Kindness sucks

By Pamela Cerdeira

This is not a finished idea, it is an attempt at an essay that I hope will be, like all good things, a team effort. I hope the comments can help me and help us to build something better, a complete idea or, at least, a stepping stone to a new thought.

I don't think I was taught to be nice. In fact, the sarcastic responses my mom always has for the world make me uncomfortable. Maybe it's something I learned from others, from the environment, from the should be. I have only stopped being kind when anger reddens my vision: when it is so great that, like lava, it has escaped through my ears and, considering the situation tremendously unfair, I have done things I would not have done without the impulse of fury such as quitting a job without complaining, I have swiped at the air (not the physical air, but the air in a transmission) and then I let what I think flow like an arrow without obstacles or any filter whatsoever. I don't love it when it happens, almost always the damned kindness that is a fluffy rabbit with tender eyes that lives in my head, appears from a horrifying pink corner where it points at me and forces me to say things like: I'm sorry, I stand by everything I said but it wasn't the right way to do it.