200 Men Said….Real Men Cry!

        After thinking about writing a blog about Eric Benet’s song Sometimes I Cry, I thought to ask my 200 men the very question that the song brings forth. I mean, after all…. it is so taboo for a man to cry in public. That CANNOT be healthy. I really want to find the very first father who turned to his son and told him to stop crying and punch him in the throat. Well, now that I think about it…. I think a spirit literally just came and smacked ME in the face. Was this something deemed a living legend from slavery? Was this an ancestral chain that has yet to be broken?

        I am writing this on February 16th, 2011, and I have no clue when I will post it, but in the midst of Black History Month one has to ask if men not crying stems from slavery. Now I have seen my father cry several times and I think that was so healthy. I have also spoken with one of my brothers about how he cried after an incident. Yet, to see a person that I am in a relationship cry is harder to do than running up and hugging the Queen of England! It’s as if the very gender that needs to release from all of the burdens and stress that they are expected to carry are the very ones who have become socially banned from doing so. But was this rooted in a slave father telling a son not to cry before an overseer, or an elder telling Kunta not to cry while being whipped as not to show a sign of weakness or fear? Did this get passed through the blood to the civil rights age where blacks didn’t cry in front of Bull O’Connor and his water hoses? Or instilled in the students who sat at the lunch counters as the were saturated with hate? And did it carry into the blood of the many men who were castrated and became strange fruit that decorated the roadsides of many southern towns? If so, what purpose does it have today?

So I asked my 200 Men:

Some people think that a man crying is a sign of weakness. Are you afraid to cry in front of people? If so, why or why not?

And they came back with these responses:

• ”DUKE” BANNER:  When my heart aches, or I’m very sad, it really doesnt matter where I am; I’m not ashamed. 
• Lateef25:  I’m not going to judge people for crying, but I’ve never had a reason , since I was young, to cry. 
•  Kycajrome L: I say it depends on what the man is crying about…lol But if a man is emotionally in touch with his feelings then that’s pretty healthy emotionally. Then the problem or question is , are the other’s around him mature enough to handle it [his crying].
•  Mark D: No, I don’t think there is anything wrong with crying in front of people . We are all human beings, and not heartless animals!
• CHRIST- O:  It’s not a problem for me, because I know who I am. And no one’s opinion of one aspect of my life will make me change my whole lifestyle.
• DA FLY GUY: CRYING IS A SIGN OF MATURITY!
•  Jesse (TEAM MARK CASH 4 EVER ): I’m not afraid to cry in front of people. It’s not a sign of weakness but a sign of being human.
• DSMILEY1:  I’m not afraid because I have done it before. Real men cry to show emotion!
• on the rocks…:If a man cries in front of others, usually there’s a very valid reason. I can’t see any reason for a man to be all overly emotional over most things..like movies and women and graduations and such [2Deep: Did this nut just say women…. lmao!!! Y’all see why I love their honesty so much..lol]
• Allen Ozark: No, but unfortunately I was born without tear ducts. [2Deep:  I can’t tell if he is telling the truth or if that is even medically possible….lol]
• Kevin R: I’m not [afraid], because I know how strong of a man I am.
• Carlos V: No, I think it’s fine for a man to cry.
• rroyallty:  I think if he is running around crying everyday, all the time..its a problem. But if there is a significant reason and you’re around a select few..let it out or you will snap
•  godschild 1111870: My ex made me cry too much; not happening any more.
•  Code Name Bigsexy:  No, I would cry if I could not help it. lol. And I get mad when I cry. So I get mean; n one better think or say anything [to me].  ©☛Anthony☚©: LOL. It’s not bad to cry.
• Nigi “Pistol Star” Pu Yi: No and yes. I’ll cry, but not for long, and then I’ll play it off. Because men aren’t suppose to show that much emotion. And it’s because emotion distorts rational thinking.         
• Jerome P: Although I dont do it often, I’m man enough to cry. It’s very important to release feelings.Thats why jails are over crowded now.
• Rated R Superstar: Well, a man crying doesnt make you a weak man, that’s a strong man. We’re all human, and we all feel the same pain…
•  DON CUE: No, I’ve lost too many loved ones to care what other people think!
•  LAW.. DA ROC BOYZ:  It all depends on what he’s crying about. Personally, I don’t like to cry, but hey, im human so it happens.
•  Danny P: I’m not afraid to, but yeah it is embarrassing. Because our society still trains men to think it’s not ok. Sure, we talk like it’s ok, like it’s what we all want, but it’s not really. That’s my experience anyway.
•  BIG SEKZI: Nope, because I’m very confident and secure with myself
•  Sensual Nupe: No, I’m not. It really depends on the situation. It takes a strong man to show his emotions. If I just lost a family member or a close friend, I will cry and I don’t care whose around.
•  www. twitter. com/kingdomgate_ ent: Tears of Joy are the only tears you will see me cry. I don’t do emotional tears anymore.
• Prestige “The One And Only”: Definitely not afraid but I don’t do it. It’s not a sign of weakness. People just see it that way as if that individual is weak at that moment. For me, I feel stronger when I cry, if I’m crying in front of people it most likely means “Stand the hell by”.
•  6’5 & NICE WIT IT: Put it like this, one day you will ’cause tears cant stay inside forever
• James M: A man crying is not a sign of weakness, but if he’s at the movies crying then that’s a different story. I have cried in front of people and it didn’t make me weak.

