Nicola Griffith - Always

“Give me one,” Therese said. Christie obliged, and Therese put it against the baseboard, and with one kick, broke it to smithereens. “Number one,” she called to Christie, who said, “Chevron,” and Therese shook her head, and Kim yanked her ball from the string, put it against the wall, and kicked it to pieces. Number eight: Barnes and Noble.

Katherine grabbed a blue-and-yellow ball and put it on the floor. “Hey, Fred,” she said. “Die, you son of a bitch.” In the startled silence she said, “Axe kick to the head,” with the air of a pool shark naming her pocket, and delivered an executioner’s blow.

Sandra named someone called George and knelt by it and destroyed it with successive hammer blows with the meaty parts of her fists. Tonya called it Ma’am Yes Ma’am, and had Christie hold it against the wall at chest height, where she burst its spleen with her elbow. Pauletta yelled, “Watch this,” and put hers on the carpet in the middle of the circle. When everyone was watching, she sat on it violently, crushing it. She jumped up, face dark and eyes flashing. “How’s that?” she said. “Who’s sitting on whose face now, you fuck?”

I decided not to reinforce the “naked” part of the body weapon rule.

They started to bargain over the chips.

“Anger,” I said, and waited. Gradually they turned to look at me. “What is it? Why is it?” Blank, though this time no one looked at the carpet. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” Pauletta said. “Man, it feels good. Kind of clean.”

Nina nodded. “Naughty but nice.”

Lots of nods, some smiles. “But in the real world it feels wrong,” Therese said. “Losing my temper feels childish, like a two-year-old screaming in the supermarket until it gets what it wants.”

“Is feeling angry the same as losing your temper?”

“Hmmn,” she said.

“Anger, like fear, is an emotion, not an action. It’s a particularly strong emotion and, again, like fear, releases adrenaline. It won’t just go away because we want it to. What makes you angry?”

“Idiots,” said Suze.

“Oh, yep,” Nina said. “And when my husband leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Nearly thirty years he’s been doing it.”

“When people cut in line,” Tonya said. “I really hate that.”

“Little things and big things, then. And they can vary from day to day. What makes a person angry today might just make us shake our heads tomorrow. But if you do get angry you can’t ‘rise above it’ because it’s a hormonal thing. It has to be acknowledged, even if just to ourselves. It’s best, if possible, to alter the situation so that we’re not being made angry anymore, and it’s good to do something with the adrenaline charge if you can, to use it in some way, because it makes you feel better.”

“You mean like telling the person you’re mad at that you’re mad?” Christie said.

“Maybe. It depends. Would you find that hard?”

She nodded.

“Anyone else?” Many nods. Suze shook her head. Sandra didn’t commit one way or the other. “In every culture I’ve come across, from Oslo to Yorkshire to Istanbul to New York, women are disapproved of for showing anger; it’s not feminine, not desirable. And women have been trained for so many years to never, ever get angry that they think if they let themselves slip just a little, just once, it will be a crack in the dam, that the dam will break and unleash a torrent of inappropriate, uncontrolled rage. In specific situations, a lot of people think that if they get angry, they’ll provoke a violent response. Women, in short, have been trained to believe that they’re not allowed to be angry.”

“Trained,” Katherine said loudly. “You’re always talking about training, like we’re dogs or something.”

“It’s not polite to raise your voice,” I said, and she immediately hunched and blushed. Suze frowned. “Don’t frown,” I said to her, “you’ll get wrinkles.”

Silence.

“Basically, much of what we women hear about anger implies that showing anger means we’re not ‘real women.’ Or, conversely, because we’re women, our anger isn’t real, it’s not to be taken seriously. Our anger, we’re told from day one, is either laughable or disgusting. Effectively, we’re trained to fear and resent our own anger.”

They looked at each other.

“All of you,” I said. “All trained. Women are not innately good and kind and wise. We’re trained to be that way. It can be a serious obstacle to getting what we want and need. We’re conditioned. An attacker sometimes has to merely invoke that conditioning and it’s as effective as a leash and muzzle.”

“Damn,” Nina said.

“It’s a little like escaping a bad cult. You have to be active in your deprogramming. The first part of what I’d like you to do between now and next week is listen to your body. Learn what makes you angry. Big or small. Don’t judge, for now, whether your anger is reasonable or rational. Anger, for the simple fact that it’s an emotion, is never rational or reasonable. Understandable, yes, but not a rational process. Don’t worry about it. Just learn how you work inside. And then, when you get angry, admit it to yourself, and do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Depends. The first thing must be to find a way to use the adrenaline created by anger. What do you usually do when you get angry? For example, I like to hit things—such as the punch bag. I also like to break wood for kindling.”

“I kick the soccer ball extra hard,” Suze said. “Or throw the softball.”

“Slam doors.” Christie.

“I walk extra fast.” Tonya. And then they were off: kneading bread, stabbing the dirt with a trowel extra hard, singing “real loud,” strangling a towel, punching a pillow, peeling a lot of vegetables, and, Kim’s, my favorite, “hitting the wall in the garage with an old tennis racket.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Better.” “Cleaner and calmer.” “More in control.”

I nodded. “Control comes from having choice, bleeding off the pressure on a regular basis, so you’re not seething all the time. Then, when something makes you angry, you can choose whether or not—and how—to respond. ”

Physically venting also meant they would get used to it, and be able to produce a response more quickly in an emergency. It was all a matter of use.

“It’s good for your breathing and coordination, too. And the next time you’re strangling a towel”—a nod for Sandra—“or punching that pillow”— Pauletta—“I want you to really feel the emotions, the physical sensations— the speeded-up heart, the breathing, the rising strength.”

Some nods.

“I want you to feel it, and remember it. Remember it so clearly that you can recall it in the middle of the night, if necessary, or while you’re brushing your teeth in the morning—and while you’re brushing your teeth one morning, recall very specifically three strikes or joint locks or throws that you think you do well.”

I held up three fingers.

“Three things. That’s all. A kick, a knuckle strike, and a pinkie wrench. Or an elbow strike and two kicks. Or two throws and a punch. It doesn’t matter. Three.”

I motioned Christie over to hold the bag.

“So I might pick a back fist”—I lunged and unfurled a whipping right fist into the right temple of my imaginary opponent—“then an elbow strike”—the back fist had brought me close enough for a flat, hard drive into the solar plexus—“and then a kick to the knee.”

Christie staggered at the last blow. I could feel the energy boiling in my bones.

“Rehearse the anger feelings, the adrenaline, and rehearse the strikes in your head. Rehearse them as you’re driving, as you’re preparing dinner, as you get dressed. Enjoy the sensation. Just three things. Over and over.”