My relationship to rage is long and varied from childhood to this very moment as I write. The first feelings of palpable anger occurred when my parents drunkenly argued in the kitchen, or when strange men would peer through my bedroom window at night while I hid under my stuffed animals crying, or when my young cousins shared stories of incest and abuse or the self-hatred that developed after having been myself molested at age 10.

Pat Graney’s new work makes no apologies. It is a bold and explosive treatise on the seething underbelly of female anger. That anger is born of many things, not the least of which are the explicit as well as insidious messages that expressing it would be unattractive. It is derived by stuffing ourselves into the too-small cultural boxes aimed at keeping us cute, sexy, small, and silent. It is maintained through trying on and wearing the accoutrements that have come to define femininity, yet have served to own and encapsulate it, leaving us at the mercy of a soul crushing dilemma.

I don’t pretend to know anything about modern dance or contemporary theater. I rarely know the artists or what I’m getting myself into when I walk into the mainstage at On the Boards. But, honestly, that’s kinda what I love about it—walking in as a blank slate, no expectations except to be confronted with something that I’ll probably need to grapple with until the next show.