Evolving Folks Project

When my friend, Lornett Vestal, asked me to write a guest blog for the Evolving Folks Project, I initially scratched my head, wondering what I’d write about. Topics of dating, finding joy during trying times, and ways to live an aligned life all danced in my mind. While I was considering this, I started reading bell hooks’ The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, as part of a book club. The book frankly discusses the harmful ways patriarchy affects men. While I am still only a few chapters in, it’s already made my head spin, in a good way, as I think about my relationships with men—Black men in particular. I love Black men. My upbringing included a father who always affirmed my beauty, encouraged my curiosity, and taught me to love myself. Uncles surrounded me on my maternal and paternal sides, who always gave me love and kindness. Not to love Black men would be to deny the men who made me who I am. However, when I read these words by hooks:

“To create loving men, we must love males. Loving maleness is different from praising and rewarding males for living up to sexist-defined notions of male identity. Caring about men because of what they do for us is not the same as loving males for simply being. When we love maleness, we extend our love whether males are performing or not.”

I had to pause and consider how my own societally influenced views of maleness impact my ability to see and hold empathy for Black men, even as I proclaim my genuine love for them. And then I knew what I wanted to write about.

I must preface this by stating that my reflection is not meant to contribute to a discussion that divides Black men and women. I often observe contentious online content that incites Black men and women to engage in conflict, as if they were competing in a boxing ring. People hurl words instead of punches, portraying Black women as overly masculine, domineering, controlling, too independent, or cold, and Black men as no-good, absent, childish, misogynistic, or lacking emotional depth. While those portrayals may have kernels of truth embedded in them, as most stereotypes do, they are also reductive and add to a relational divide rather than bridge it. Also, I don’t mean to invalidate relational experiences, including my hurtful, and downright toxic ones, because some bad actors do incredibly terrible things. However, this is my attempt to understand how my social conditioning has impacted my perception.

Years ago, I was in a relationship with a tall, dark, and handsome artist. When we met, it felt like kismet, as we shared similar interests and bonded over our values. Yet communication between us broke down once the honeymoon phase ended, and heated discussions would turn into shouting matches. The popular theme of discussion was how differently men and women emotionally relate to each other when I brought up a desire to be heard or communicated with on a more ‘emotional level’. During one of these matches, he said, “You women like to criticize men, claiming they lack emotional intelligence, but you would want me to defend you if someone attacked you in an alley.”

Yet, as I think about it now, I see the pain embedded in that statement. It’s true. Part of our sexist-defined notion of male identity is that they are to be our shields between life and death. Men must sacrifice their lives to protect the vulnerable, so they cannot show vulnerability. They are expected to face death, unafraid. They are expected to die first. Statistics say as much, and a study published in 2023 shows a widening life expectancy gap between men and women. However, I would argue that if a diverse group of men fought for their lives against some apex predator, the group would see the Black man’s life as the most expendable. Their demise would be expected. They are the ones who are supposed to die first, and since they are men, they unfortunately cannot be sad because men may not have these types of feelings. Even though I logically know this, imagining how I might feel if my life were viewed in my death, when I drop into my heart space, brings tears to my eyes. What a joyous yet life-force-eroding burden to carry. In hindsight, I wish that instead of rolling my eyes when my former partner made that comment, I would’ve stopped, listened, and gotten a bit more curious, while still holding space for my truth. Instead, I tried to smother his truth with my own because I needed to be cared for, forgetting that he needed that too.

Because Black men’s lives are expendable and disposable, they have to navigate a world that more often than not doesn’t acknowledge their inherent value or seeks to demean and brutalize them. I can’t help but recall the scene from John Singleton’s Boyz in the Hood, in which Tre, a main character played by Cuba Gooding Jr., tried to hold it together in front of his worried girlfriend before finally breaking down into tears while punching the surrounding air. Through his sobs, he repeatedly said to her, “I’m tired of this shit.” This scene plays out shortly after a police officer threatened Tre and held a gun to his throat. 

