cage-less rage

Books have a way of working me over. Pulling me in, then taking a firm grip and flinging me into the world beyond my own. Beyond my own in place, time, environment, and emotion. And yet when I leave the book on the nightstand or in my CD player with which I was listening to it, the emotion remains. Sometimes the emotions are fleeting dreams of a feeling I can’t have. Mr. Darcy is not yet insulting me while all the while loving me intensely. Usually, I run a line over and over in my head in order to fully grasp its meaning to the character and to me. But the emotions that capture me, bind me, and hold me hostage are those that well up from beyond the page. Something deep inside me bubbles with the intensity that a simple paragraph ignited. In my current state, I’m not sure of the other feelings I have experienced with such intensity, but I know for certain rage fills me now.

The rage is at a world that was, is and seems to be for a good long while. The rage is at me, who can’t stop it, hide from it, or care deeply enough for it. And the rage is at those who have never felt this same rage due to indifference. The story about a wife living on nothing but a bit of starch seasoned with dirt in Africa while her children’s bellies bloat and her husband rots in jail for being considered a traitor despite all loyalty to the true country leave me in deep anguish, despair and unbelief. This novel speaks more truth than I can bear.

I have moments when I see myself in Africa, living among the mango trees and tireless mothers and kids running around. Such a life seems perfectly normal to me, as much as living back in Wyoming would be. Somehow I dream that in being there, the realities that make it unique yet destitute would melt away under the tropical sun. Or at least they would blur and grow shady. Yet, in hearing this character’s anguish, I can’t help but think that too could be me. Just as the young woman of the pages, I am a white American that knows too much to be able to turn a blind eye and are therefore left to rage, long for what seems impossible, and in the end, try simply to survive. “And I do what I can. What I have to do, I can’t-wait.”

It’s been hours since I last opened the book but the sensation of rage still flutters in my brain, nerves and heart. Maybe that’s what I really need to watch out for- the ideas that stir up these emotions inside. But just like the harsh realities of the world, I can’t and shouldn’t hide from these feelings or the literature that arouses them. Instead, I need to be just as intentional about remembering that rage might not be caged, but it can be used purposely in conjunction of hope. In the end, I am an eternal optimist, though world circumstances sometimes jade me. So why I fume and bear teeth right now, I long to focus and calm the rage with hope. Hope of reconciliation. Hope of shalom. Hope of sharing the burden until we all bear it equally or not at all.

- These thoughts come after a long time reading Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I’m near the end of the book, which saddens me. It was a captivating read and one that has allowed me to mingle and think and feel with several unique yet oddly familiar characters.