How Does 'Outraged: Why Everyone Is Shouting And No One Is Talking' Explain Modern Outrage Culture?

My sister was autistic. The doctors called it "severe sensory overload." The rule was simple: No sudden noises. Ever. So my whole life was set to mute. I never wore heels. I never raised my voice. I wasn't even allowed to laugh. It was all to keep her from having a meltdown. My father, Victor, the Don of the Castellano family, would grip my shoulder. His face was a mask of apology. "Sera, you're my good girl. Protecting your sister is our duty. You're healthy and strong. You can sacrifice a little for her, can't you?" That day, I was on the second-floor terrace and accidentally knocked over a pot of white roses. The sound of it shattering sent my sister, who was sunbathing in the garden below, into a meltdown. For the first time, Victor glared at me like I was the enemy. He roared, "Can't you just be quiet? Do you want to drive her insane?" My sister backed away in terror, right into a glass table, and let out a piercing scream. Victor charged past me, a blur of rage and panic. He slammed into me on the stairs as I was running down to help. I lost my footing and crashed chest-first into the sharp corner of a wrought-iron banister post. Pain exploded in my chest. I opened my mouth to scream, but only silence came out. My family swarmed around my shrieking sister. No one even glanced at me. My lungs filled with blood. I was drowning on the floor. They all thought my sister, the one with autism, needed the family's comfort. They thought I just took a fall. That I could wait. They were wrong.

The moms at the company post about me online, claiming the free daycare I provide for their kids is a "prison" and a vile tactic to force them to work overtime. What they don't know is that the daycare was set up with imported equipment and staffed by internationally trained professionals. It costs nearly eight thousand dollars a month per child to operate. The internet curses me out, calling me a show-off and disgusting capitalist. So I grit my teeth and send out a company-wide announcement. "To support everyone's desire to handle their own childcare, the company has decided to close the free daycare program. Effective immediately, it will be replaced with a childcare benefit. Eligible mothers will receive 200 dollars a month." As soon as the notice goes out, the moms panic. They crowd outside my office, begging me not to shut it down.

On my birthday, my husband, Adrian Grant, suddenly showed up with my adoptive younger sister, Bella Reed, and her child, Tia Reed. When it was time to head out, he naturally arranged for Bella to sit in the front passenger seat. Then he turned to me and said calmly, "Tia gets carsick easily. The back seat is full of stuff. Since you're healthy, just take the bus." Our friends immediately chimed in, one after another, "You're the older sister. Taking care of your niece is only right." Four cars were heading out, yet not one seat was left for me, the supposed main character of the day. I sat on the bus, swallowing my grievance, and saw Adrian and Bella interacting ambiguously in the group chat. They were even talking about topics I knew nothing about. When I opened the newly sent video, nothing except leftovers remained on the table prepared for me. Adrian even treated the birthday cake I had carefully prepared as dessert, spoon-feeding it to Bella and her daughter. Someone finally couldn’t stand it anymore and asked whether this was appropriate. Adrian, who was carefully wiping Bella’s mouth, didn’t even look up. "We’re all family. Julia won’t be angry." At that point, our seven-year marriage came to its end.

After the SATs, my niece’s essay went viral online. It was titled: The Pains of Living in Someone Else’s Home. During her freshman year, my niece, Kristen, had moved in with us. Afraid that she might not settle in well, I made sure she got everything my own daughter, Gabrielle, had. I bought them all the same things. However, ten days after the SATs, Kristen’s essay went viral, and a target was painted on my back. [Why did you abuse me when my parents send you money for my living expenses every month? Why did you make me feel like vermin living in your house?] In the end, because Kristen accidentally revealed our location, I was nearly killed in a car crash perpetrated by a self-righteous netizen. Gabrielle was doxxed and bullied online. In the end, she broke down and committed suicide. Before I died, I went back in time. When I opened my eyes, I found myself back on the day of the SATs. Kristen and Gabrielle were holding hands as they walked out of the school.

Inside the mediation room at the police station, my passenger looked disheveled with messy hair and rumpled clothes. She cried as she complained to the police officer, “Sir, it’s him! The Grab driver had bad intentions! He even tried to harass me! “People like him should be put in jail! And I want compensation for the emotional distress he caused me!” Right after she finished speaking, she slumped down on the floor and threw a tantrum. I could not believe someone could be this shameless. All I did was tell her not to smoke in the car, and she falsely accused me of harassing her. On top of it, I was a woman too! It was just that I usually dressed less femininely. How could I possibly have harassed her?

My husband, Chandler Goodwin, claims that he doesn't understand what the phrases "silent treatment" or "giving the cold shoulder" mean. Yet, in the three years we have been married, he has never once spoken to me sweetly. The first time we have a falling out, I remain proud and dignified. We end up ignoring each other for seven days straight. The seventh time we have a cold standoff, I start to panic a little. However, despite trying all sorts of methods, he doesn't back down. The 11th time it happens, I have already learned to work through my emotions myself. Chandler doesn't even need to say anything before I take the initiative to apologize first. I simply think that he's just a naturally indifferent person, that nobody can warm his stone-cold heart. Then, on the third year of our marriage, I accidentally ruin his dress shirt while ironing it. Chandler doesn't say a word, but that very night, he packs his things and moves into a hotel. On the third day of being blocked, I head to his company with a handwritten apology. While passing by his office, I spot him leaning over to shoot his angry assistant a doting smile. "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you just now and upsetting you. It's been 57 minutes since you started ignoring me. Please stop giving me the cold shoulder, alright?" I freeze on the spot, the apology letter in my hand practically burning my fingers. As it turns out, it's not that he doesn't know what the silent treatment means—it's just that I've never been the person he wants to coax.