I know what it looks like. I know how it feels. Rage was my mother – a church going, rosary-reciting, rule-following, angry woman. She called it “Holy Anger” when she beat me. And she beat me often with anything she could grab: a yardstick, a fly-swatter, her hand. Hitting, slapping, gauging, pulling at my hair, and screaming! Her “Holy Anger” happened when I said things like “I want to go to college” or when I wore a new outfit purchased with tip money I’d earned as a waitress. I still have a scar from the fingernail that dug into my left hand.

What had I done to warrant her anger that day? I was not a bad kid, not defiant, nor rebellious. I was obedient, just questioned things. I wanted to understand why girls always had to cook and do housework. Why did the boys get to find jobs that paid money? Why did I have to recite memorized prayers? Why couldn’t I just pray directly to God? It was for these things that I got slapped. How dare I question. She had not been allowed to question. So I was not allowed either. She had no chance at college. What made me think I had the right? I’d better know my place. She loved looking pretty, but there was no money for that once babies started. And those babies just kept coming. Her religion would not allow her to stop them. That was her lot; by God, it would be mine too.

Holy Anger justified by her God. Rage against the life controlled by others. Not having the opportunity to live her life. She beat that into me every chance she could. Someone had to know. She wanted to rob me of my joy just like she’d been robbed of her’s.

But I wouldn’t let her. I fought back, not with anger or fists or sticks. I would never ever hit her like she had hit me. Instead, I fought back with endless, powerful positivity. I would survive, no matter what. Tested again and again by others who tried to control my joy, tried to darken by spirit. Still, I fought back. I would be in control of me.

Now, we have a wannabe dictator who seeks to control. Seeking to have blind obedience or else. My mother’s religion taught her to obey, no matter what. That religion told her that it was the only true religion. All others were fake. Her father told her who she was allowed to date and how long she could attend school. Society of the times told her that her place was in the home taking care of her husband. Even when she was finally allowed to take a job outside the home, she was put in a uniform (a dress) because that’s what women should wear. All that obedience led to anger and hatred and hurtful punishments.

Now, today, I’m back again in that place of a young girl wanting only to give love and be loved but being pummeled by the news of negativity, anger, hatred … control, control, control.

I will not give in now anymore than I did then. I need to let my light shine on, and on and on. No matter what. I must fight back with positivity and love and what I believe to be the truth. I will not be controlled. I took beatings for my right to live my life. I can do it again.