• Aries Brotha: I’m not afraid to cry in front of people, but I’m only comfortable showing that side of myself with close friends and family. Lame as it sounds, my mom taught me to be free with my emotions, and my dad told me Real Men don’t ever cry. I found my own way.
• !!!!! A !!!!!!James L: Heck ,I’m crying now! lol! I think a man who’s in tune with his feelings is a true man and real to life. There are some happy times and sad times that makes us cry and only robots and the dead don’t cry..

 

And as usual I must have a FAVORITE comment, and all though I have several …. I choose:

• Mr. Mayor**DARKSTARZ INC PREZ**: Worrying about what people think is a sign of weakness… Your feelings are your only true form of strength at times. How you fight through hurt, how love can make you feel invincible and how something may move you to tears and still be a man. …..THAT IS STRONG!

And my most revealing comments, and one of the reasons I wanted to write this blog ,came from:

• James F:  Yes, I think it’s weakness. A man should always dominate his emotion and not be a prisoner of them. I’m not afraid to cry, but I’m just not going to cry in front of people. Like, if someone dies or someone I cared about died, I won’t show that emotion openly. If I cry it’s gonna be by myself. The reason for that, my father always told me “stop crying. You’re a big boy” when I was younger. Plus, the environment that I grew up in…. you couldnt cry. That was so-called being “Soft” or “a punk”. You would be a target. You couldn’t be a sheep around wolves or they would eat you alive.

       I have witnessed a guy lose his mother, a football player break his leg, and a DC teen being shot and still ALL of them refused to cry in the presence of others. IN NO WAY IS THIS HEALTHY!!! I think that these are perfectly excusable moments where a man could cry in front of others and people would understand and keep it moving. Yet even in movies like Menace to Society they joke on the men who cry when they are being shot should they survive. Or in Cadillac Records where Muddy Waters runs up the stairs and can be hard crying audibly but wouldn’t cry in front of his wife.  This is where I am glad that I am not a man. Because sometimes this world gets too much to bear and you should be allowed to release everything that you hold inside. Now I’m not saying that a man should cry when he stumps his foot, because NO ONE should cry that easily, but it is okay to cry sometimes in public. But as James F pointed out, his environment wouldn’t allow him to cry; it became a method of survival. But I think it was a method by default because those who would have picked on him needed an outlet and since they couldn’t cry, they would have picked on those who felt they needed to and actually did. So in actuality they would have picked on those brave enough to express their true emotions. But as shown, in most cases kids were too afraid to or told by parents not to because they were “big boys”.

