The Rage

Katie Davis

The screaming, blaming, throwing, hitting, it always seemed to come out of nowhere. Some days we were happy; some days we could barely be under the same roof. It was always my fault. Somehow everything that happened: things breaking, chores undone, house unclean, unsaid tasks ignored.

I never knew why, but Mom was always angry, I knew that. I started to draw my own conclusions the older I got: there was —resentment, I stood for her failed marriage, she always wanted a perfect kid, I reminded her of herself and him, and oh how she hated herself and him. The anger always came at night—after a long day’s work, after my laziness—sometimes she was only angry, and my mom disappeared into the rage.

So much of my childhood was lost to the fire that consumed my mother in these moments, so much I’ve willed myself to forget—if I clung to these moments I would resent her the same way she always resented me; I won’t allow that for myself; I can’t resent both parents. If I resented both of them, I would be too much of an artist cliché. My life has been a senseless mural, splashes of color from different things, but most of these, moments of rage, a streak of black, like that painter tried to cover whatever mistake was there. 

The first moment of the rage that isn’t a black streak was when I was almost 3 years old, my infant sister can’t be placed in this moment, I like to pretend the one-month-old was sleeping soundly on the second floor, while I cowered in the bathroom downstairs, tucked between the toilet and the bathtub. “I’m leaving. You can deal with this on your own.” The words echoed inside me, my first recognizable moment of fear, glowing buttons of a phone blurred through the tears, shaky fingers dialing 911, a fear of what would happen to the baby if the fingers hit call. What power would a two-year-old have to protect the baby if mom was gone too? The police would separate-us. Dad was already gone. Protect, protect,wait. The waiting felt like forever, the tears never stopped falling, the hands never stopped shaking, the baby–miraculously–must have never stopped sleeping. Eventually Mom had to have come back home. 

The streaks of black become thicker after that, no real memories of my sister growing up, of my grandma before she passed, of my father when-when he came to see us of my friends, of myself. The streaks are thick and heavy on my life. Only glimpses of things exist for most of it. A shaky hand holding a knife for protection, taunted to use it. A shaky voice yelling they’ll call CPS, taunted they won’t be believed. A shaky teenager pumping with teenage anger, pulled by-my hair underneath the Christmas tree. All of the shaking was mine, but I don’t remember the spark to the rage, or the resolution. It’s always what the rage does or says that sticks, never what I did to cause it, never what I did to run from it. 

Another moment exists with clarity, the longest one besides the time she threatened to leave me with a newborn. My mom loomed over me on the porch, her tongue hurling senseless insults, her screams cutting through my heart-, hand clenching an unseen plate, legs shaking with rage, face turning red, blaming me once again. 

The orange plate exploded in front of me, exposing their unpainted ceramic insides—it was like a new world created by malice-laced action, the whites of the inside- danced like the stars against the dark evening ground, and I stood there while another plate exploded, this one white. The second one created more stars, while the waters of their new worlds seemed to pour down my cheeks. The shaky breaths I drew would be their winds, the dirt from the sidewalk they lay on their ground, the flinching their earthquakes, the screams from the rage their thunder. Only our porch light was on, it was a populated street, the neighbors always prying, but when a teenager had plates pitched at them as a fear tactic, not a single eye or ear could see what occurred. 

Instead it was me, alone, who had to face the rage. I had to stand there, my cheek burning in the shape of her hand, the familiar prayer that it would bruise just once—then I wouldn’t have to tell people, they would just see and help. It becomes black again, I must have been allowed inside, it must have not bruised.  My heart aches every time I think of my moments with the rage, even when survival instinct is activated, when all I could dream about was my own death to free me. But I couldn’t leave. At risk of something happening to the sweet little one-year-old that was always tucked away somewhere. At risk of the rage hunting me down. I had to stay, make sure the baby grew up safely, make sure I grew up. Now here I am, my mural finally in color again. There isn’t anything coated in black anymore. I exist in a way that is continually making sure I’m not another home to the rage. Make sure I don’t sling hurtful things at people I care about thoughtlessly. Keeping my anger inside — handling it, seeing if it’s real or just a misplaced emotion. It’s hard, but I won’t subject anyone else to the rage. 

