It Sounds Like You’re Angry...
“It sounds like you’re angry.”
I was in a conversation with a pastor I’ve known for 13 years, since my first CD was released.
I paused for a moment, silently acknowledging that he had nailed it.
“I guess I am …. You know, I used to put my anger into my music a lot more ...”
He interrupted.
“I know”
It was interesting to be seen like this. This man had known me for a long time. He had tracked with me through various phases of my musical expression. I knew he couldn’t dismiss my anger as invalid. In fact, he was naming it in a moment where I felt quite twisted up.
Moments earlier, my mouth was motoring, recounting the variety of interactions I’ve had with Christians amidst this re-emerging civil rights movement. Well-meaning people whom I love and truly respect have said such hurtful and ignorant things. They have misunderstood the moment we’re in. Missing key points of history, they have wanted to argue about less relevant issues. With this kind of dialogue holding us back, it’s difficult to move forward. And now more than ever, we need to be moving forward.
So yes, I was angry. After the pastor’s comment, I was stumbling for words.
“The world feels flat ... I can’t see with any depth, or perception. I’m in conversations with people and I don’t know if they’re going to say something helpful or hurtful — regardless of their intention. I don’t know whether they are going to heal me or hurt me.”
I’ve never done well with anger. I’ve always treated it cautiously. My inner man has ridiculously high standards and never excuses angry outbursts that could cause damage to someone. My inner dialogue frenetically warns my anger that it exists within the body of a black man who is a shade under six-foot-two — and that is often seen as a threat. Yes, my very body is a threat if I don’t curb the emotions that would make people scared or uncomfortable. I learned a while ago that I had to be very, very careful about when I let my anger show.
My internal critic tells me that every time I am angry, I am wrong. My mind flashes back to lengthy lectures from a long-winded father, a man prone to outbursts himself. The best he could do was instruct me to not get angry, because it would hinder my ability to function.
I took a marriage course early in my married life. I learned that there are two extremes on the spectrum of anger: The bull and the hedgehog. The bull charges directly toward the conflict and will inevitably cause damage and fear. The hedgehog curls up into a ball and does nothing until the feeling subsides. I tend towards the hedgehog, primarily because I don’t want to be seen as the bull. As painful as this is to say, there are enough angry black people in our world that are feared.
But as people fill the streets protesting anti-Black racism, and the anger reaches boiling points across the continent, I have been attempting to train myself to ‘cultivate curious questions’ about people’s anger. What kind of day is this person having? What stress are they experiencing? What are the circumstances that led them to this reaction? My reading on the subject has repeatedly led me to this phrase: “Anger is never the first emotion.”
Consider anger like an iceberg. There is a visible, and sometimes dangerous, portion of the iceberg above the water. However, beneath the surface the mass is even larger. Anger is what we see, but it is a base emotion, often present to protect our more vulnerable selves. That vulnerability can be a combination of emotions: anxiety, irritation, disappointment, fear and a lot more. And all of these parts of our soul lie beneath the surface, asking for attention.
Source: The Gottman Institute
I can attest to that within myself. My anger often stems from embarrassment and fear. There are times my kids might see me as a bull, but in those situations my outburst is not really about the external circumstances that seem to prompt it -- toys on the floor, messy bedrooms or a bathroom light that always seems to be on, no matter how many times I remind them.
What I’m really worried about when my temper erupts is that I might not be doing a good enough job as a parent. I’m worried that if my kids don’t learn the lessons I’m trying to teach them, it will harm them in the future in ways I can foresee, but they can’t. It’s about my efficacy and their livelihood. My reaction is a combination of ego, parental instinct and deep love for my kids. Somehow, it comes out as anger.
The fear of the angry Black person was revitalized for a new generation in the late 1980s and early 1990s as mainstream society met a powerful cultural force: hip-hop music. The outspoken group Public Enemy aligned themselves with Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey and other “Prophets of Rage.” They ‘brought the noise’ to the culture and enthusiastically yelled, “fight the powers that be!”
That cry echoed across the U.S. all the way to the West Coast where artists like Ice-T, Ice Cube, and N.W.A. sent network news programs into a frenzy over their angry, anti-law-enforcement lyrics, sparking political debates about the influence hip-hop was having on the kids who listened to it. America feared the anger of these outspoken Black men, and they feared their influence. They retreated in fear, pointing accusatory fingers.
But America never asked why they were mad.
Aw I’m mad, and this is strictly from the underground
And Ima tell you why, there’s no need to wonder, clown
You tried to be a fake and lie to me
I try to see through all the hurt inside of me from this society
Finally, I’m strong, at least I try to be ...
