“Why are you angry? You always look angry.”
For the last time, I’m not angry! This is the way I look. This is what God gave me to work with for the past 50 odd years, so if it bothers you, imagine how I feel!
And I’m not “screaming.” I pride myself on speaking audibly. I’m not a mumbler, nor am I deaf. Although I should be after a lifetime exposure to loud machinery, gunfire, and music that my parents and people of the cloth found offensive. If I don’t hear you, it’s by choice.
If you wanna hear screaming I’ll gladly give you a demonstration. I AM the guy you want with you if you’re lost in the woods but I’m also completely capable of knowing how and when to situationally moderate volume, unlike the gaggles of alcohol-infused Wisconsin scream-talking women I’ve seen in restaurants lately. (I’ll never understand why women appear to lose their hearing when they drink, screeching over the top of each other like some kinda crazy competition at the annual coven.)
Honestly, I’m a slow burn and seldom get “angry.” When I do it’s typically a short-lived guy-tirade, call it a “guyrade,” and then I’m fine. My kids get it, joking that I can go from a bipolar in-your-face dad-rant (that evokes droopy-eared big-eyed Bugs Bunny responses) to asking who wants to go out for ice cream.
Again proving that parenting is 80% theater. And Bekki intentionally provokes it, understanding exactly what buttons to push to power a guyrade….because she likes theater and finds some kinda twisted joy from poking sleeping porcupines with pointy sticks. Or maybe that’s just her way of saying she wants to go for ice cream.
But now, because of our male-corrective culture and the specter of being shushed, I catch myself being overly aware of my natural volume presets. God help me, I’ve become a low-talker. That, along with my “angry” appearance, probably makes me look and sound like a serial killer.
I think our culture is doing a disservice to society with the PC generated confusion over animated man-volume and “anger.” As an American male, if I don’t stumble through life, murmuring like a confused schizophrenic homeless guy, I’m labeled “angry.” You’d think our culture would embrace enthusiastic speech. I personally prefer raucous laughter and Voice to confessional whispering.
Young men seem to be the most shush-affected. They’re mumblers. (Maybe that’s why they put female order-takers in fast food drive-throughs.) I catch myself reading lips in an effort to communicate. In the end I decode about 50% of their subtle murmuring lip movements and just pretend to understand what they’re saying, relying on facial expressions and body language. From that I’m able to adjust my response accordingly. It’s like trying to communicate with a collie. “DID TIMMY FALL INTO THE WELL? GOOD BOY! TAKE ME TO TIMMY!”
My son Joe falls into the cultural murmuring trap on occasion. Fortunately I have the benefit of parental ownership and call him out on his dolphinesque communication of clicks and whistles. His predictably defensive – and audible – response is usually, “YOU’RE DEAF! GET A HEARING AID OR SOMETHIN’!”
Maybe it’s that our culture has become collectively mute, content with head-bent thumb-communication rather than live human interaction. What a waste. A visual catalog of emojis are required to convey the very thing that makes us uniquely human. Any interruption to someone’s crack-like texting addiction – like having a conversation – is loud and intrusive.
I continually find myself conversationally idle (if not socially abandoned) because someone “just needs to finish this text.” But it’s never A text but an urgent silent digital conversation that folds time.
OK, that makes me kinda angry.