idea that we as a society are brash,
irreverent, and free of all constraint,
when the best available evidence would
suggest that we are in fact tame, spayed,
and easily brought to heel.
And
finally, I am writing in petulant
resistance to the idea that anger is an
emotion with no rightful place in the
life of a Christian or in the emotional
repertoire of any evolved human being.
Darwinian evolution I can buy; most of
the other forms, however, I can neither
buy nor stomach. Darwin saw us linked
with the animals, and therefore to the
material creation as a whole; so do the
Old and New Testaments. But the popular
theology (most of it Gnostic) that
portrays perfection as the shedding of
every primitive instinct, and portrays
God as an impersonal sanitizing spirit,
is to my mind evidence of a satanic
spirit. The Lord my God is a jealous God
and an angry God, as well as a loving God
and a merciful God. I am unable to
imagine one without the other. I am
unable to commit to any messiah who
doesn't knock over tables.
A few
years ago I told a dear friend of mine
that I was going to write a book someday
for angry men and women. "I think
there need to be more of them," he
quipped. I'm inclined to agree. But if
he's right, if more of us need to be
angry, then it follows that we shall
require a more careful application of
anger and a finer discernment of when
anger applies.
I never
did go to the town garage the morning
after I found those three severed tree
limbs. That night as I sat at the kitchen
table correcting final exams, I began to
hear a noise "as of a rushing
wind" but of such an immediate and
dreadful intensity that I could not at
first be certain it was the wind. I
remember fixing my eyes on one of the
dark windowpanes, which seemed about to
shatter at any second, and thinking that
the force outside could not possibly
increase. It increased. I did not think I
was dying, but the unreal sensation of
those moments must be what it is like
suddenly to realize that you are about to
die. The rain was falling too hard. The
next crack of thunder might be louder
than we could bear. The lights snapped
off. The roof sounded as though it were
being ripped from the house.
I
rushed my wife and our year-old daughter
into the basement and then foolishly went
upstairs to see what was happening and
what I could do, which of course was
nothing. Within a few minutes, the worst
of the storm had passed. The rain
subsided enough for me to see through the
windows. One of the maple trees in our
yard was snapped in two. Moving to the
front windows, I saw to my horror that
half of the roof of our large barn across
the road was gone, rafters and steel
together.
For the
next three days we were without electric
power. Two-hundred-year-old maple trees
and limbs the size of telephone poles lay
across the road for more than a mile. The
central path of the stormand there
is still disagreement more than a decade
later as to whether it was a small
tornado or simply a thunderstorm with a
terrific downdraft crossed the road
about a quarter mile from our house and
cut a swath of toppled trees and peeled
roofs that extended through an entire
county and beyond. In spite of the
commotion we had heard, our house roof
was spared. But 20- foot-square sections
of steel and beam from the barn lay
hundreds of yards behind our house in a
hay field. They had been torn from the
barn and blown over the house. They might
just as easily have been blown through
it.
How
puny my three limbs seemed in comparison
to such carnage. And how puny my anger
seemed in comparison to such fury. It was
difficult for me not to think of them as
related in some way, as temptation and
warning, as sin and punishment, even as
the psychological cause of a
meteorological effect. Or as I've since
come to think of them, as a man's paltry
anger defused by God's tremendous mercy.
I took
my chain saw out to the road and began to
cut one of the massive limbs that lay
across it. One of the road crew drove up,
rolled down his window, and thanked me
for saving him some work. Had he gotten
out of his car, I would have thrown my
arms around him.
Garret
Keizer is the author of No Place But
Here: A Teacher's Vocation in a Rural
Community and A Dresser of
Sycamore Trees: The Finding of a Ministry,
as well as a novel, God of Beer.
He lives in northeastern Vermont with his
wife and daughter. This essay is
excerpted with permission of the
publisher Jossey-Bass, a Wiley company,
from Keizer's new book, The Enigma
of Anger: Essays on a Sometimes Deadly
Sin. Copyright ©2002 by Garret
Keizer. This book is available at all
bookstores, online booksellers, and from
the Wiley web site at www.wiley.com or 1-800-CALL WILEY.
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