Not a man here, but the joke (not only a joke) in our household is that I was "raised as a dude." It was a kind and mostly gentle version of the patriarchy I grew up in, and maybe harder to see over because I grew up venerating and believing in it completely. I was not exactly taught by the men in my family not to cry. But I was shown th…
Not a man here, but the joke (not only a joke) in our household is that I was "raised as a dude." It was a kind and mostly gentle version of the patriarchy I grew up in, and maybe harder to see over because I grew up venerating and believing in it completely. I was not exactly taught by the men in my family not to cry. But I was shown that public tears were usually embarrassing, uncomfortable for everyone, and a symptom of a lack of self-control. They were ok if someone died; they were excusable if they were kept quiet. Nobody would make fun of you or tell you off for crying, but they might not respect you quite as much.
I am a CRIER, and I used to hate when that happened in public. I used to not actually be able to do it, unless I was injured. (Even then, I would try to suck it up.) I would just hurt until I could go somewhere private and cry. Even if the reason for the tears wasn't a sad thing. It hurts to hold your vulnerability so tightly.
It's taking years, but I can look back over the past decade or so and see that I'm now (usually) able to let my tears fall when they need to. I'm still embarrassed by them. I still don't really know how to just let them flow, without explaining or justifying or apologizing. I still feel that sharp whisper of the patriarchy every time. I just tell it to shut up, mostly. I've learned better. I'm still learning. And it does feel better. An acquaintance of mine (a man) said recently: "crying is like breathing." I keep circling back to that: it's natural, it goes in cycles, if we can't do it, something might be wrong.
To Mark's point below, my upbringing was a very traditional (not fundamentalist, but quietly conservative) Christian one. We had lots of kind and gentle masculinity, but it retained that very gendered backbone of wariness, visible strength, and head-of-household responsibility.
I'm seeing a shift in awareness about this within some Christian circles.
I tend to associate with the more liberal sort who don't mind that I'm only a practicing Christian and not a believing one, and also sort of a pagan. So my sample is skewed.
But I know some Lutheran men, for example, who address this topic directly, and who have themselves become more emotionally open, and willing to let their tears fall. The willingness to be vulnerable seems to have come from first being willing just to talk together about masculinity, patriarchy, vulnerability—in society and in their own lives.
Not a man here, but the joke (not only a joke) in our household is that I was "raised as a dude." It was a kind and mostly gentle version of the patriarchy I grew up in, and maybe harder to see over because I grew up venerating and believing in it completely. I was not exactly taught by the men in my family not to cry. But I was shown that public tears were usually embarrassing, uncomfortable for everyone, and a symptom of a lack of self-control. They were ok if someone died; they were excusable if they were kept quiet. Nobody would make fun of you or tell you off for crying, but they might not respect you quite as much.
I am a CRIER, and I used to hate when that happened in public. I used to not actually be able to do it, unless I was injured. (Even then, I would try to suck it up.) I would just hurt until I could go somewhere private and cry. Even if the reason for the tears wasn't a sad thing. It hurts to hold your vulnerability so tightly.
It's taking years, but I can look back over the past decade or so and see that I'm now (usually) able to let my tears fall when they need to. I'm still embarrassed by them. I still don't really know how to just let them flow, without explaining or justifying or apologizing. I still feel that sharp whisper of the patriarchy every time. I just tell it to shut up, mostly. I've learned better. I'm still learning. And it does feel better. An acquaintance of mine (a man) said recently: "crying is like breathing." I keep circling back to that: it's natural, it goes in cycles, if we can't do it, something might be wrong.
To Mark's point below, my upbringing was a very traditional (not fundamentalist, but quietly conservative) Christian one. We had lots of kind and gentle masculinity, but it retained that very gendered backbone of wariness, visible strength, and head-of-household responsibility.
I'm seeing a shift in awareness about this within some Christian circles.
I tend to associate with the more liberal sort who don't mind that I'm only a practicing Christian and not a believing one, and also sort of a pagan. So my sample is skewed.
But I know some Lutheran men, for example, who address this topic directly, and who have themselves become more emotionally open, and willing to let their tears fall. The willingness to be vulnerable seems to have come from first being willing just to talk together about masculinity, patriarchy, vulnerability—in society and in their own lives.