The Importance of Being Fierce: Warriors Versus Wimps
Last week I tweeted giant motivational speaker Tony Robbins not only to shame him for being cowed by the vicious METOO witch hunters but also to disagree with one of the generally sensible Robbins comments that had incited the weak, whiny wenches in that so-called movement. He said that anger is not empowering. I disagreed; I argued that when channeled correctly anger can be very empowering. After Trump won the rigged-against-urban-nonwhites electoral college, I was depressed for about twelve hours. During that period, I felt hopeless, tired, and weak, but then I grew angry. Immediately, I felt more energetic, powerful, and even younger. I responded angrily to the e-mails of the "loser Democrats," as I called them, as well as tweeted and posted on Facebook and Google+. I fought back. Other Americans, especially the women, clearly had similar responses. Their depressions may have lasted a little longer, but they eventually got out of bed, left the house, and started marching, voting, and running for political office. They angrily resisted.
Robbins may have been speaking personally when he said anger is not empowering. Some people respond to anger the way most of us respond to depression; they become incapacitated. I have that reaction when faced with a yelling opponent or a liar. Because my mother was a high-strung screamer when I was a child, a raised voice triggers me. I become slightly unhinged and can't think clearly. I yell, curse, and might even cry. Liars have the same effect. I explained why in my 3/4/18 post. I hate it when people try to make a fool out of me. But I also hate to deal with people whose word can't be trusted.
When I described myself as a word warrior in an earlier post (2/14/16), I should have made it clear that I'm a fierce word warrior only when writing. I can win some oral battles, but if I'm triggered by yelling or lying, I will lose. Because of that handicap, I decided to hire a lawyer to represent me in the now four-year Battle of the Bungalows. After receiving some free telephone advice from a polite real estate lawyer (he was surprised to learn that I am black and almost seventy; I probably sound like a young white man on the telephone), I was considering hiring a race discrimination lawyer. However, I noticed that every time I started to talk about racism, I would choke up or cry. When I was talking to the friendly telephone lawyer, I said, "I'm a black woman who was born in Kentucky in 1949," and started choking up. I didn't even reach the part of my narrative where I was riding in the back of buses, going in back doors, being a small child when Emmett Till was murdered, and being the same age as three of the four girls killed in Birmingham before I was wiping tears. It happened again when I was talking to the receptionist in a Claremont law office. After I hung up and sat crying for a couple of minutes, I decided I was not going to hire a lawyer to represent me as a victim. This black Kentucky "blossom" (See my 2/18/18 post) was going to fight her own battles.
As soon as I made that decision, I felt a surge of energy. I started strategizing, plotting how I would bully the racist bullies who were trying to run me out of my community. I have the advantages of being legally and morally right, (probably because of that advantage as well as my dark skin and my mean, authoritarian teacher demeanor) being less intimidated by them than they are by me, being a better thinker and writer than any of them, which is why they won't respond to my written attacks, and having the time and money to take them on. Although I'm considering having some of my neighbors sign a petition, I will mostly go the Lone Ranger (minus the mask, hat, and horse) route. I even have a Tonto, a petite, blue-eyed, blonde "rose." She can maintain her composure better in meetings, so she can harass them there while I'll just walk in, silently drop my latest written attack, glare, and march out. It's on, Bungalows HOA Bitches! Heigh-O Black and Gray Panther!
I said in my memoir that I sometimes mistook my southern traits for black traits and that I discovered in the eighties that my combativeness might not be a black female thing but a Kentucky thing when I met a combative older white man from Kentucky. Anyone who wants to know how we Kentuckians roll should read the Grangerfords-Shepherdsons section of HUCKLEBERRY FINN or read about Senator Rand Paul's recent battle with his next door neighbor.
Of course, there are fierce warriors in every state, and they come in all colors, genders, sizes, shapes, and ages. They use different weapons--speeches, tweets, blogs, marches, votes. Some of them, like Parkland student Emma Gonzalez, can even cry while battling and calling BS. This tall, elderly, black blossom from Kentucky is happy to continue battling a corrupt management company and a racist HOA board. If I were a wimp, a victim, I would sell my house and move as some of my neighbors have. But I am a fierce word warrior, empowered by my anger. The battle continues, and I will ultimately win.
Robbins may have been speaking personally when he said anger is not empowering. Some people respond to anger the way most of us respond to depression; they become incapacitated. I have that reaction when faced with a yelling opponent or a liar. Because my mother was a high-strung screamer when I was a child, a raised voice triggers me. I become slightly unhinged and can't think clearly. I yell, curse, and might even cry. Liars have the same effect. I explained why in my 3/4/18 post. I hate it when people try to make a fool out of me. But I also hate to deal with people whose word can't be trusted.
When I described myself as a word warrior in an earlier post (2/14/16), I should have made it clear that I'm a fierce word warrior only when writing. I can win some oral battles, but if I'm triggered by yelling or lying, I will lose. Because of that handicap, I decided to hire a lawyer to represent me in the now four-year Battle of the Bungalows. After receiving some free telephone advice from a polite real estate lawyer (he was surprised to learn that I am black and almost seventy; I probably sound like a young white man on the telephone), I was considering hiring a race discrimination lawyer. However, I noticed that every time I started to talk about racism, I would choke up or cry. When I was talking to the friendly telephone lawyer, I said, "I'm a black woman who was born in Kentucky in 1949," and started choking up. I didn't even reach the part of my narrative where I was riding in the back of buses, going in back doors, being a small child when Emmett Till was murdered, and being the same age as three of the four girls killed in Birmingham before I was wiping tears. It happened again when I was talking to the receptionist in a Claremont law office. After I hung up and sat crying for a couple of minutes, I decided I was not going to hire a lawyer to represent me as a victim. This black Kentucky "blossom" (See my 2/18/18 post) was going to fight her own battles.
As soon as I made that decision, I felt a surge of energy. I started strategizing, plotting how I would bully the racist bullies who were trying to run me out of my community. I have the advantages of being legally and morally right, (probably because of that advantage as well as my dark skin and my mean, authoritarian teacher demeanor) being less intimidated by them than they are by me, being a better thinker and writer than any of them, which is why they won't respond to my written attacks, and having the time and money to take them on. Although I'm considering having some of my neighbors sign a petition, I will mostly go the Lone Ranger (minus the mask, hat, and horse) route. I even have a Tonto, a petite, blue-eyed, blonde "rose." She can maintain her composure better in meetings, so she can harass them there while I'll just walk in, silently drop my latest written attack, glare, and march out. It's on, Bungalows HOA Bitches! Heigh-O Black and Gray Panther!
I said in my memoir that I sometimes mistook my southern traits for black traits and that I discovered in the eighties that my combativeness might not be a black female thing but a Kentucky thing when I met a combative older white man from Kentucky. Anyone who wants to know how we Kentuckians roll should read the Grangerfords-Shepherdsons section of HUCKLEBERRY FINN or read about Senator Rand Paul's recent battle with his next door neighbor.
Of course, there are fierce warriors in every state, and they come in all colors, genders, sizes, shapes, and ages. They use different weapons--speeches, tweets, blogs, marches, votes. Some of them, like Parkland student Emma Gonzalez, can even cry while battling and calling BS. This tall, elderly, black blossom from Kentucky is happy to continue battling a corrupt management company and a racist HOA board. If I were a wimp, a victim, I would sell my house and move as some of my neighbors have. But I am a fierce word warrior, empowered by my anger. The battle continues, and I will ultimately win.
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