I ask for peace, but the only peace I really get
Is the end piece of your billy stick
But I still stay Christ like and humble
Although I’m living in a concrete jungle
The way you treat me like a beast, it enrage me, but
When I start acting like an animal, you cage me up
Separated from my family and peers for years and years
Only God knows the tears of a black man.
- Mr. Solo, from 1994’s “Tears of a Black Man” (Gospel Gangstaz)
Re-read these lyrics. Hear the anger. Then, hear the hurt. Hear the frustration, the desperation and the loneliness. Now consider your own reaction. Mainstream society is afraid of this man, and men like him. Are you? If so, can you ask yourself why?
Twenty-plus years of listening to hip-hop has led to a few areas of common understanding. A major one is the divide between Black communities and law enforcement. It is so clearly portrayed in the music that it would take an incredible feat to miss it.
But as we have seen, anger is never the first emotion. When I hear angry lyrics, I pause, sit, listen and ask questions about the emotions that preceded it. The first emotion I consider is loss. Loss of freedom, loss of dignity, loss of security, loss of protection.
Most people in larger society haven’t taken the time to consider how loss has impacted Black communities, even though there is a long and rich tradition of Black artists expressing it. Somehow, we missed it. Somehow, it is only impacting our souls now. It’s incredible and bewildering that so many people were oblivious to it for such a long time.
In the days after George Floyd’s murder, I saw a painting of Floyd’s face attached to the body of Radio Raheem, a character from Spike Lee’s definitive movie Do The Right Thing. The painting blended the two images together as Raheem‘s large, outstretched arms held two rings with words attached: The right hand held Love, and the left, Hate. This image has moved me so deeply, and I alternate between gazing at it and looking away quickly because I can’t take the emotion.
I’m reminded of the climatic scene in Lee’s film, where police are called to break up a fight and put Radio Raheem in a chokehold, leaving Raheem in a fate similar to the real-life case of Eric Garner. Lee’s camera cuts between the image of a lifeless Raheem on the city street, and the crowd erupting in anger. In the film, this senseless violence only leads to more violence.
Do The Right Thing radiated the anger of Black communities, and it is up to us to ask the curious questions about the other emotions behind it — both for the fictional characters and for the viewers of the film. When I ask my questions, I see fear. I see frustration. I see feeling stuck. I see a feeling of competition between groups. Essentially, I see groups of people viciously competing to determine who really matters.
Jesus wandered into a debate amongst his disciples about who matters more. The competition in the group was about who was the greatest -- a fight we often have in society, and in our minds. How do we compare to other people? Are we better? Greater? More moral? More controlled? Less emotional? More enlightened? More woke? More holy?
But Jesus flips the script on them and says the greatest need to become servants of all. He says the greatest would give up their lives for others. The greatest look out for the vulnerable in society.
And he sat down and called the twelve. And he said to them, “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.”
And he took a child and put him in the midst of them, and taking him in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me, receives not me but him who sent me.” (Mark 9:35-37 ESV)
It has been my hope, because of Jesus’ teaching, that Christians would lead the way by serving those who hurt, hunger and thirst for justice.
Instead, I found myself on the phone venting to a brother about this unintentional hurt I was experiencing over and over again, many times from Christians.
I let my anger burn as I recalled comments that had delivered blows to my spirit. In my mind, I saw George Floyd’s body on the ground — his passion, his work, his potential, and his future plans all being senselessly taken from him. Simultaneously, I saw Radio Raheem, the respected character of his fictional community. The character who was an amalgam of so many young and gifted Black people to unnecessarily lose their lives. Both men, their breath taken from them. Both men, dying on the ground. Both men, gone too soon. Both communities, experiencing loss. Experiencing anger.
The response I long to give to these communities is solemn silence. To make room for the grieving, knowing full well that the entire world suffers loss because the dead will never have the opportunity to share their full genius with us. We are poorer with every single lost life — and the pain only intensifies when the victims die at the hands of society’s protectors.
The streets are mad. Can you tell me why? Can you ask curious questions until you know?
Until you do, maybe we can shelve your opinions about affirmative action or the manipulative media or what that multinational company really meant by that tweet.
There are lifeless bodies on the ground, and my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, you are still arguing meaningless positions in an attempt to assert your greatness.
Angry? Yeah. You better believe I am.
Photo by Oliver Ragfelt on Unsplash
Jon, this is really powerful writing. It's crazy not to be angry in these times. Not everyone sees you as scary, you're the person who brings the wisdom to the room. (I'm really struggling with that parenting anger right now too - you're certainly not alone there)