The trees were ablaze with orange and gold, their fiery foliage blazing against the brilliant blue sky. Their bold statement of intent to transition to the quiet of winter was the optimal setting for a writing retreat with Rebecca Traister.
For there, tucked in a cozy inn in Camden, Maine, a group of eighteen women and one man, from a range of generations, a variety of backgrounds and motivations, gathered to explore and express their anger. Like the trees surrounding us, we were on fire, ready and willing to speak and write our truth about the rage simmering inside us. We just needed the safe environment that Rebecca gifted us.
This esteemed group of writers included political activists and seasoned campaigners, women who edit prestigious media outlets, authors of New York Times bestsellers. Together we sat and wrote about the origin of our fury. For some, it was personal stories of childhood sexual abuse, failed romantic relationships that cut to the bone. For myself, it was my personal battle in divorce court.
We were all there in Maine to learn from Rebecca, a feminist journalist who has studied and written on this topic for decades, to uncork our anger to impact change or simply to use our pens to journal and leave our mark.
We understood the double standard of anger in a world full of double standards for women, where men are granted permission even encouraged to curse, stomp, and shout while women are punished for their outbursts. We’ve been silenced or have silenced ourselves because we didn’t dare buck the system that demanded we be polite to be liked, to accommodate those in power to keep the peace; a burden women have carried for centuries. We’ve struggled to express ourselves, to expose the injustices we’ve witnessed or experienced because we were gagged by societal norms. If we dared stand up and declare our truth, we earned the heinous ‘B’ for bitch or even worse, a ‘W’ for witch. Yes, throughout history, women who have expressed their anger were labeled mad, sometimes institutionalized, and burned at the stake, if only metaphorically.
I never witnessed my parents’ quarrels, though I’m sure they occurred behind close doors. It’s normal to argue, right? I didn’t know that! I grew up without an example of how to fight, how to normalize arguing and conflict. The subtle messages I received became my baggage packed to the brim with words never spoken. I carried my anger with me like a heavy suitcase I could never check. It was over the 50 pound limit!
Rebecca told us anger can be divisive, but it can also bring together those with the courage to share their pain. And over the course of our weekend, it became the common thread that stitched together a bond, a community. We listened to one another, felt each other’s pain, and respected the stories we shared, many that were told for the first time.
It feels good to unpack that suitcase now. To respect my own rage and give it a megaphone when appropriate. I’m a work in progress.
What about you/ What anger are you carrying?
Are you ready to unload it?
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