Sadness

By: W. Earle Simpson

I was born in an highly chauvinistic society on the island of Jamaica. In my society, men are encouraged not to be softies. Men teach their sons to be tough, and my father was no exception. From as early as my fifth birthday, my father  taught me that men do not cry or demonstrate physical signs of sadness. My father repeatedly told me that I should leave the wimping and wailing to my sisters. I obeyed my father’s instruction and over a period of many years I learned how to conceal many of my emotions. For example, I can conceal my expressions of fear, anger, happiness, surprise and disgust but it was my emotion of sadness that I deliberately and successfully hid the most.
As I grew, there were many instances of my hiding the signs of my sadness but the instance that stood out the most was at the occasion of my maternal grandmother’s death. When “Granny” died, I was very sad. I was especially sad because she was the only grandparent I knew and consequently we had a very close relationship. Granny would always look out for me; she would bring me pencils, food, clothes and she even planted fruit trees for me. In fact, I remember hearing her asking my father about adopting me. Granny loved me and I loved her but when she died, although I wanted to cry, I did not because I remembered that men do not cry.
The next time that I was called upon to demonstrate my manly lack of emotion was in front of my seventh grade classmates. One of my female classmates took a pencil off my desk without asking my permission, but I allowed her to use it until I was ready for it. I went over to her desk and asked for my pencil. Instead of returning the pencil, she refused then hit me. The force of her hand almost knocked me over, especially because I was a smaller boy. I felt wronged and embarrassed and was moved to defend my person and my pencil. No sooner than I retaliated, my class teacher called the school’s principal to my attention. The principal arrived, adjudicated the case, found me guilty of beating up on a female classmate and proceeded to strap me in front of the class. I decided that I would take the strapping as a man should; I did not flinch; I did not cry. I took my strapping as my father told me how but when the principal noticed that I did not show signs of sadness, he increased the number of beatings: He normally administered six licks; he gave me eight. That day I thought about the value of hiding my emotion – was I hurting myself more or causing other people to hurt me more by not showing my emotion? I wondered about it, but that would not be the last time I did not cry.
One day, many years later, I had a conflict with my father. In evaluating my conduct, he determined that I was not only disrespectful but also I deserved a beating. He inflicted the normal number of licks (most parents and teachers in Jamaica agree on six) but when I did not cry he took offence. My father proceeded to administer maybe twice the usual number of licks while commenting, “You believe that you are a man now, don’t you?” In my mind that was the object of his lesson to me but clearly it was not working for me, not even with him. Again, that day I evaluated the concept and determined that it would lead me to destruction but I kept the practice.
As time went by, I felt the need to reeducate myself especially in terms of how I express my emotions but the pressure from my Jamaican society, teaming with my good intention, would almost always win the battle against my noble will. However, although I still do not cry, from the few victories of my will, I have learned to do better than not to cry. But, probably like many men, I am often caught and tossed between the contradiction of ‘to cry or not to cry.’ Indeed, now I know that I am not alone in this. There are many Jamaican men who are accustomed to hiding their emotions but are now feeling as if they need to show them. In fact, I read that men from other countries, like the USA, are also having the same experiences with this stigma. But in spite of the manly contradictions, I still feel as if I am not certain what the appropriate choice is, although I believe that I know which is the more beneficial – crying out aloud. I have thought about crying out loud and in the past I have wondered about what it would be like to just throw my arms up in the air and wail in public. Would it be satisfying, relieving or embarrassing? How would it deviate from what I have learnt, how would it affect my father if he were to hear of such a behavior – what would he say and how would he react?
Although I wanted to test the reaction of my father by contravening his teachings, I hesitated because deep inside me lies an admiration for his leadership, his courage, his morality, his strength and now his honor. The death of my father presented me with the strongest test of an emotional resolve. I am his eldest son and as such I am expected to not only take his place as head of his family but also to teach and live what he taught and lived – men do not cry and I must not cry.
It was very difficult for me to not cry at my father’s funeral but somehow, amidst the wailings of my mother and my sisters, I did not cry and I noticed also that, like me, my brothers did not cry. And precisely because they did not cry, I knew that that day I could not cry. I am the “daddy” now and daddy did not cry. That day, as the funeral continued and was completed, I successfully managed not to cry but as night fell I began to feel the need and the urge to cry. As it got darker, the burden got heavier and soon it became clear to me that man or not, I was going to cry.
I spent half of that night showering the inside of my car with tears and although no one saw me, I felt like I had my chance at throwing up my arms and wailing in the public. During the part of the night that I slept, my father appeared to me in a dream and consoled me with the words “It is OK my son.” The next morning when I woke up I was still in my car but I felt calmed, consoled and as comforted as though I had slept in a warm bed. In fact, I realized then that the calm I was feeling was similar to the one that I felt after I hid and cried back when my grandmother died.
I still believe, practice and teach the concept of ‘men do not cry’ but today I have a better appreciation for it. It is a preaching more than a practice. The admonition is really to hide one’s emotion. So now as I teach and live my father’s instruction with new meaning – I absolutely do not cry, not ever, no, never in public.