Why I’m raising boys who aren’t afraid to express their emotions.
One of my earliest memories as a child is of my grandfather leaning against the hood of his car, which was shaded by The Umbrella Tree as I called it. He was smoking a cigarette and he was crying. My family had made the 10 hour road trip to spend a week with my grandparents on my dad’s side. That week was now coming to an end.
As my mom and dad were packing up, running around making sure we hadn’t forgotten anything, saying their goodbyes to my grandmother, I snuck outside for one last run around the yard before I was stuck in the back of a Buick with my brother for half a day.
Human beings, particularly their emotions, fascinate me. So I’ve become very good at being quiet, observing, and appreciating. Point is my grandfather didn’t see me, but I saw him, really saw him.
He was sad to see us go, knowing we’d be bigger, he’d be older, and time would keep on passing while our lives were lived apart. His heart was breaking. Looking back now mine is breaking for him.
Outside on the hood of that car, under that tree and away from everyone’s eyes, was the only place where he could let his heart beat, and break freely. But only until the cherry of that cigarette reached cotton. Then it was time to man up, go inside, help my dad with the bags, and comfort my grandmother. Be the strength.
My grandfather was a kind, wise, loving man, but a hard life hardens people. He died at 77 from his 9th heart attack. In a strange way, it makes me smile to say that. He was a stubborn, tough man, and he went down battling. I can’t help but wonder if all of that emotion he choked down all those years made his heart too heavy. This memory of him under that tree is one of my favorites. That may sound strange, but it’s the only moment where I recall feeling connected with him.
It’s our emotions that unite us. Our raw, our real, our hearts-especially when they’re hurting. That’s where we crack through each other’s surface levels and find that we all bleed red.
I remember his eyes. They were a piercing blue that contrasted his cool white hair. When he cried, they turned a deep aqua, the way mine do. When I catch a glimpse of my tear-stained eyes in the mirror, I think of him. Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite memory.
I, like most young girls, learned much of what I knew about men from observing my father. He is a strong, complex, resilient man. He is also a man who has never hidden his emotions from me. When things hurt, he let them hurt. When things were unfair he didn’t try to cover them with sugar. He never once insulted me by trying to shelter me from honesty, sometimes I’m sure he wished he had. When someone hurt me or did me wrong he never pushed happiness or the high road on me, he gave me space to feel my anger, heartbreak, and joy without judgment.
I have seen my father cry many times. Heartbreaking tears, empathetic tears when I come to him in pain, happy tears the day he gave me away at my wedding. Each time connecting us in some new way.
Our society defines what it should look like to be a man. Attributes like strength, independence, aggression, competitiveness, are the front runners leaving little room for things like nurturing, empathy, and compassion.
I am by no means saying men are not, or cannot be compassionate empathetic beings. They can be, I’ve met them. What I’m saying is that somewhere along the way, an unwritten rule came about that said that a good man is one who faces life with stoic strength and guards his fragile family. The deeper you could bury the pain, the stronger the land you stood on.
Somewhere along the way, someone decided that tears were representative of a lack of strength, a lack of control, and weakness. We leave the tears to women. The problem is men can’t stop feeling simply because we’ve told them to.
We breed generations of young boys who feel a wide and deep range of emotions but don’t always feel safe in expressing them.
We lead our boys to believe that fearless men will triumph, and the fearless show no weakness. To be an admirable man, you must keep a steady heart and a strong brow. Man up.
There is nothing admirable or strong about denying yourself emotions.
Societal norms tell us that men don’t cry. A man who can be touched by emotion is less of a man. Societal outcry tells us we need men to be more compassionate and caring.
If we want husbands who are willing to express their emotions and sit with us while we cry, and at times cry with us, we must raise boys who know their tears won’t cause them to be judged for being weak.
If we want our children to grow up among boys who are nurturing, we must allow them the freedom to have soft hearts. If we want fathers who are a shoulder to cry on for their children, not just the fearless protector, we must assure our boys that they too have a shoulder when they need one.
We must raise generations of young men who know the value in being vulnerable.
I want to raise boys who are free to feel what they feel when they feel it. I want them to express their emotions in whatever way feels right, good, free, and natural. I don’t want society’s idea of who they should be and how they should stand to influence how they sort through life.
I want to raise boys who, if they so choose, become amazing fathers. I want their kids and loved ones to feel safe with them not just physically, but emotionally.
I will raise boys who know that tears make them strong, not weak. I will raise boys who know they always have a safe space to let it out.
I will raise boys who know that real men cry.