When the Days Change

Dylan Wyatt

The first day of spring always comes out of nowhere. It awakens a dormant part of me. It reminds me of childhood joy. After months of cold winter days, dreary skies full of gray clouds, cars covered in a sheen of frost, the sudden warmth and sunny sky delivers a shock to my system. Out of the blue, with little premonition beforehand, one day just feels different.

The first day of spring. I am not necessarily referring to the day marked on calendars, underneath a picture of a breathtaking landscape or beagle puppies playing on a farm. The position of the earth, moon, and stars predestines that day. The idea of spring can’t be decided. It appears in the moment. Everyone experiences it a little differently, at a different time, for a different reason. Even after years of cycling the seasons, that first feeling of spring still returns to me every year, like a dog after it escapes and rambles around a little, like waking up on a Saturday morning, giving me renewed strength and hope, reminding me of fond memories of days gone by, blinked away, and lost to time.

When I think of a spring day—fluffy clouds floating in a sky of blue like stars stitched on Old Glory—tall oak trees swaying in the cooling breeze—dandelion puffs flying by in the air—I remember being a little kid and playing baseball in the backyard with my dad. 

When I turned eight, my dad bought me a Rawlings mitt from the local sporting goods store. While other parents saved money by going to Walmart or a garage sale, my dad insisted on paying the extra money for a brand new, higher quality piece of equipment. It was one of the few instances my frugally-minded father opted for the more expensive item. He took baseball seriously. It was more than a game. It was his life.

Growing up, my dad spent all his free time playing ball, set state records in Little League, and dreamed of playing in the Major Leagues. He was talented enough to make it. As a kid, I idolized him. He was Superman. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was George Washington. I aspired to be half the man he was.

As soon as he put that first glove on my hand in the store, I dreamed of following in the family tradition. I imagined making diving catches. I fantasized about slowly rounding the bases while the opposing pitcher looked down at the ground, disappointed in himself, and the other players waited for me to reach home plate. When I went home that night, I told my dad, “I’m not taking this off, ever.” I left it on all day, and when I woke up the next morning, it was still on my hand.

The next day, I waited patiently for my dad to come home from work. All I wanted to do was play catch, break-in my new glove, and start my journey to becoming just like my dad. All day, my mom said he would probably be too tired when he got home. He walked in the door wearing a sweat-drenched t-shirt; his face looked worn and tired from a long, labored day. I asked anyway, expecting to be turned down. He looked at me with his droopy, bloodshot eyes and said, to my gawking surprise, “Sure, buddy. Grab your glove.”

A few weeks later, I stepped foot on a baseball diamond for the first time. My heart was pounding in my chest. It was a blisteringly warm April day. The air smelled crisper than usual, saturated with humidity. The grass sparkled with dew in the early morning light. In the bright blue sky, the sun already beamed down with ferocious intensity. We walked to the batter’s box, my dad carrying my equipment bag on his shoulder. I already had my glove on.

When we got to home plate, he looked at me and said, “We’re going to practice ground balls. Go out to the baseline and I’ll hit it to you.” I jogged out to the dusty, brown dirt between first and second base. My legs wobbled uncontrollably with excitement and nervousness. I had been daydreaming about this moment for weeks, but now, standing there, waiting for a ball to come my way, I had no idea what was going to happen. The ball could bounce over my outstretched hand; I might make the catch but throw the ball in the ground. I worried about embarrassing myself, but as soon as I looked at the big, wide smile on my dad’s face as he spun a ball around in his hand, all my fears vanished.

Every year, when I walk outside for the first taste of fresh air on a day in March or April, I wait to see if those old familiar feelings return. I let the air sit in my senses for a little while, searching for the right smells and tastes. I look up at the sky to see if the clouds have lost their dark gloom. I sit down on the grass and wait for childhood memories to flood my mind. Only then do I know with certainty that Spring has arrived.