The Right To Be Outraged

As someone who considers herself a reader and a thinker, belonging to a book club is always something I’ve sought out.  Of course, as anyone who has ever been a part of a book club can tell you, the quality of the club can vary widely.  In the past, I’ve belonged to a book club when the book hardly got mentioned but I enjoyed being with my friends so much, it didn’t matter.  I’ve belonged to a club where a member felt compelled to photocopy pages that contained vulgarity, black out the offending words and distribute clean copies so that every one could read sin free.  I’ve belonged to a book club where only LDS books were allowed to be certain that no one could possible be offended (some were still offended).

I’ve belonged to a book club that changed the meeting dates so often it quickly went defunct.  I’ve belonged to a book club that mailed books from reader to reader with notes and comments in the margins and another club that was formed with mostly strangers who blogged.  I currently meet with a charming group of women, most of whom are in their late 40s and 50s who are not my besties but are nice thoughtful people who, for the most part, choose interesting books.

The who’s and the why’s are a longer story than I care to share, but each month, the book is selected by the person hosting who also serves dinner to the club.  I missed April’s meeting last Thursday, even though I had read the book because Daniel had had a rough day and I still needed to get things done to prepare for my busy weekend such as talk writing and cleaning.  In an email, I told everyone how much I enjoyed the book, The Paris Wife, and how I was looking forward to seeing them in May.

An email from the club’s leader (how much do I hate that the club has a leader?  A lot.) came on Wednesday saying that no one had signed up to host in May so we were going to meet at a downtown restaurant and discuss the book 50 Shades of Grey.  I’ve seen the book on Amazon.com’s top seller list but the cover didn’t appeal to me at all, nor the fact that it was part of a trilogy (it seemed like a grown up Twilight) but I didn’t know what it was about.  So, I looked it up.

It is erotica.  Gross.

I fumed for about a day.  With all of the better options out there, I couldn’t believe the group (because it wasn’t just one person, I guess) would select something so blatantly pornographic.  I’m pretty liberal in what I read and don’t often cause a ruckus if sex is in a book but it has to have some context.  It has to have some meaning.  I started to compose a rebuke to the group about its poor choice then deleted it.  No one wants to be lectured.  No one wants to be told they are reading trash.  And no one wants someone who censors what they read.  Would my email have amounted to blacking out what I thought vulgar?  My outrage waned to disappointed which eventually turned into embarrassment that I had ever gotten so worked up about it in the first place.  Who am I to judge another?  I don’t have to read it.

I’ve noticed this pattern in my reaction before.  Outrage followed by disappointment followed by some strange mix of compassion/empathy/apathy/it’s probably all my fault somehow anyway.

Some more recent examples:

There was a senior prank on Monday and all the air on the all the school bus tires was let out.  I think they cut off the stem valve on each tire.  School was cancelled district wide and I was outraged.  Not because school was cancelled but because nobody seemed to be outraged!  So many thought it was funny and I felt like the biggest killjoy by pointing out that these “funny” kids were messing with the vehicles that transport our children.  MY children.  Then the outrage turned to disappointment and then apathy.  No one was hurt, I guess.

A letter came home from the middle school principle apologizing to all the seventh grade parents (I’m not sure why I got a letter.  They must have sent it to all middle school parents) for the inappropriate bag some seventh graders got during a field trip to one of those teen-building places, in this case a maze where they had to make choices or something like that.  Apparently, at one of the stations in the maze, there was a sex education spiel and bags with a condom and other sundries were handed out.  The principle was horrified and apologetic in his letter and promised to address not only the company that hosted this field trip but also the purpose of all future field trips. My Lucy-stages of outrage were very brief and within five minutes I was thinking, “You know, those kids can buy a condom in any gas station bathroom.  If it came with some accurate information about the consequences of sexual activity instead of only the titillating picture on the machine, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.”  See how inconsistent I am?  Oh...and I’m sure my reaction would have been stronger if I had a seventh grader.  The scary thing is, I know some seventh graders need that information because when I was in seventh grade, there were some my age who were already experimenting.  Sad.  Sad, sad, sad.

Both of my sons’ soccer coaches repeated go over the end time of practice.  I find it infuriating as I’m usually waiting in the car with a crying baby and have already been in the car for hours.  I think if practice is until 5:45 or 7:30 then my boys should be free to get in the car by 5:46 and 7:31.  But, they are usually still scrimmaging or doing drills until 5:49 or 7:35.  Then the goals need to be put away.  It is 5:58 or 7:46 before either boy is in the car.  I’d come later but their lateness isn’t consistent and I often don’t have anywhere else to go.  I can’t go home as all I’d be doing is driving back and forth (20 minutes to and from).  See?  I’m already trying to somehow blame where I live on why I feel the way I do.

Is our anger ever justified?  Is it because I lack the activist gene that I rarely say anything and rarer still to feel as passionately about it the next minute/hour/day?

What outrages you?  Do you speak up about it?  Do you think not speaking up about it is a form of weakness?