Boys don't cry... but perhaps men should?
Welcome to the seventh edition of this newsletter – thanks for taking the time to read it. I should take a moment to call out a great comment on a previous edition—Being a “fixer” of problems—by my close friend Tsering. He’s challenged some of my thinking about what men should (or shouldn’t) do in these situations, and I encourage you to go and read his take! But don’t forget to come back here afterwards and read this edition, too.
Tears at bedtime
Crying is something I rarely used to do. It’s not that the classic “boys don’t cry” advice permeated my subconscious: it’s more that I didn’t often find myself experiencing emotions to the degree that it ended in tears (or perhaps began with them).
Parenthood changed this, of course: the first time I attempted to speak after witnessing the birth of my son, my voice cracked and my throat dried up as tears of gratitude and wonder poured down my cheeks, sitting in the hospital room. The magnitude of what my partner had done, the unbridled joy of seeing a new life spring into the world… okay, these were pretty good reasons to well up.
Now, I cry all the time. I put The Land Before Time on TV a few weeks ago during one obscenely-early wake-up call from my now-school-age son, hoping he’d love the classic dinosaur animation as much as I did at his age. I found myself quietly sobbing on the edge of the sofa, remembering my mum sitting us down to watch it 30+ years ago, as Littlefoot was comforted by his own mother onscreen. “THIS IS BORING”, Ted announced, fifteen minutes into the film, and I had to hide my wet eyes and figure out how to stream Paw Patrol for him instead. Kids, eh.
When my daughter was born back in June, I sobbed freely in my mum’s arms as she arrived back at my house (we had a homebirth, which was planned, but without any midwife support, which wasn’t). I’d started telling her what had happened during the birth and suddenly found myself unable to speak once again, collapsing into the safe comfort of my mother’s embrace who understood exactly what I was saying, wordlessly.
When my older kid says something unintentionally poignant—or devastating—it too can summon tears to my eyes. One night before bed I told him “I love you, and I’ll love you forever”. “Even when I’m dead, will you still remember me?” he queried. I nodded back at him in the dark where he couldn’t see my eyes filling up, wondering whether I should tell him that it was way more likely to be the other way around (at least, so I hope).
Nothing to cry about?
It shouldn’t take the wonders of parenthood (or spending time with young kids who don’t have the social understanding of death) to be able to cry, though. I’m glad that this part of my life has unlocked something for me and put me in touch with my emotions, but it shouldn’t have required this kind of life-changing experience to connect me with my feelings. How many things in my past did I push down and refuse to feel? I know I wasn’t constrained by masculine norms—or at least, not deliberately—but I suspect that I just felt like… my feelings weren’t a big deal? Not big enough to cry, anyway.
I don’t think I’ve seen many of my male friends cry, or vice-versa. I suspect with my own dad it’s a similarly small number of encounters: subtract funerals and it’s likely closer to zero. When I think about most of the women I care about, though, I’ve been with them through tears (and more) on lots of occasions. It probably also follows that I have a closer emotional relationship or understanding with these people, because of what we’ve shared.
You can’t cry on-demand and you can’t exactly invite your male friends round when you’re emotionally vulnerable just so they can see you cry. But for myself I’m trying to understand what triggers this in me, and instead of trying to push the feeling down or ignore it, I’m trying to just feel it and let tears happen if they need to. It sounds childish and basic and obvious, but sometimes, this is just what learning about something new feels like.
Mini feels this week
The cormorant and the fish
I passed an unusual-looking bird on the canal yesterday with a decent-sized fish wriggling in its beak. I was quite impressed at the size of its catch until I got closer and realised the fish was a wooden lure used by fishermen, and it was wrapped around the bird’s bloody beak with fishing wire (and presumably a hook). It was on the other side of the canal from me so there was nothing I could do to help, and even if it had been within reach, I suspect the second I tried to reach over and help, it would’ve hopped into the canal and swam away. Later on I saw it back in the water, ducking its head repeatedly to try to shake off the wire. I feel like there’s some kind of metaphor here about masculinity, but really I just hope the cormorant (I googled it) recovers.
Who wouldn’t want to be an archeoastronomer
I watched a program about Stonehenge the other week and was fascinated to see the term “archeoastronomer” onscreen, eg. a specific type of scientist who researches “how people in the past have understood the phenomena in the sky, how they used these phenomena and what role the sky played in their cultures” (thanks Wikipedia). As interesting as this was (and the way it pertained to our understanding of Stonehenge was fascinating), I was completely distracted by the incredible name of the archeoastronomer in question: Clive Ruggles.
Thanks for reading! I’m on holiday next week but will see if I can put something together from Tenerife. Have a great weekend, and share this with your friends if you think they might enjoy talking about Man Feelings too. Adios!