11 years at the News
This feeling of anger has been here now for
21 months. It has grown so familiar. For a single emotion, it has
many dimensions. In morning, though low-grade, anger propels me
out of bed, keeps me from falling back asleep and forces me to begin
picking up the telephone before my first cup of coffee is gone.
Sometimes the anger flashes to pink, then to red. Sometimes it allows
me to remain cool and confident and focused, to keep a clear head
in the face of confrontation and potential violence.
This weekend I was on an airliner, going to
see my fiancee, who had to move away to keep working, earn money
and continue her career. On the plane was a scab, evidently on her
way home to visit somebody. Last week a man no, not a man,
a scab threatened to murder me. Last month I heard the story
again about my grandfather coming home from the Ford plant, his
face broken and bloodied by the Pinkerton goons. Last year my uncle
told me how he was fired in the early days of the UAW for asking
for a raise.
Sometimes, like those times, this anger becomes
a fury. They really believe they can do this in our town, in our
lives? Sometimes this anger feels good. Really, really good.