Truly, Madly, Deeply...Angry

John Sherck’s blog got me thinking.  He has resumed his “Thursday Think ‘n’ Share,” and one of the questions was about whether the reader was quick to anger.  Mostly, I have a slow temper.  For one thing, I’m very thick-skinned.  Insults often don’t even register with me.  I care about the opinions of very few people—I would have to really respect you to give your opinion of me much weight.  For another, I’m a teacher.  It is a field where a slow temper is virtually required.

At the same time, I have hot buttons, and I’m not just talking pet-peeve, really annoyed hot buttons.  I mean things that make me struggle to remember that the person I’m interacting with has inherent worth and dignity; things that force me to quell primeval, violent reactions.  I’ve mentioned one in the past: whining.  Not complaining—good heavens, I listen to kids do that all day.  I do it myself.  I’m talking about that high-pitched, draw out the vowels, tired three-year-old tone of voice.  Some people will tell you that they hate whining, but they don’t mean that it makes them feel an immediate urge to cock back a fist and deliver it straight into someone’s face.  It actually bothers me to admit this about myself, because it really is awful, and so unlike me in every other circumstance, but it takes every ounce of effort I have to keep a calm demeanor when anyone over the age of three whines.

I really loathe it when someone interrupts or talks over me.  I consider it the height of rudeness, and I do not do it to others.  I let them talk, and then speak when they’re finished.  This, however, ranks only in the pet-peeve category.  When I get all-out pissed off is when someone asks me a question and then doesn’t let me answer.  Ask my students.  Most of them will tell you that the only time they’ve ever seen me really lose my temper was when they asked a question (usually a challenge like “why do we have to do this assignment?” or “what if we want a bigger group than you’re assigning?”) and then kept arguing as I tried to answer.  I have reasons for teaching every single thing I teach or structuring things as I do.  I don’t mind someone disagreeing, but don’t ask me to explain and then refuse to listen.  Heck, complain bitterly about how horribly unfair I am, just don’t whine about it and don’t ask about it if you’re not going to at least give me a shot at explaining.

Along these lines, I get irate when people put words in my mouth, trying to tell me what I think.  I am generally of a liberal bent on most social issues, but when someone tells me my position on something based upon their assumptions of what “all liberals believe,” I want to flick them on the forehead with my finger really hard (which is, at least, better than punching).  I think for myself, thank you very much.  Worse still is when someone combines these offenses by asking a question and then interrupting to put words in my mouth.  Don’t ask me how I feel about something and then proceed to tell me how I feel without allowing me to respond or listening to what I say.  A few brief minutes of this, and I have to leave before I hurt someone. 

Once, at work, a colleague went on a very self-righteous diatribe about the evil we have done in schools by eliminating prayer, then waxed uber-sanctimonious about the “fallacy” of the separation of church and state in the U.S.  Now, I find this sort of thing annoying, but I wasn’t remotely angered by it.  I didn’t value her opinions on much of anything.  Still, I did mention that I found zealots of all kinds frightening.  My colleague asked what I meant by that, and I said, “Well, historically—“

“I mean,” my colleague said, “that’s just so ironic, that you call Christians zealots, but you stand there and say you ‘hate zealots.’”

“I didn’t say I hate anyone,” I said.  This is true.  I do not hate people.  I believe that hate is a sin.

“Yes, you did.  You stood right there and said you hate zealots.  Sounds pretty zealous to me.”

I was still pretty calm at this point.  “I said zealots fright—“

“Did it ever occur to you that atheists can be zealots?”

Zing!  From calm to on the verge of violence in 15 seconds.  I kept my voice even, but I was pissed when I said, “Yes, and I am as concerned about—“

“That’s the problem with you atheists, you—“

Really, this was all there was to the conversation.  There had been no more back-and-forth than this when I had to turn my back on her and walk out because I was really and truly thisclose to knocking her teeth down her throat.  I didn’t speak to her again for days, though we shared an office.  Just looking at her sent my blood pressure through the roof.  She tried to apologize, and I told her never to speak to me about that conversation again, that I was trying to get over being as close to hating her as I have ever been to hating anyone, and I needed time and then I needed to forget about it.  Thank God she didn’t whine about not meaning to make me mad.  It wouldn’t have been at all pretty.  Eventually, I moved past it, but not easily and not quickly.  Fortunately, she only worked there for a year.  It was a common MO for her, and doubtless, we’d have gotten into another such exchange if she’d been there longer.

That kind of thing is really rare for me, though.  Mostly, I’m too busy and too happy to get particularly angry about things.  Little flairs about bad drivers and such disappear as quickly as they arise.