        I think we should stop putting a gender on crying and rather start putting a situation on crying. For example, if a child is upset about dropping their ice cream cone, we shouldnt say “Stop crying. Boys don’t cry over dropping an ice cream cone” but rather we should say “It’s just an ice cream cone. So stop crying.” This way people will begin to express their feelings better. Because much like how there are gateway drugs, tears are the gateway emotion.  You cry when you are happy, sad, mad, confused, upset, and LMAO-ing.  SO if you tell a boy/man that he can’t cry you are taking away the gateway to about 90 percent of his emotional expressions. So express to your sons when it is healthy to cry and when it is okay to cry. Also, that it is okay to cry in front of people. We’re all human…we’ve all cried at some point in our lives. So its okay for you to cry too. And if anyone has a problem with it…. tell them to come see me. *Cocks Arizona issued riffle* Yeh, let’s see how fast we can get them to cry…lmao.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

What Happens in this House….:A Molestation Survivor Speaks

WARNING: This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made and PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

        Somewhere, in some part of the world, there is a little girl snuggled in her bed pressed against a wall, head under her pillow with just enough space to inhale for the breath holding ahead and to peek towards the door knob awaiting the return of her personal boogie man. Monsters Inc prepares children for the monsters who reside under your bed and in your closets, but what about the monsters who pin you down to the bed and force you and this secret into the closet….what then?

        I was one of those children, and I don’t know if I have ever stopped being one of those children. To this day, I sleep with my bedroom door locked, a privilege that was not granted to me living under his roof. I have escape routes out of windows in my house just in case an intruder were to ever invade my safe haven. Windows covered in complete darkness resemble the rooms I had growing up because our neighbor’s house was so close and he lived by the rule of thumb that “what happens in this house stays in this house.” Who was I to judge his authority?

(Screaming!) He molested me! *exhales* There, I said it…outloud. Who is this “he”, you ask?

        He was my father, Charles S Carter Jr, and he was the man who molested me from before I could remember until the courts took us away from him when I was 12 years old. People say that I look like him, but I still need a DNA test to even begin that process. He was an electrical engineer with several degrees who spoke several languages, and a normal relationship was as foreign to us as him speaking Korean to me in moments of battle. I was his daughter. His first-born, born from the love that he had once married to my mother, but I would come to learn that although I was not his favorite I would turn out to be Daddy’s Girl. Late night parent daughter talks, asthmatic lungs inhaling the stench of Newports from his chest as the weight of a grown man crushed my prepubescent body into a mattress for no other reason than I was female, easily accessible, and he had a disease that yearned to be fed. Daughter perched on daddy’s lap became a moment to talk about whatever popped up, as eyes were turned to the roaming hands of a step brother who idolized him and my flat chest at the same time. This is where I lived and died daily. I lived with a military man who swore to protect his country but protected the secret of his personal habit even harder. Just ask my crushed toes underneath the Army boots that were now stepping on my feet for not wearing socks or houseshoes…as if being his daughter wasnt punishment enough.

        I remember being punished just for breathing too loudly; popped in the mouth for the escape of a smack reaching his eardrum. A simple tug of his beard meant I was in trouble. One time, he hit me so hard in my tailbone that I lost control of my legs and urinated on myself all in one swift swoop, just to turn around and get a whooping for messing up the floor. A call from the teacher meant that I would have to strip in front of my father and walk the house butt naked and if he saw me ,and felt like it, then I would get a whooping right then and there. I became a master at silently turning door knobs better than he could and dodging in and out of bedrooms and hallway closets just to go to and from the bathroom in peace. Doing number two (pardon the graphics) was the only time I could be in the bathroom in peace without anyone entering.  Fingers entering openings to ensure “cleaning” because I was filthy, followed by my father laying me on the bed to towel dry me off and rub me from head to toe with baby oil. Slow grinding on me was common place. Adolescent hips popping out of socket under the weight of his grinding, hurting, caused me to try to push him off because talking would make him lose his concentration and bring whoopings. He never listened to my cries and held my hands down. There I was, learning the best lessons of male and female relationships from my father. How lucky was I to learn about the birds and bees from my own father? Every girl needs a father in the house, right?

