→ This post has two parts. The first part is free.
. . .
Have you ever been outraged and written a caustic email, maybe a letter or lengthy text, scolding the person responsible for your aggravation? You know when the words surge, unfiltered, every sentence sharper, more cutting. Your fury rages unabated until your thoughts clog. Words stop. You peruse your masterpiece and grin, enlivened by its ferocity and ardor.
You read it several times, slower and slower. Emotions settle. The mind gradually twists itself back together, screw by screw, tightening your senses. Prudence spoils your mood and corrupts your confidence. You wonder if your diatribe has a purpose other than to pester the reader and prove . . . What was your point again?
Uncertain, you ask your ego. It laughs, a sinister cackle so loud and deranged that you can’t remember who laughed first and why. Then—oh, look, I forgot to send that email. Boop.
I wrote such an email. Last week, my daughter’s mother—code name Claire—asked me to reply to an email the school psychologist had sent us in response to Claire’s previous email about an unprofessional teacher. Claire and I agreed the psychologist’s response was drivel, loose notions without relevance, a contemptuous diversion empty of substance, not once mentioning the teacher’s name, nor her snide and accusatory remarks to our daughter—code name Avery.
My email to the psychologist began as a parent supporting a child and converted into a self-centered and pretentious performance to protect my cruel imaginary friend, the self-image.
I warned Claire. I said, “You might regret asking me to do this. It’s a bit abrasive. Maybe I’ll tone it down once finished.” But I didn’t want to tone it down. I had no intention of doing so. The more I read the psychologist’s email, the more infuriated I became and the more I wrote. Anger’s adrenaline felt good.
My reaction didn’t surprise me. Contempt has always made me seethe. For decades, I would snap at people when I detected contempt and condescension in their tones. I used to assume everybody thought I was stupid and would often try to defend an intelligence I didn’t own by using the most complex words I could muster: “Hey, I’m not stupid, you know.” Not much has changed, it seems, except my words.
It’s easy to say whatever you want to whomever you want when the only person you see is your reflection on the monitor. Retaliation of this sort is masturbatory. Once you hit send, the orgasm ends. You lean back in your chair and clasp your hands behind your head. Exalted and fulfilled, you snicker, wishing you could see the recipient’s face while the person reads your words. But that would make your actions real and shatter your fantasy, destroying the spurious idea that you’ve done something meaningful and virtuous. No, you don’t want to observe the person’s reaction. You want a cigarette and a nap.
I shouldn’t have sent the email. I should’ve written a different one, asking for a more explicit response from the psychologist and for her to clarify her assertions. I could’ve been more subtle and not pontificated like a jackass. Once again, it seemed I was saying, “Look what I can do.”
Who did I help? If anything, I only revealed to the psychologist my daughter’s hereditary dilemma. I accomplished nothing. Worse, because retaliation is seductive and my mind weak, I’ll likely write another verbose and self-important polemic to somebody else when the memory of this email fades.
Perhaps this is evidence that I am still a sensitive boy who fears he’s too stupid to be taken seriously.
Then again, maybe I’m just looking for people to cosign my bullshit.
You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?
. . .
→ Below is the email I sent to the psychologist. Before sending it, I cut about a hundred words, toning it down some but not much.
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Good morning, Dr. B.,
We haven’t met. I’m Avery’s father, Corey. The following words are my response to your last email, the one where you pretend to be helpful and deflect discussing Mrs. Holt’s behavior by blaming our daughter for her teacher’s inappropriate remarks, implicating that if Avery could sit still and focus, Mrs. Holt wouldn’t have accused Avery of damaging her education.
Her mother and I came to you with concerns about a teacher, and you spewed an irrelevant and pseudo-polite commentary about Avery’s supposed control issues and my and Claire’s need to emphasize the skills we want Avery to learn—as if our efforts thus far have been inadequate and vapid. Your blatant contempt indicates you perceive us as blathering plebeians, just another set of ill-informed and misguided parents unable to raise a child properly. Well done.
Your comments were so perplexing that I had to dissect and analyze each.