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If Boys Could Cry

Reflections on the state of the world.

By Dré PontbriandPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
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I search for a dry spot to rest my head on his chest—most of his shirt is already drenched in my tears. It’s the second time this week that his arms have held the immensity of my emotions.

I used to push them down, back when I thought I had to “keep it all together.” But nowadays, I cry at the drop of a hat and I wouldn’t have it any other way because inevitably, my cleansing tears turn to laughter and I am once again, made whole.

I’ve come to learn that wholeness doesn’t always look like picking up the pieces of us we’ve left behind. Wholeness, sometimes, means pouring out the excess so that we don’t drown.

The clouds start to part, as they always do after storms of this calibre and I reflect on how blessed I am to have access to such catharsis. In this moment, I am grateful to be a woman. I am grateful that I have permission to feel and because I feel, I heal. I think of the Earth— I wonder if rain, river streams, and oceans are merely embodiments of the feminine’s alchemical waters.

And then I recall the one and only time I've seen him cry. A thimble’s worth of stifled tears for my countless buckets full. And he’s not less sensitive. If anything, he’s more.

I noticed, being around kids that boys don’t cry less than girls, until they’re told otherwise. And men aren’t less sensitive than women, they’ve just been told otherwise.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent men at certain points in my life. The angry feminist hat is one I sometimes slip on, without even realising it.--how dare they think they understand the difficulty of existing upon this planet?

It fucking sucks not being able to walk down the street without being objectified. Loving midnight strolls but avoiding them so as to not become some victim-blamed statistic. Gripping keys between our knuckles as we walk to our cars that we lock with lightning speed. Dulling our smiles so they’re not misconstrued as invitations. Not wearing what we want because their glares leave oily remnants on our bodies that we’re constantly told don’t belong to us.

Perhaps they’ll never understand, and sometimes I’m mad at them. I’m angry about how much harder it is to live this life as me, as my sisters, as women. I’m angry but beneath it, there’s a sadness and a thought plagues my mind…

Who holds his tears?

I’ve offered but it makes him shift uncomfortably. He doesn’t know how to be held, never learned how.

Who’s shirt does he dampen with all his pain? Where is his safe space to express, to be seen? While my girlfriends applaud me for my courage to feel, calling me brave and self-aware, who does he turn to? Who can sit with the magnitude of what lives inside of him?

>Not the men who came before him who knew no better than to “boys don’t cry” his feelings away.

>Not his silver-tongued friends who shove poetry into dungeons where machismo won’t find it.

>Not a society that celebrates his toxic traits while shaming the parts of him that make him human.

>Not a “stiff upper lip” culture that fails to acknowledge that vulnerability is the greatest expression of strength.

>Not a patriarchal system that doesn’t realise that the oppression of the feminine is just as destructive to men. That would rather see them take their lives at alarming rates before accepting that they too, are suffering in its clutches.

I contemplate the state of the world. Wars brought to the doorsteps of innocent civilians. Once free countries sinking into the egoic claws of dictators whose pride overtakes their humanity. Humans shoved into cages for being born on the “wrong side” of an imaginary line. Families torn apart. Articulate subjugators glorified, as division swallows up nations. The manipulation of the masses. The exploitation of the Earth. Greedy corporations parading as saviours, profiting off sickness and fear.

And then I think about him, about his tender heart, the pain behind his eyes that I could feel but not touch. I think about who he would be if his emotions had been held. I think of him and then I zoom out, and I think of them—the ones who are harder to love.

The hot-tempered men I’ve ridiculed for getting into bar fights. The cat-callers. The aggressors. The oppressors. The tyrannical, power-hungry autocrats.

I wonder who they’d be if, as little boys, they’d been taught to feel their pain. If they had a safe outlet for the unfelt emotions boiling up like lava under their skin.

I wonder who they’d be if they hadn’t had to navigate their inner storms all alone. If their sadness hadn’t had the chance to fester into anger, thus coming out sideways.

I wonder if they’d still start fights and beat their wives and blow up buildings and wage wars.

I wonder who they’d be, who we’d be, what the world would be, if boys could cry.

humanity
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About the Creator

Dré Pontbriand

Writer. Alchemist. Freedom Enthusiast.⁂

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Comments (2)

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  • Frederickstaabout a year ago

    Articles to look forward to

  • Gida Pontbriand2 years ago

    What an amazing piece of literature and truth! I love it! Many months have gone by since the war in Ukraine started and nobody seems to be able to do anything about it. Let's change the pattern so that boys could express themselves. Our would be a better place.

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