The First Language a Boy Learns Is Silence

I am not an expert on this topic but I have watched reality long ago to make sense of what this world teaches the boys I love.Before a boy learns to say “I’m sad,” he is often taught to say “I’m fine.”Before he learns how to cry safely, he learns how to curl his fingers and speak violence with his fistsHe learns that emotion is a performance and the script was written long before he was born.He learns that masculinity is mute and dialogue is for the weaker vessels.Before he learns to walk or speak or move through life in the skin of a man, he learns to empty his heart out and bury it where light cannot reach. In many cultures, masculinity is a performance bound by silence, toughness, and stoicism. From the playground to the pulpit, the message is rehearsed: don’t cry, don’t feel too much, don’t break and if you must, do it where no one can see you.This is not biology. It’s training.As Bell Hooks wrote in The Will to Change,<blockquote>“The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence toward women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem.”</blockquote>But Boys Cry Too — Even If It’s in CodeTheir silence has rhythm. Their grief has a syntax made of shrugs, sarcasm, and sudden withdrawal. To decode it is not to pry, it is to learn a language that patriarchy has buried under bravado. I am not expert at this, I say again but I watched reality long enough to make sense of what they want- the boys I love. It is so difficult sometimes to watch them hurt, to see the pain they try to hide and to not be able to often comfort them because their laughter spills out, rehearsed, like the sound of broken glass only you can see. You watch them call sometimes, not to talk but to listen. Not to confess but to exist beside you in breathless silence.How was your day? How are you doing? Tell me all about it? I just wanted to hear your voice.They will ask everything they want someone to say to them and if you pick the bait, they will respond in heavy pauses until the space between you fills with everything he doesn’t know how to say.He’s not okay. You know it in your bones. And for you who was raised in crying without shame, friends rushing over with hugs and chocolate and family holding space so you can break and be whole again- You cannot understand. You never will. So...When he calls you In the dead of night, And without a sound in his voice, Do not fret.Hold the phone to your ears, And wait— Count the minutes Until he has picked his courage. Do not ask questions, Or he will not speak, Not when his father Has warned him Of what happened To boys Who do not guard their eyes And let them scream. He will lie, And tell you, “There is nothing.” Do not ask questions. He will cough, When you hear him sniffle, And crack a joke That may not be funny. Laugh if you can, Take the pity Out of your voice, And sway with his facade. Play this game with him; It is how he heals, How he thrives To be the man whose mouth was stitched shut with his father’s belt You may offer an embrace, And he might reject it. When he calls you in the dead of night, And his voice is a ghost Do not hold it against him. Let the silence fill the space Between your breaths. Do not weep; It is not your burden, And no tears you cry Will carry the weight of his pain. When you see him The next day— Bearing a smile With eyes heavy with truth, Offer him laughter, And strength buried in silence. Hold his gaze, And promise him That even in a world That does not care for his weakness, He is not alone.

Other insights from Esther Omemu