“No, I’m always good.” As if children weren’t allowed to feel angry

If one were to ask a room full of adults, ‘Raise your hand if you’ve ever been angry at least once in your life’, it is likely that every hand would shoot up immediately.

Many would be eager to recount that unexpected incident, the forgetful husband, or the absent-minded colleague. One can envision laughter, empathy, and a sense of shared understanding. After all, there are so many things that make us angry. There are more serious and universal issues, such as anger at politicians who ignore, amongst other things, climate change, at patriarchy, at those who mistreat animals, or at social injustices.

And then there are the smaller ones, though no less irritating for that: the sleeve that gets wet whilst washing your hands, people listening to music on the bus without headphones, those who flick their cigarette butts on the ground, and those who drive too fast on the motorway.

However, when the same question is put to children, their responses vary. Some raise their hands without hesitation, others pause, while a few shake their heads and say: “No, I’ve always been well-behaved.”

They find it hard to discuss with me what makes them angry, especially when adults are present. As if getting angry were something to be hidden, something that isn’t right. I therefore describe how I became annoyed that morning when the train was late, how I spilled coffee on my shirt, and how, on occasion, the early-morning alarm irritates me. Once they realise that I too experience anger, they calm down; they recognise themselves in me.

I am informed that they throw tantrums because they do not want to go to school, because they dislike the canteen food or having a shower, when someone takes their soft toys without permission, or if they are not selected for the team to play in.

When children begin recounting their stories, no one is spared. Brothers, sisters, cousins, mothers, fathers, grandparents, and teachers: they have all irritated them at least once.

Their little hands show no sign of dropping as they laugh and jostle to have their say. At that point, for a few moments, I encourage them to recall that anger in their minds. I ask them to listen to it without pushing it away and to let it all out together on my count of three in one very long, liberating scream. It’s an exercise which, deep down, would do us adults good too. The children are then challenged to express that anger through a drawing. Some illustrate a specific situation, others a comic strip. Some show me their work, whilst others, quite understandably, hide their paper with an arm.

Finally, let’s ‘set fire’ to that drawing. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Let’s cover it with vibrant brushstrokes of red, blue and yellow, and add orange flames using oil pastels.

Someone becomes overly enthusiastic and produces a large brown blob, but this is not the point: the aim is not to create an aesthetically pleasing drawing, but to transform an emotion. Anger is not defused by hearing ‘Calm down’, ‘It’s nothing’ or ‘Stop crying’, but only when someone grants us the time and space to name it, acknowledge it and understand it.

And then the frenzy subsides, the paintbrushes are laid down on the table. The fire has passed.

Not because someone ordered it to be extinguished, but because it found a space in which to burn without causing harm. When anger is heard, it stops overwhelming us. And, sometimes, it can even turn into a beautiful drawing worth framing.