        One day in church I just didn’t want to go back to his house. My aunt couldn’t make me if God told me to go back himself. I’d had enough. Sitting in the police station with male police officers giving me different toys to describe my fathers penis proved unfruitful; I didn’t trust males. They had no choice but to send me back. I got a whooping until I blacked out. My father took me to a therapist to save face…maybe she could figure out where I was “making these stories up”.

        Off of Carmichael Road in Montgomery, Alabama sat my therapist’s office. A soft-spoken caucasian woman who listened intently as my father sat on the other side of the door.  That is until the day she asked me to re-enact with Barbie and Ken what I told the police happened….so, I showed her. She opened the door and invited my father into the room so he could see too. I never spoke of anything again. And yes, you guessed it….I got a whooping until I had an asthma attack and he had to take me to Maxwell Air Force Base to the ER. This time my Aunt believed me and she fought for custody…but she still allowed him visitations until she passed away when I was 15. He came to her house for her funeral and sat in the kitchen and told ever male there not to be trusted around me because I would lie on them like I had lied on him. And he vanished into street legend. I never saw him, or the therapist ever again.

        My father followed me, in theory. I heard stories of him doing crack from friends in high school, but he had taught me the best lesson ever; Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person. I walked those halls of my high school as a virgin…because I was. Guys from all around wanted to be with the virgin and every single one failed. I wouldn’t willingly give myself to someone until I was in college. You see….I was molested, but he didn’t take my virginity.

        Every guy is not my father, nor am I searching for him in every guy that I date….but through all that I wrote above and more that I didn’t write….I was still a human. A demon like him couldn’t touch the best parts of me. He couldn’t reach them with all of his might because his intentions were wrong. My virginity had nothing to do with sex…my virginity was me, my mind, my free spirit, my determination to rise above where people keep putting me, and the favor that was placed over me even though I was entangled in a generational curse. He tried, but I walked out of his house and his presence with the hymen of my integrity and the mission over my life in tack.

        Today, he lives in Baltimore. He’s never been prosecuted, never been made to suffer for what he put me and others through. One day, and maybe soon… I will walk to where they say that he works and tell him that he couldn’t break me. He couldn’t make me feel less than a princess even though my father wasnt a king.

        This is a part of what I went through, but it is NOT who I am. It helped me make decisions about not showing my body to just any guy. You’ll never hear tales of me sleeping with different guys all in the name of love without being in love. You’ll never see pics of me plastered on the internet that show more of my assets than I am showing I am worth. And you will never hear that I’ve stopped breaking the silence. I was molested but I was never a victim. My virginity never has to be born again because it never died. I found strength through this. Dont get me wrong, I’d never go back a second time…. but I made it out, and THAT is something to be proud of. Where I came from does NOT determine where I will go.

       So, to anyone who has been through similar stories….today is not too late to realize that they had the problem and not you. We are of a sisterhood that many will never understand. I salute you and all of your wonderful glory. I stopped holding my father accountable for what he did to me and the effects it had on my life the day I last saw him….that is not my battle. It weighs you down, trust me. I try to find love as much as often in my daily activities…..today.. I love you. One day you will gain the strength to no longer be ashamed of your story…until then I will speak for you, I dont mind. What are sisters for, right?

        My prayer is that, just this once ,you listen to my father: What happened in your house, stays in your house…..including the pain and the shame. We’ve got other little girls to protect. No time for living in the past. Here, take my hand…..I’m with you as we walk out of our molester’s house. God bless!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

This is the house where majority of it happened. On Pinebrook Dr in Montgomery,AL