In general I was a good kid. It usually took a lot to make me

Host: The room sat in twilight, the lamp on the table casting a warm circle of light that trembled with the breath of the city outside. A single window framed a street slick with rain, and the sound of distant sirens threaded through the quiet like a reminder. Jack and Jeeny were there — two figures shaped by habit, worry, and a history of small and large storms.

Jeeny: “Ben Carson said, ‘In general I was a good kid. It usually took a lot to make me mad. But once I reached the boiling point, I lost all rational control. Totally without thinking, when my anger was aroused, I grabbed the nearest brick, rock, or stick to bash someone. It was as if I had no conscious will in the matter.’”
She folded the paper slowly, as if the words were ash she didn’t wish to scatter. “That confession is terrible, and also honest.”

Jack: “It’s honest, sure, but it’s also dangerous to say something like that out loud. Admitting you lost rationality the way he described — it normalizes a kind of violence.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes were soft but steady; Jack’s jaw had the tension of someone who’d been pushed and learned to brace. The lamp flickered once, and the shadows leaned closer.

Jeeny: “I don’t think Carson was normalizing. I think he was naming a truth. The problem is that people who feel that boiling often get shamed into silence, and silence becomes the fuel for more explosion.”

Jack: “Or silence is the way we protect others from our own unruly selves. If you grab a brick in a moment of blind rage, what you teach the world is fear, not courage.”

Host: The conversation hung like a rope between them. The air thickened with words that wanted to be careful and words that wanted to be true.

Jeeny: “But violence isn’t the only risk here. Repressing anger until you explode is also violent — to yourself. There’s a psychology term — amygdala hijack — that explains how the brain can flip when threat is perceived. Daniel Goleman talked about it in his work on emotional intelligence. The body acts before the mind can argue. That’s not excuse for harm, but it does explain why people sometimes act as Carson did.”

Jack: “Citing a theory doesn’t make it acceptable. The choice still rests with the person. Plenty of people feel enraged and don’t grab bricks. They channel the energy differently — they run, they create, they talk. Carson’s description reads like a reckoning with the fact he didn’t know those channels when he needed them.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands made a small gesture — palms up, offering and questioning at the same time. Outside, a car passed, its tires whispering against the wet asphalt.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly my point. If so many people lack the skills to channel their anger, then we need to teach those skills. Anger itself is a signal — it signals that a boundary was violated or a need was ignored. The task is to hear the signal without becoming the signal.”

Jack: “So you want to institutionalize anger? Put it on a curriculum? That’s a recipe for misunderstanding. People might use it as permission.”

Jeeny: “No. Not permission. Training. Boxers don’t learn to punch by attacking people on the street. They learn discipline, timing, control. George Foreman’s youth work is a real example — he taught boys to channel aggression into sport, not harm. That’s a historical proof that channeling works.”

Host: The tone of the room shifted — from accusation to analysis. Jack’s eyes narrowed, but there was a softness now, like a wound being explored rather than merely condemned.

Jack: “I don’t dispute that channeling can help. But what about the moment Carson described — where he said he had ‘no conscious will’? That’s a frightening claim. It raises questions about agency. If a person can lose their will, how do we hold them accountable?”

Jeeny: “Accountability and compassion are not opposites. We can hold people accountable while also recognizing the neuroscience behind the behavior. Look at anger management programs, restorative justice models — they combine responsibility with education. A young man who struck someone in blind rage may still have to face the consequences, but if we only punish, we fail to reduce the risk of repeat harm.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a sound like a small storm breaking. He walked to the window, pressing his palm against the cold glass as if to measure the distance between feeling and action.

Jack: “I’m not arguing against help. I’m worried about exposure. People can use explanations as excuses. Carson might have had trouble controlling himself as a child, but he later became a neurosurgeon — a man who operated on brains. That’s a real testimony to human capacity to change.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Carson’s journey is a real example of transformation. It shows both the danger of unmanaged rage and the possibility of redeeming it. He didn’t remain a boy with a brick. He learned, he changed, he achieved. That tension is the lesson.”

Host: Their voices rose and fell in waves — calm, then heated, then soft. The room felt like a matchbox, fragile, ready to ignite.

Jack: “Still. I keep thinking about the people who were on the receiving end of that blind rage. How do we center their safety while we invest in the perpetrator’s rehabilitation?”

Jeeny: “By balancing justice with prevention. Victims deserve safety, validation, reparation. Communities deserve education, anger management, and mental health access so future violence is less likely. That’s how you break cycles.”

Host: The lamp hummed like an old appliance, a hum that felt oddly like a heartbeat. Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers interlaced, her voice quieter but insistent.

Jeeny: “There’s also a moral truth here. To deny that anger can overwhelm someone is to deny a part of the human condition. But to accept it as an explanation without action is to absolve too easily. The task is to translate dangerous feeling into safe practice — to teach people that feeling does not have to become acting.”

Jack: “And who does that teaching? Schools? Families? Prisons?”

Jeeny: “All of the above. The evidence shows multi-layered approaches work best. Early intervention in youth programs, community mentors, therapy, policy that funds mental health. It’s not a single fix — it’s a systemic shift.”

Host: The conversation moved toward practicality now, the heat of emotion cooling to something like purpose. Outside, the rain slowed to a mist, the city breathing around them.

Jeeny: “Carson’s admission also teaches humility. He didn’t gloss his failures; he named them. That kind of honesty can open doors for others to seek help before they break.”

Jack: after a long pause “So we teach control, we hold people accountable, and we repair harm. But we also need to listen — to the stories behind the rage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Listening is the first skill. Without it, all programs are noise.”

Host: The room felt lighter now — not because the problem had been solved, but because the edges had been smoothed by conversation. The lamp glowed steady, casting their shapes against the wall like figures on a map.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Carson was doing — not excusing himself, but warning others. His story is a caution and a testimony.”

Jeeny: “A caution that says: anger can destroy, but it can also teach. A testimony that says: change is possible if we build systems that understand the brain, the body, and the social context.”

Host: The final silence between them was not empty. It was full of commitment — to listen, to teach, to protect, and to heal. The street outside began to clear, the night making room for a new day.

Jack: softly “So the answer is neither condemnation nor excuse. It’s accountability, education, and repair.”

Jeeny: nodding “And courage. Courage to admit the darkness, and the courage to train the light into practice.”

Host: The door closed behind them as they left, the lamp still glowing in the window. Above, the city turned its face to the dawn. The brick, the rock, the stick — small objects in a long story — lay quiet in the rain.

And in that quiet, Carson’s words remained — a mirror of the danger and the possibility wrapped together: that the human who can lose control is also the human who can be taught, mended, and changed — if we are brave enough to listen, patient enough to teach, and wise enough to protect.