Anger Beast
Streaks of campfire soot ran across his face like warpaint. His eyes bore into me. He jacked his fist above his head.
There was a second of inner questioning:
“Is Phillip really going to punch me?”
Phillip grew up on a reserve (The Rez), in Northern British Columbia. It was a rough childhood in conditions that resembled the third world. His parents were residential school survivors and suffered from poverty, poor nutrition, and alcoholism.
Phillip was abused in many ways.
The first time he passed out from being drunk was at the age of 11.
Now Phillip is in his mid 50s. He has been in and out of jail for robbery and assault. He lives in the shadow of the smelting plant, in a renegade camp, in the woods outside of town.
I hadn’t seen him in a while and had been wondering if he was okay.
Disappearance and death (from either overdose or violence) is common for the population I serve.
When Phillip suddenly appeared on the street of the little town by the Columbia River, I was happy to see him. I began to say hello and slowed my walking pace to properly greet him.
It was then I saw the anger in his expression - the brow crinkled like a sheet of aluminum foil clients use to smoke fentanyl with.
Phillip’s upper body angled toward me, his fist went up, and he bounced a bit on the balls of his feet like an aggressive dog when facing something threatening.
He yelled:
FUCK YOU, ROB. YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!
It shocked me, but I have experienced this before.
Once, when I was a teenager back in Detroit, in the mid 1980s, a nazi skinhead attacked me from behind, knocking me to the ground for wearing a “commie fag punk rock shirt.”
As unfortunate as that experience was, it was also not surprising. That particular skinhead was notorious for random violence in the city. He rabidly attacked punk rock kids for the bands they liked, their sexual preferences, or their politics.
But with Phillip it was both shocking and confusing.
We had never had a problem before.
Our rapport was always good.
Even when he was in a bad mood, or was going through one of his periodic anger episodes with other support workers or fellow street people, our interactions were uniformly smooth.
During these times, he and I could usually sit down together and find a place of calm.
This wasn’t through any obvious grounding techniques, but simply by talking about some mutually enjoyable subject such as indigenous art, fishing, or the restorative power of nature.
There was no time to ask why he was so angry with me, no space to sort it out. His facial expression, tone of voice, and aggressive posture told me Phillip’s nervous system was in full fight mode.
To try and discuss anything right then would have put myself in more danger, and would have likely activated Phillip further.
He was telling himself a story about me. What that story was remains unknown.
I had become the enemy, perhaps his oppressor, another in a long line of people that had abused him throughout his life, and thus a justifiable target for his anger beast.
This story was his reality.
Nothing I could do or say would change that.
At least not then.
All I could do was try my best to remain calm while maneuvering beyond his strike zone.
After that, I kept my body moving, creating more distance between us, until I found a place of safety.