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Drawing on the strikingly different records of the 103rd and 104th Congresses — congresses in which women’s proportional presence was roughly similar — this introduction to Part I highlights the empirical evidence of the complexity belying the probabilistic relationship between descriptive and substantive representation of women. This lays the foundation for comparing and contrasting gender’s impacts on policymaking as the environment changes, examining how women’s efforts to bring (feminale) gendered perspectives to the policymaking process affect and are affected by (masculine) gendered institutions, assessing the implications for the connection between descriptive and substantive representation of women, and exploring what this may mean for all citizens in a representative democracy. Special attention is devoted to why the 103rd and 104th Congresses are an ideal laboratory for exploring the dynamic, probabilistic relationship between descriptive and substantive representation of women.

This chapter examines how discrete emotions affect children's memory of stressful experiences. It argues for the need to look beyond “distress” as a unitary construct and evaluate children's understanding or appraisals of those events that elicit distress, along with children's discrete emotional experiences and emotion regulation techniques. With age, children appraise situations and regulate their emotions in increasingly complex ways, and become capable of attending to multiple dimensions of an event. Younger children, with an appraisal process that is similar to but simpler than adults', and with limited emotion-regulation strategies, are likely to focus narrowly on the aspect of a situation that is more central and emotionally relevant to them. Such an intense singular attentional focus should, in turn, lead to enhanced memory for the aspects of an event that have direct relevance to the child's emotional state — memory for information about loss when feeling sad, agents and obstructed goals when feeling angry, and threats when feeling scared — at the expense of other, unrelated information.

Develops the author's argument that the motivation of the priestly editors of the Pentateuch, and in particular of Numbers and Leviticus, was strictly professional and priestly. The author asks why, in the Book of Numbers, does the editor keep listing the names of the twelve tribes of Israel (descendants of the twelve sons of Jacob), and puts forward the thesis that they were using the stories of the patriarchs as an allegory of their own concerns about the unity of the cult of the Hebrew God: their choice to write about fraternal rivalry was not arbitrary. The first section of the chapter looks specifically at the strife between the brothers Joseph and Judah, the founding patriarchs of Samaria and Judah, and the precarious relations between those countries. The following sections look at other aspects of the Pentateuch in the same way – as allegory, and as a way of addressing contemporary problems affecting the editors themselves: editors who believed that all the sons of Joseph were co‐heirs of the Covenant, and that authority rested with the Aaronite priesthood. In this context, the discussion covers the different manifestations of God as angry and forgiving in Numbers and Leviticus, the issue of unity and defection between the brother tribes and brother priests of Israel, and the story of Jacob himself, his favourite son Joseph, and Joseph's sons, Ephraim and Manasseh.

The Conclusion argues that the real rupture in British literary tradition comes not during the Second World War, but after it. In the late 1940s, the literary boom of the war years gave way to a culture of silence about the traumatic effects of war. Reading the postwar work of Orwell and Churchill, it argues that — overshadowed by the monumental productions of official war culture, film and popular culture, and in sharp contrast to the boom in war writing of the 1920s — wartime writers found themselves out in the cold. These were the hostile conditions in which Raymond Williams and Richard Hoggart pioneered the oppositional project of cultural studies. It concludes that this process of silencing was hastened by the insurgent Angry generation of the 1950s, who rejected the aesthetic and political complexity of wartime writing, and as critics denied it a place in the insular post-war canon.

As the country moves into the eighteenth century; it needs to find a substitute for the energies that shaped the Puritan experience. Jonathan Edwards works out a complex theology that rests virtuous citizenship on the fear of damnation. In a more secular vein; the fear of being in effect enslaved to the British Crown leads to the American Revolution; which will be justified on the grounds that America can show the world how to establish and maintain “good government from reflection and choice.” At first, property is the prerequisite for full citizenship but as the population (especially of artisans) expands, the ability to support oneself gains center stage. Thomas Paine is the central author here.

Mae becomes jealous of the adulation Maurice is getting from thousands of female moviegoers. Maurice lets success go to his head, drinking more and giving his already “angry temperament” full vent. Maurice’s popularity continues to increase, thanks to the groundbreaking film A Tale of Two Cities; overseas distributionof the film establishes him as an international star. In 1913, Vitagraph sends the Costello family and several other company employees on a round-the-world movie-making venture, beginning in the Far East and ending in Europe. In Italy Maurice is mobbed by adoring fans.

