"There's nothing sadder than when a man cries." We were watching television, Walker Texas Ranger, Matlock, In the Heat of the Night, Murder She Wrote, or one of our other favorites. My Grandma said this as an inconsolable male character sobbed. I do not remember my age at time; I do not know why the sentiment was stored with significance. I only know I had not saw a man cry yet.
I cried. My Mom cried. My Grandmother cried. I witnessed women cry my whole life. Maybe the frequency of tears amongst the women I knew, in my young mind, equated to normalcy. Is there anything special about commonplace occurrences? In my ignorance and youth, the answer was no, and our tears, the tears of girls and women, were relegated while their tears, the tears of boys and men, were elevated.
I was 17 when I saw a man cry. He was my 22-year-old boyfriend. With good reason, I broke up with him hours earlier, but there he was, standing outside of my Grandma's home, wanting to speak with me. "Is it really over?" He came for answers. When I stood unwavering on yes, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and my first encounter with domestic violence ensued.
Did I cry? For the life of me, I cannot remember if I cried. I only remember his tears. I mostly remember being activated to a state of emergency because he cried. "There's nothing sadder than when a man cries.” Comfort him, something within me demanded, and I obliged. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I love you. I'm here. I'm yours."
Regrettably, that was not the last time I hierarchized tears. When I saw my father cry, all alarms within me sounded. "Do something. Do anything. Make it better." When I miscarried and my then-partner cried, guilt resounded, "Do something. Do anything. Make it better." After the storm settled; when we returned to sanity; when reality finally overwhelmed his anger, he cried. On cue, I did something. I said anything. I made him feel better. "There's nothing sadder than when a man cries."
I internalized this falsity, and I am still unlearning it. My Grandma was a victim of a society that overlooked the value, importance, and equality of women. Perhaps her mom, her mom's mom, and the generations of women before were taught this untruth and bequeathed insignificance to her. Perhaps her experiences validated this lie. Perhaps no one ever told my Grandma otherwise.
She was born in 1937 in rural America. Poor. Uneducated. Black. Woman. I can only imagine the hardships she endured. I wish I could time travel, with the knowledge and language I currently possess, to the very first time my Grandma shed tears that were not met with the nurturance she needed. I wonder how young she was. I wish I could meet her at that place of sadness, hold her hands, and tell her "There is nothing sadder than when you cry. Your tears are no more or less poignant than a man's tears."
