Learning to Be Angry

I’ve been revisiting the witch trials again. The ones from the 17th century, to be clear.

With October in full effect, and my moodiness activated, I tend to gravitate to accounts of this deeply troubling and relevant period of our nation's history. I’ve had a lifelong interest — fueled in part by historical curiosity, part by feminist fury, and part by the fact that I took a core-memory-forming field trip to Salem, Mass. on Halloween night in 8th grade and I can't stop myself. But what I’ve noticed is that as I get older, the stories sit heavier.

I used to find the whole topic fascinating. Now, I find them infuriating — not because they’re history, but because they’re not.

Whenever my mind wanders into this space, I can't help but picture the meetinghouses where these false trials occurred. The whispers. The women (plus a few men and children) standing there — not pleading for their lives anymore, just waiting for the inevitable. The hopelessness of knowing that nothing you said would be believed. That reason wouldn’t save them. That truth had no weight when fear was in charge.

Then, I think about what it must have felt like to stand there, falsely accused, humiliated, condemned by alleged friends and family — and feel the heat of rage rising in your chest just as the chill of dread washed over your body, knowing any display would serve only to make things worse.

Close your eyes and project yourself into that scene. It's not hard to see it in your mind's eye. But it is hard to imagine that kind of helplessness. And yet, the ache of it still feels familiar.

We know, now, that those trials weren’t really about witches. They were about control — about punishing mostly women, but anyone who was "other", who carried confidence, curiosity, or autonomy. Those whose self-assurance was read as threat. Whose independence was mistaken for evil.

It all feels familiar because fear still runs the show. We still fear what we can’t contain.

Don't worry, I'll spare you commentary on all the modern parallels, but I will say this: what happened in the late 1600's, and again many times through history, was humanity on full display and showed just how far people of power and privilege will go when fear replaces understanding. We should do our damndest to avoid repeating this chapter of history.

But the part that’s been haunting me most lately is this: what if our forbearers - the literal founders and first Governors of this nation - didn't condemn all ‘witches’ to death? What if it had all gone differently, especially for women?

Would we still be punishing women for speaking up? Would we still call them intimidating when they exert their innate power? Difficult when they disagree? Too much when they dare to hold others to high expectations? Would we still roll our eyes when they call out injustices?

Would we be more comfortable with female rage? Would I be more comfortable with it?

Now, this is a topic I've been exploring for quite a while now, but this recent detour into history has brought it to a real point.

I certainly know what anger feels like — the pulse, the heat, the flash — but I’ve spent my whole life throwing cold water on it before it has a chance to spread very far.

This brought me to the realization that maybe, I don’t actually know how to be angry.

When anger shows up, I meet it with instant diplomacy. “Let’s be reasonable,” I tell it. “Let’s look at the facts.” "What did YOU do, Shannon, to contribute to this situation?" I ask it in my most-loving gas-lighting voice. Or I plead condescendingly: "calm down a minute, find an emotion that makes more sense."

But — what if anger is the sense?

On my walk earlier today, I was listening to my favorite podcast, Esther Perel’s Where Should We Begin? when she probed the guest, “Are you afraid of your own anger?” And I swear, I stopped in my tracks and answered out loud — yes. I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

I can intellectualize almost anything. Anger, though? It demands embodiment. It wants to be felt, not fixed. And that’s…well, uncomfortable for me. Not because I think my anger will destroy anything. But because I don’t really know what to do with it. It feels like being handed a lit match in a room full of velvet curtains. It feels too unruly, too chaotic. It’s not instructive enough for me.

But, I'd wager that this is true for a lot of people — men and women alike. We never learned how to have anger, only how to hide it. We were told to manage it, to moderate it, to reframe it as something softer and more socially acceptable: frustration, irritation, disappointment.

Were the witch trials to blame for this collective self-anger-shaming? Surely not exclusively. But, history does live within us. We internalize the pains and gains of the generations that come before us. It certainly couldn't have helped. An entire newborn nation raised in a dogmatic framework in which fear was permitted and necessary for those in power to maintain control; and anger was silenced, weaponized, and ultimately, punished.

Historical evidence aside, though, I think most everyone agrees that anger is information. It’s a compass pointing to something crossed — a boundary, a value, a promise. It’s data about what matters to us.

My challenge is that I’ve learned to douse my anger before it catches flame. To keep it tidy, logical, palatable. To pretend I'm fine so I don’t scare anyone — including myself.

Women at-large have become exceedingly adept at burning out the parts of ourselves that threaten others. How we learn to keep our anger on a tight leash because we know what happens when it slips. How many of us were raised to be “nice,” “understanding,” “grateful,” even when mistreated. How many times I’ve swallowed my own rage because I wanted to be seen as calm, rational, safe. I wrote a whole article about this a few months ago for crying out loud.

The truth is — I am afraid of my anger. But maybe what I’m really afraid of is my power.

I like to imagine that the women who stood bravely under the gallows were so profoundly angry – at the astounding betrayal of their neighbors, their family, their God - in their final moments that they felt no pain. I hope somehow, they knew that they were about to die not because they were powerless, but because they were, in fact, too powerful.

So, in this season of rebuilding confidence — in my Second Flight and in honor of all those silenced through history — I’m trying not to burn out my anger or bury it. I’m trying to listen to it. Because the goal is to finally give my anger somewhere to go — somewhere constructive, creative, cleansing.

And maybe in there lies the bridge between anger and confidence: both require belief in your own power.

Anger tells us something isn’t right; confidence gives us the courage to do something about it. One fuels awareness, the other fuels action.

So, I’m learning not to fear my anger anymore — but to see it as proof that I’m still alive, still paying attention, still daring to rise again.