This chapter provides an ‘anatomy’ of excuses, a close examination of the sometimes very different elements of which each is comprised. It begins by focusing on three different dimensions to excuses, without turning into an issue of critical importance the question whether they involve either motivational or judgmental elements. It then goes on to break down for the purposes of existing excusing conditions the meaning of a ‘rational defect’ in a morally salient moving force behind an action respecting which one remains morally active.

For commentators concerned with black cultural production in the contemporary era, there are few images more controversial than the angry black woman, particularly as it is reproduced within the confines of reality television. This chapter traces the lineage of the angry black woman back to key black feminist texts of the 1970s, arguing that the trope emerges out of a distinct sociopolitical history that was codified within both public policy and popular culture throughout the decade. Blaxploitation films became the site where black women’s anger was most visibly commodified, even as black women involved in an emergent black feminist movement worked to combat withering social commentaries that included Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s matriarchy thesis and sexist takedowns of black women writers like Ntozake Shange and Michele Wallace.

This chapter presents a sample comparative study of youth cultures. It compares and contrasts the British angry-young-man films of the late 1950s and early 1960s, and the Chinese young-rebel films of the 1980s. The British films include Room at the Top (1959), Look Back in Anger (1959), Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), A Taste of Honey (1961), A Kind of Loving (1962), The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (1962) and This Sporting Life (Romulus, 1963). Drawing on the Western literature on youth rebellion, it compares the social history of the two countries in terms of structural similarities, and presents some general conclusions about the nature of youth rebellion and how it should best be understood within its particular national and historical contexts.

Focussing on the crucial transitional year of 1958, Shelagh Delaney’s A Taste of Honey offers a valuable and often overlooked contribution to the genre of ‘kitchen sink drama’. Nevertheless, as Maria Elena Capitani demonstrates, Delaney surpasses her ‘angry young male’ counterparts in her exploration of more of the preoccupations of the 1960s including homosexuality, mixed-race sex, teenage pregnancy and the survival techniques of an ‘underclass’. Capitani observes how A Taste of Honey has the unique capacity to register an epoch-defining moment in British social and cultural history at the same time as it expresses the ‘suffering of ambivalence’, to use Adrienne Rich’s term, of motherhood.

This chapter argues that Weyewa people understand their own cultural citizenship as a social activity called the practice of audiencing; they do not regard it, in the manner of official national citizenship, as a set of rights and duties or as the consciousness of membership in the national community. The study presents a historical view of the changing Weyewa verbal performances from the late nineteenth century to the present. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the paradigmatic Weyewa citizen was the “angry man,” whose verbal performance in poetic couplet form was reinforced by his standing as a protector of local politics and as a recruiter of labor. The “angry men” based their claims to loyalty on kinship obligations, charismatic verbal performances, and the coercive manipulation of debts. Dutch colonial officials found their performances a threat to their rule.

This chapter outlines the physical and ecclesiastical setting of Edwards's preaching; divides his preaching career into three periods; sketches his view of the importance and tasks of preaching; and discusses his format, imagery, and delivery of sermons. It concludes by looking at three of Edwards's finest sermons: “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” the “Farewell Sermon,” and “Heaven is a World of Love.”

Samuel Langhorne Clemens wrote most about the period of his life, specially his childhood where his inner fires first ignited. According to Dixon Wecter, young Sam was his mother's problematic child with his illness, vivid imaginings, and his habits of wandering which multiplied as his health improved. Clemens's father, John Marshall Clemens, died when he was just eleven years old, he remembered his father as humorless and an emotionally remote figure. But his relation with his mother, Jane Clemens, was more positive. In towns along the river in frontier Missouri, violence and death were a usual business, young Sam witnessed the deaths of his sister and, three years later, his brother. Due to these incidents, Sam had nightmares and terrified his family by his sleepwalking. According to Justin Kaplan, Clemens's leading biographer, Clemens grew up as an angry man — angry at deceit and greed in American business and politics.

Gandhi feminized himself. Devdas is the lost man who would have enslaved India and the confused manhood of the newly independent India. Devdas is replaced by Bachchan’s angry young man in Indira Gandhi’s macho India. Films like Mother India (1957) and Deewar (1975) show the mother-obsessed Indian manhood. Transgender Laxmi and Revathy are also telling the story. Aravanis are men pretending to be Krishna’s bride for a night at the eunuch festival at Vilipuram. Ardhanishwar is replaced by sex-reassignment surgery at Machllipatnam. Merchant dares to write the The Man Who Would Be Queen (2011).

