The other day, I was trying to solve a problem at work and I became so frustrated that I launched my notebook straight into the ground. I was alone in my office and so no one saw me. However, had someone witnessed my tantrum, they would surely have recommended anger management classes. I don’t need them, though. I manage my anger quite well. The notebook may disagree, but because it was an otherwise victimless action that quieted whatever frustration I felt in that moment, I believe I managed my anger quite well.
The thing is that I blame my great-grandfather for my anger. I never knew him. He died about six weeks before the Great Crash of 1929 and since I wasn’t born until the day South Vietnam released about 2000 viet cong prisoners in 1971, our paths didn’t cross. Still, I have little doubt that I inherited his anger and had it not been for him, that notebook wouldn’t have found the floor in such a violent manner.
I think the main reason he was angry was that he died white. Now, granted, in 1929 there were really only four colors from which he could choose: white, black, red, and yellow. Those options were pretty limited and I can’t imagine that he could’ve died as one of the other three colors. It just wouldn’t have made sense. But it just seems pretty boring to die white. It’s like going to baskin robbins and ordering vanilla ice cream for eternity. And maybe I’m projecting a bit, but dying white would piss me off if for no other reason than it has no hue, which means there’s really no character to the color white. That sucks.
My great-grandfather’s name was Apolonio. that’s a name with a a lot of character. It’s a derivation of “Apollo” only in Spanish, which was the language Apolonio spoke. Apollo is the famous greek Sun god and that’s a pretty colorful name. So, Apolonio isn’t white name, it’s far too rich to lack hue.
Now, I realize that Apolonio wasn’t the one who chose the color white as the statistical particular on his death certificate. Someone else wrote it in for him. Had he been able to read and write in English, he probably would have written in, “Other” for his color particular. I don’t think he would have chosen any of the colors, as none made any sense. But I can’t imagine he was not angry about dying white.
So, I blame him for my temper tantrum. His anger at being labeled with the color white is in my DNA. He wasn’t white. Nor am I. But i’m not any of the other four colors, either. If I had to choose the color to best describe me, i’d choose persimmon. But no way will that color will ever find its way onto a government form.