And while I know police brutality regularly confronts Black men, I don’t always see how their lives are in constant threat. Sometimes, all it takes is for an accusing finger to be pointed for a Black man’s life to be compromised. Sometimes, all it takes is for a Black man to say “the wrong thing” for his entire world to be turned against him. Sometimes, all it takes is for a Black man to go for a jog in “the wrong neighborhood” for his life to be taken. If I were a Black man, I’d feel a constant need to modulate myself to protect my life at the sacrifice of my vulnerability, differently than I do as a Black woman. For example, some of my Black guy friends have shared that they have to soften or shrink themselves intentionally so that people aren’t afraid of them, as people fearing them could cost them their freedom or their lives. It’s a constrained way to live, and it makes me wonder how many Black men come home from a long day of holding it all together, wishing to release a dam of tears and box the ghosts of their oppression. Still, they can’t because society doesn’t make space for their cries.

Recently, I’ve taken to saying that girls are expected to be women earlier than boys are expected to be men. Men, unlike women, are allowed to be boys in ways that women aren’t allowed to be girls. Men have their own dedicated caves to do boy stuff, like play video games or watch sports. In contrast, women are expected to care for others from a very young age, but not themselves. Now, I see how my assessment is partially wrong. Boys are expected to become men at an early age, too, and it’s when they become men that they are no longer part of the women and children group that deserves to be saved first. When that happens, men must give up the nurturing, affection, and love that is necessary for a child, but “babying” to a man. bell hooks says as much when she writes, “Boys are not seen as lovable in patriarchal culture. Even though sexism has always decreed that boy children have more status than girls, status and even the rewards of privilege are not the same as being loved.” 

As boys get older, they are expected to hide their fears, sadness, anxieties, feelings of being overwhelmed, and stress under a façade of confidence, competitiveness, or anger. For Black boys, this is even more pronounced, as they not only have to be readied for a world that expects them to die first, but they are also seen as men at a much younger age than their counterparts. Moreover, Black masculinity is often portrayed as raw and dangerous. That means that many young Black boys grow up with people being afraid of them for no reason other than their skin color. I would assume that as many grow up, fewer hugs, smiles, and other forms of non-sexual affection are offered. And, if they ask for affection from people outside of their romantic partners, they might be punished by being called too feminine, needy, or soft. Whereas my asks for love and care are often met by my loved ones when I need it, and I am not ridiculed. I don’t always see or recognize that difference.

Although I like to consider myself “self-aware,” I thank our ancestor bell hooks (may she rest in power) for the mirror her words held up to my reflection. For helping me to recognize that knowledge does not always translate to understanding, empathy, or care. In other words, knowing someone’s experience is not the same as putting myself in their shoes to imagine what that experience felt like. Now, there are people in this world who cause great and intentional harm to maintain systems of power and control. So, I’d loathe to imagine what it’s like to walk in their shoes. However, as I consider how I can better see Black men every day, I can’t help but wonder who else isn’t fully seen, heard, or acknowledged for simply being. Probably most of us, to some degree, because assumptions and stereotypes are often valued more than someone’s personal truth, and what people do is frequently prized over who they are. 

Yet, given the world we are currently living in, now is the time for me to move beyond assumptions to see friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers that I pass on the street in their truth, as they see it. In doing so, I will learn how to love deeper and better, and I will align closer to my truth and authenticity. That’s how I’ll dismantle toxic and false systems that exist within me. That’s how I’ll continue to evolve. That’s how I’ll get free.

Jerrilyn Black is a licensed clinical social worker who practices therapy in the Washington, DC, metro area. When she isn’t working, Jerrilyn is writing poetry, painting, drumming, going for long walks, and finding things that make her smile. Jerrilyn is also an author, and in 2021 published her first collection of poetry and essays, I See Her…