Anger

I am angry. 

I was taught that anger is a secondary emotion. What is primary?

Sadness, helplessness, fear. Grief. 

Rage.

I was a believer. I believed in the American Dream, as a goal, as a destination. I fought for it, in my way. Some on the street, in demonstrations, but mostly in the therapy room. In the group room, the conference room, the interview room. The classroom, the lecture room, at the dinner table and in staff meetings. In living rooms with family and friends. In the bedroom. 

I believed that others believed, even as we struggled. 

Now I doubt. Not the principles, but the citizens. My faith in my country, in its citizens, fades. I remember reading something like: fascism will arrive in America on a cross wrapped in a flag.* And so it seems. Those who claim the highest ground, seek the lowest. 

So I grieve, not only countless (uncounted) deaths, but the loss, the murder, of ideals. 

And I am tired. 

 

* An internet search tells me that this quote, ascribed to many, has never been clearly attributed.