Pollyanna Shitcakes is written in the aftermath of the shootings at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando and during the crapstorm that is this cycle's presidential primary season. A friend lamented to me about people telling her to "keep a positive attitude" in the face of terrifying and infuriating national events that threaten to affect her own family. Feeling some rage of my own, directed not so much at current events and their perpetrators, but at those who believe it is their right to decide how we should each face our own worst nightmares. I reached deep down inside myself and got in touch with my own inner demons. I kissed my own rage square on the lips and Pollyanna Shitcakes was born.
I share with you a link to a sound recording of the rant. It is a lousy recording and I apologize for that, but, where rants are concerned, any recording is better than none. I will also warn you that this poem is NOT for those of tender ears and tender sensibilities. If rage does not reverberate well with you, don't listen and don't read the poem below.
If you read on after this warning, I don't want to receive any whiny notes about trigger warnings or my bad attitude.
You have been warned.
by Stephanie Mesler
So you don’t like my attitude, eh?
You say depression wastes energy and anger is a useless emotion.
You say I should smile more,
be grateful for more,
count my blessings more.
You look me in the eye and spout new age drivel about the law of attraction.
You hear fairies singing the song of your people;
I hear horse shit come to life,
a blame game you don’t even know you’re playing.
I hear you say God has a plan or The Universe never gives us more than we can handle
and I wanna kick your creepy, smiling face and bury you in molten piles of pollyanna shitcakes.
You and your positive attitude
When has a positive outlook ever gotten one damned thing accomplished?
You can sit around and throw positive energy at the world -
hell, you can drop humongous good vibe buggers across the globe -
and not one damned thing will change.
It takes some rage,
some hot, frightening fury to
Joan of Arc,
Julia Ward Howe,
Susan B. Anthony,
David Knout and Abraham Polonski,
Martin Luther King Jr.,
Tommie Smith and John Carlos,
Farhana Khera --
They were all angry.
Not just angry, they were fed up to their eyeballs with platitudes.
Every one of them said, fuck this shit, and got to work.
They wrote their stories and told their tales;
they sang songs and beat drums;
they led marches and stopped trains and faced down armies;
they won elections and rewrote laws;
they pissed off presidents and kings and faced hordes who hated them for demanding change.
It was not their sunny dispositions that kept them going when the going got tough.
It wasn’t faith in Human Nature
or The Tooth Fairy
that kept them fighting for what was right.
It was ferocious wrath that held them up day in and day out when the fuckers tried to keep them down.
So don’t tell me to change my outlook.
You can kiss my ass.
Go ahead and sit over there with the throng of cheerful Koolaid addicts;
I’m going to stomp my feet and raise my fists;
I’m going to shout until the walls reverberate with my fury.
I will goddam, for sure, be heard and, in the shouting, I will