Practicing Vulnerability: A Black Man’s Struggle toward Understanding and Belonging
From an early age, most boys absorb the message—whether stated directly or modeled by the men and women in their lives—that to be a man is to be tough.
I learned that early. In my household, crying got me grounded or spanked, or both. And, of course, I was expected not to cry about the punishment. The older I got, the less that punishment mattered. I became numb to the pain, cut off from the hurt and sadness I felt. Eventually, I learned to express myself through anger.
In the community I grew up in, showing weakness in any form was frowned upon. Any boy considered soft would be bullied or catch a beating from their peers. My community taught me how to express myself through violence.
I was never taught to feel the full range of emotions, to understand when those feelings were appropriate, or how to express myself. This left me isolated and unable to deal with some of the most basic human experiences in a healthy way. Sadness and grief were off limits.
To this day, it’s hard for me to cry in front of other men. I have come a long way toward emotional health, but I still struggle and often am reminded that I am not as fully healed as I thought. I know that I have to continue to confront the physical, emotional and sexual abuse I experienced as a child, but knowing this intellectually does not make it easier.
I recently had a conversation with a friend that helped me better understand myself. Our lifer group (men facing life-without-parole sentences) made a decision to support proposed legislation that I disagreed with. The details aren’t crucial, but I thought the compromise law being endorsed would cut out too many people who should have benefited. I strongly believe that we should work as hard as possible to support each other, that we don’t leave anyone behind. I thought that was the commitment of the group, something we had all agreed on, but somewhere along the line something had changed. I felt betrayed and hurt because of the group’s decision. Rather than dig in for hard conversations, I isolated myself and pushed away from my friend and the group. Instead of confronting the disagreement, I retreated.
That may sound familiar in today’s polarized political culture, and those same conflicts occur in prison. Philosophical and political differences, which could be an invitation to conversation, can quickly alienate us from each other when no one wants to be the one who budges. I see now how this happened with my friend. He was confused about my reaction until I finally apologized. Admitting I had been unfair to him required me to be vulnerable, which wasn’t easy.
I still think the group made the wrong choice, but I had been wrong to blame, and then cut off, my friend. I don’t have to abandon my values to recognize that others may have good reasons to disagree. We can face those differences and maintain a close friendship. In the end we agree on a lot more than we disagree on.
All that may seem obvious, but it was another reminder of how that always-be-tough training still affects me. I know that I can’t escape my past trauma, but sometimes it’s easier to walk away than face it, even though I know that hurt and pain are likely to come out in unhealthy ways. It usually begins with something I’m angry about. Healthy anger? It feels like every time I have seen someone angry, it ended in violence.
Again, it may seem obvious, but as an adult I have had to learn that violence is not the only way I can react when my feelings get hurt. That’s not easy in prison, where building trust through healthy dialogue is always difficult. I live with others who come from similar backgrounds and have untreated trauma, just like me. That’s a combustible environment. When I want to stick to my values, it can feel as if any move I make is dangerous, and my guard goes up. New patterns take time.
In his book The Four Pivots, Shawn Ginwright analyzes the forces that make it so hard for men, and black men in particular, to be vulnerable. To get comfortable with emotional disclosure and risk taking, we have to be there for each other when things get really hard. Ginwright points out that surviving racism can harden us, a reaction reinforced by the toxic form of masculinity that is so common in patriarchal societies.
I have had to confront not only my own fear of vulnerability but the same fear in the men around me. Like so many struggles, this one is almost impossible to win on our own.
