Sunday, September 11, 2005

Inner transformation

I once read a Marine's blog on rage. He called it having a machine within himself. I have only felt this kind of cold mechanical rage a few times in my life.

Once, immediately after the birth of my twins. I was strolling them in an old fashioned pram, because they were two sizes too small. As I walked on a beautiful late spring day down my street, a boy chasing another boy came crashing together through the backyard gate, both about 8 years of age, both dressed in home made capes and wearing war paint on their faces. Each carrying a hammer, whooping like Injuns on the warpath. They ran up to the buggy and suddenly stopped. Suddenly, they both fell silent, while holding their hammers aloft, but not meaning any harm, I am sure, just curious to see what was inside. I didn't wait. The machine within turned on. First, I screamed a kind of scream that could only be described as animalistic. They were scared shitless. I was thinking, Hammers, they are going to attack with hammers, and I screamed a wordless, ragefilled scream. They dropped their hammers and ran into the house, frightened to death of me. I picked up their hammers and threw them over the fence, and shaking from the belief that the babies were in imminent danger, I turned around and went home. I thought about my actions all day, and I could only come to this conclusion: Maternal instinct is animal in nature. I have the capacity to kill someone. I had never thought that was possible before.

My next bout of machine rage was watching the trial of the British Nanny in Massachussetts concerning the death of toddler Matthew Eappen. As I watched her lawyer asking her, "Did you kill Matthew Eappen?" She giggled. Nervously, but leaving no doubt in my mind that she did it. She did it and believed she was going to get away with it. She was so meticulously dressed, so well-prepped,and so image-driven, but the actual stain of guilt was present. It was there in her face, in her eyes, and nothing, no media sympathy, no idiotic polls could have erased the bloodstain from her memory. She did it and she knew it, and she. didn't. care. I went ice cold with rage. How I wanted to strangle her. I wanted to enjoy strangling her. I didn't care that strangling someone was illegal. I wanted to do it. To her. Baby killer. Soulless, self-absorbed baby killer. The jury saw what I had seen, too. Despite the best efforts of the press, they had seen it too, and found her guilty.

The press was outraged! So in love with their creation of an "Innocent British school girl caught up in the Nightmare of the American Justice System" that not one of the talking heads could be bothered to ask...maybe? Maybe she is guilty? But how they crucified the mother. What kind of mother goes back to work and leaves the care of her children in the hands of a teenager? A greedy mom, one who hates to stay home and do the right thing and raise the kids at home....just the kind of woman they usually describe as stupid for WANTING to stay home, and NOT WANTING to work outside the home.

I know those media-types. I used to work for the press, and how I remember hearing them tell me how stupid I was for wanting to give up my 'career' when there were so many day care options available to me. THIS IS THE 80s! What kind of wrench was I throwing into the progress of women's right to work outside the home....yada, yada, yada.So I was enraged at the press in their coverage of the Matthew Eappen murder...and the press' conviction of his mother: guilty for having worked outside the home.

And now, September 11. This is a day tailor-made for rage. Constant therapeutic rage. But, thankfully, I do not need to go out and strangle anyone in the press corps for their constant missrepresentations. We now have 'FISKING', brought to you, since September 11, 2001, or shortly thereafter, by the blogosphere. Thank you for the blogosphere. Best. Invention. EVER!!!

It is this day I felt the coldest and most helpless anger of all.
This day which transformed me from
gullible sheep to rage filled sheepdog.
I might be, in the words of the late Mohammad Atta, "but a woman", but now, I am Jauhara. I may be too old to join the army and slaughter the sons of Allah properly - crusade-style, but now I am Jauhara. forever. And in Arabic, Jauhara is not some meek, abaya-clad, doormat, punching bag, toilet daughter of Islam....she is the kafirah.

I don't have any weapon, save for the pen, but since that is all I have, I will wield it the way only an infidel can. I will blaspheme and ridicule the sons of Allahu Akbar, and their vile prophet Mohammad. In fact, I will start writing my own Koran. Apparently, ANY 7th century illiterate piece of camel dung can do it. Why can't I? Enough with the tippy-toed
dhimmitude! On this day, I bid you all a long memory, and a nice, cold, rage-filled rant. Let the fisking celebrations continue.


  1. I know how you feel.

  2. No new posts yet?
    I'll be checking on you daily. ;-)


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