This chapter presents a detailed analysis of Ju-on: The Grudge (2002). The film's links to the revenge hauntings outlined in onryō tales are undeniable, yet it is also true that Kayako's angry ghost does not always adhere to the formula outlined in folklore for tormented spirits of her kind. In the most traditional sense of the term, Ju-on: The Grudge is a kaidan film: few would deny that a strange and ghostly tale is central to its plot. However, the film's contemporary setting and integration of various national and international cinematic influences make it much more than a straightforward period kaidan. As a result, Ju-on: The Grudge leaves an exciting trail of themes and visual motifs to explore, not least of which is a nonlinear narrative for viewers to untangle. By confounding several subgenres of horror and expanding the established codes of familiar tropes, Takashi Shimizu renders the possibility of neatly classifying the film null and void. To further complicate matters, alongside elements of American slasher films and the bakeneko genre, Shimizu expertly revisits the haunted house archetype and morphs it into a contagion narrative that features shades of Japanese disaster films, expanding the story well beyond the limits of the home, and symbolically, that of the haunted house genre.

This chapter addresses how, unlike Hollywood, which has seen the rise of high-concept cinema overshadow the power a film star once possessed at the box office, Indian cinema, especially mainstream Hindi films, continues to underline the significance of film stars and views them as paramount to the development and marketing of most feature films. The angry-young-man persona of Indian cinema's biggest film star, Amitabh Bachchan, forged in an era of widespread political disillusionment, found its greatest expression in the 1975 super-hit Deewaar (The Wall), directed by Yash Chopra. The chapter moves away from Indian art cinema to the attractions of the mainstream film Deewaar. It engages with a range of key areas, such as the wider political context of the 1975 Indian Emergency and the angry young man as a sociopolitical symbol. It also looks at representations encompassing matriarchy, religion and poverty; Amitabh Bachchan's star image; and the lasting legacy of Deewaar for today's cinema.

This chapter takes up the position of the infamous “angry black woman” by avoiding righteous, revisionist, or reactionary arguments about black women and anger and instead considering black women’s anger as critical posture. The argument neither begins nor ends with the stereotype, but with the supposition that representational discourse has been largely unable to account for anger as an aspect of black female subjectivity. The case is therefore made that anger is inherently bound up with the notion of claim for black women, and accounting for this interaction requires an interrogation into the most intimate of black female spaces. The chapter ultimately turns to a discussion of reality television, Claudia Rankine’s discussion of Serena Williams, and a brief analysis of Toni Morrison’s Sula.

The Internet provides adoptees new avenues to disrupt the traditional depiction of adoptees as children, recuperate their subjecthood, and instantly engage wider debates found in the transracial, international adoption community. This chapter examines how adult adoptees disrupted information disseminated by The New York Times and Minnesota Public Radio in 2007 and 2012, respectively, and explores the #BuildFamiliesNotBoxes hashtag that arose to critique the use of a baby box in Seoul, South Korea and The Drop Box (2014). Adoptees’ also adapt to new technological platforms as tools including memes for advocacy and activism. This chapter demonstrates how adoptees no longer just exist within the transnational adoption industrial complex; rather they have become change agents seeking to dismantle the transnational adoption industrial complex’s hold on adoption discourse.

This book concludes by describing how black history is presented as an angry intruder in the midst of a placid academic field marked by order, discipline, and rigor. Black history barges onto the field in an undisciplined and chaotic manner, and forces recognition from the history establishment. Compared to other areas of scholarly inquiry, its methods are less rigorous, its scope less encompassing, and the important sources are largely confined to the twentieth century, perhaps with the exception of material on slavery. For most people, this history thrives on white guilt and feeds on black anger. The basic intellectual trends that predominate today in African American history and literature, ranging from skillful critiques of American race relations designed to accentuate black humanity, to an engagement with Africa and the wider world, are rooted in the complex realities of the social, political, and economic conditions of the nineteenth century.

This chapter demonstrates that Americans felt alone, angry, alienated, and isolated in the 1990s, and that they marched with likeminded people to both express these feelings and to find ways to take personal responsibility for their healing and renewal. This chapter compares the late twentieth century to the early twentieth century search for order that historians Robert Weibe and TJ Jackson Lears discuss. It also looks at the periods of Great Awakenings for points of comparison. To show why Americans were so disquieted, this chapter discusses the 1990s and the dislocations that impacted Americans by defining the new reality of postmodernism. It concludes by explaining how the different marches relate to post-modernism and why marches matter.