Stoked

Cultural rage, a reassessment and reminder of what's most important

I’ve always gotten fired up really easily. Maybe it’s reactionism. Or the intense emotions of neurodivergence. People have said my auburn hair is what makes me fiery, which I find infuriating, of course–my hair isn’t causing my anger, but unsolicited comments from people who otherwise know nothing about what’s going on tend to wind me up. 

The state of the world makes me feel emotional, so I try not to think about it too much. How privileged and naïve of me. Sometimes, boundaries are necessary. You don’t know for sure what I’m trying to protect myself from. 

It’s quite possible, though, that most of my anger stems from feeling like I can’t do anything to change things. Not that I’m helpless, or want to count a charitable donation once a year to the Food Bank an act of philanthropy and “doing my part.” But I feel like sometimes I can get so heated that people around me start to feel uncomfortable. They turn their heads away and divert their eyes. They minimize the tab or move on to the next story, uninterested in whatever rant I’ve taken on this day. Really, then, my anger is having the complete opposite effect. It’s rendering me useless, quite literally falling on deaf ears. 

A decade ago, when I was moving back to Canada after a stint in Chicago for grad school, I was struggling at the airport. Actually, I was making a B-grade scene. Leaving Chicago, our plane sat on the tarmac for two hours before we finally took off. My connection in Toronto was going to be beyond tight. My emotions were already high. I was leaving the place I loved but was also homesick and ready to be back near my family on familiar territory. I had rushed out of my apartment, remembering only as my friend was waiting in the car outside that I hadn’t cleaned out the fridge. I quickly chucked old mustard containers and random condiments into a final garbage bag without wiping anything down, locked the door, went out the back stairs, chucked the bag in the dumpster and jumped in the car, sighing with no relief. 

Sure enough, there were only minutes available to make my connection. I anxiously exited the plane, went through customs then grabbed a baggage trolley and waited for all my suitcase-packed possessions to drop down in front of me. Somehow, I had found a way to check five bags as a solo traveler. Even then, they were full and heavy and I was flustered and awkward as I picked them off the carousel, leaning too far one way and attempting to hoist them onto the trolley. Holding a bag with both hands, I’d push up with a knee, hoisting it hopefully high enough to stack, the trolley continually swerving, running away from me each time a bag got close to climbing on top of another. I’d kick it up with my knee and it would land on the edge of an already stacked bag, pushing the trolley away from me, the bag falling towards the floor, taking me with it. I was seething with frustration, muttering curse words under my breath, looking up every so often to see if anyone would notice I was struggling and needing help. A girl who I guessed to be around my age stood a few feet off, kept her eyes laser focused on the carousel. It wasn’t that she was listening to something or too possessed by the rotating silver belt that she didn’t notice me. I could tell by her energy she was actively trying to avoid me. Just help me! I thought, trying to telepathically send her an SOS as I shot her a glare. 

My shirt and neck damp with sweat, I finally got all my bags onto the trolley, which I pushed to the connections area. “Sorry, the gate’s locked,” said the airline attendant at the desk, nonchalance dripping off her tongue. “But I’m right here, and the flight doesn’t leave for another hour,” I said back. She told me something to the effect of it being airline policy that anyone on a connecting flight can’t go through within the last hour. I wasn’t really listening. I knew I wouldn’t be going home that night, that my attempts to reason with this woman, to convince her to let me through, were not going to change anything. She didn’t care where I slept that night. She was just doing her job. 

I spent hours with another agent trying to book myself–and another woman who was in the same position as me–on another flight, and finally found something. The agent arranged for us to stay in the airport hotel and gave us food and drink vouchers. I caught a few hours of sleep in the hotel before waking up at 4 a.m. to head back to the terminal with all my bags. At the check-in counter, the agent told me I wasn’t actually on the flight–my name wasn’t on the roster because the agent from the other airline didn’t have authority to book through their system. Whatever she had done yesterday that made it seem like I’d be going home this morning didn’t work. The agent said there were a few spots in first class left and if I wanted to pay over $1,000, he could book me in right now. I didn’t have a $1,000. 

I pushed my trolly of bags to the wall, sat on the ground and cried. I had been defeated. 

I phoned my parents, even though it was 2 a.m. back home. My dad picked up, I cried and asked for help. He dutifully took on the assignment, and it wasn’t long before I was through security, free of my horrible bags, and the anger I was holding on to. 

When I started this newsletter, I was feeling very angry about the state of the world. And while I had been angry long before I started writing, the more I focused on my anger, the stronger it became. I felt defeated very quickly. I didn’t feel like myself, harbouring all this anger, looking for news articles that I could rage out against. So I took a step back and reassessed. I asked myself how I could help myself–how I could dissolve my anger but continue to write about these issues I still feel need to be spoken about. I’ve decided to keep writing, that’s something I’ll always do. But it might look a little different now. There will be themes weaving in and out of essays, some of which will be personal, like this one, and others more cultural critique, when appropriate. My throat is sore from screaming, so I’m going to make some honey tea and find a way to use my words so they encourage others to think differently, rather than rage themselves into defeat.