Today I taught an essay I love: “The Braindead Megaphone” by George Saunders. There are many excellent elements in it—discussions of the media, the amplification of the loudest voice even when that voice is uninformed and ridiculous, how news outlets prioritize entertainment over information because they need to make money.
But the point that came up in my last class, the point I can’t stop thinking about, is Saunders’ note that often the most amplified voices — in person or on social media — often play on the rage, paranoia, and fear of the audience. It led to a conversation about when and where anger shows up, what it looks like, and where students encounter it.
At one point I told them the true story of calling my third grade teacher, God rest her soul, a bitch. I was eight and enraged that though I spelled every word correctly, I had to take home thirteen spelling tests and redo them because my cursive handwriting was bad. It’s still bad. Apparently I flew into a rage at home and my mother, thank heavens, knew I needed to speak to someone. I saw our school counselor and he made me tell a dolphin puppet what I was so angry about.
I also told them about a student I had my first year of teaching who cursed me out and screamed at me one day. I took her into the hall and asked what was going on, and she immediately started crying and said she was worried that, at her next court date, she might be resentenced to JDC. She’s just gotten out a month earlier and didn’t want to go back.
My anger in third grade wasn’t anger, really. I was afraid I wasn’t smart. I wanted to be smart, but if an easy thing like penmanship wasn’t easy for me, well, then, it must mean I’m dumb, right? Wrong, but eight year olds aren’t known for clear logical thinking.
And that student? She wasn’t angry; she was scared.
I told my students that in my experience 90% of the time anger is just fear wearing a different dress.
I told them to think about what they’re amplifying, what emotions they hand the megaphone to, and whether or not that practice is serving them.
A young man stayed after class and said, “last semester, when you pulled me in to the hall to make me talk to you when I was angry, what did you think I was afraid of?”
I was so impressed that he wanted to talk about it. Impressed that he was staying to help me put the desks back after our class discussion. Impressed that he connected the story I told to his own life.
I said, “I worried that you were afraid I didn’t like you, and I knew I couldn’t help you if you felt that way.”
We went on to talk about his family’s new business, his college plans, why he likes our class, and what he thought about the essay. It was a great 45 minutes that I absolutely could have spent doing other things, but nothing would have felt as important.
On that day last fall when he was angry, if I’d gotten angry, too, or worse, if I’d ignored him altogether, I would have proven to him that I didn’t like him. How can you like someone you don’t pay attention to?
Wherever you are today, I hope you give yourself some attention, and I hope you sit with your feelings, no matter the dress they may wear.
Shannon Carriger 