When I was much younger, maybe 11, I used to wonder why I got so mad and so angry when something wasn’t fair.

I was the squeaky wheel. Writing letters, making posters, leaving messages,making calls. When something wasn’t right, by god, I was going to say something to someone!

But why?

As an adult I now know that what I am feeling is the rage of injustice. I finally have an idea as to why. It’s in our blood. It’s generations of history repeating itself in the form of oppression. It’s in me, because it needed to be.

It’s crushing me. The toddler being held by ICE, the dead mom, the dead nurse. All of this on top of the layer of hate and murder and bigotry that was already there.

Unfortunately my squeak has been squashed. They’re winning. The rage still bubbles, but I’m no longer an energetic kid with little responsibility and lots of time. Without me knowing, that has always been part of the grand plan.

Now the rage just simmers underneath the day to day responsibilities of being an adult, and a parent. Sometimes spilling out on bad drivers and inconsiderate pedestrians.

Misplaced.

Unwanted.

Well justified.

Rage.