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To talk about the attempted Capitol coup, I must make frequent use of the word “rage.” Not the entitled white rage of the insurrectionists, which I and many others have already talked about enough. I’m referring to my own anger—the rising rage I felt over hours of watching, in real time, white supremacists not so much laying siege to the national seat of government as strolling unbothered into the building. Thousands of white terrorists were allowed to spend a whole afternoon just hanging out on the Capitol lawn, chilling on its stairways, waving fascist flags from its terraces, a spectacle of menacing whiteness just doing its carefree thing.