Timid Tenderness
By Caesar
My experience with being a black girl, afraid of her own heart.
I’m back, with another essay I suppose. I’m writing this because it feels good to. Because I’m tired of being scared of my own vulnerability. Tired of being ashamed of it. I’m not afraid to say that it’s powerful and that, because it is, I’m nervous about it. That I even don’t understand it. I’m writing this because I think there are a lot of black girls and people out there who feel the same way I do.
Growing up, I was parentified. Much like most eldest daughters in black families, there’s a large responsibility around siblings and the home. Learning early on how to be, for lack of better phrasing, a wife was difficult. Crying or being upset about it wasn’t allowed though, so it can be silencing. Silencing can turn into learned compartmentalizing and then we end up here.
So the point of this isn’t about struggles of the home, more so matters of the heart and how compartmentalization has become the new norm for black girls with big hearts, strong feelings and a misunderstanding of how to express them.
I brush off my own emotions regularly, as if they’re nothing more than a fleeting, imaginary thought and not a feasible, genuine reaction and response to things happening around or to me. As if they don’t matter even. They matter. They do. And they’re powerful. More powerful, more real, more valid than I could’ve ever assumed. I’m learning a lot this year, about vulnerability. About what it means, how to properly wield it and why it’s necessary. Someone I love very deeply one time told me, “I don’t wanna be with a mountain.” And that stuck with me. I’ve always seen myself as that: an unshakeable, immovable, sturdy, strong, reliable mountain. But I never adhered to the fact that mountains have streams and grow flowers too. I never thought of the soft and sweet part of the mountain. I removed myself from that. But hearing her say that made me question. Question basically my entire existence inside the realm of heart, inside the world of tears and honesty and allowing myself to feel passionately.
I never allowed myself to cry, least of all in front of someone. I never allowed myself to talk to people, even if they really did care. I never trusted that they did or wouldn’t somehow make it about them, because it almost always happened that way. Or that they wouldn’t care enough to listen and would become easily distracted, because it almost always happened that way, too.
Then, add being a black girl on top of that. Black girls aren’t sensitive; we're enraged. Black girls aren’t soft; we’re strong. Black girls aren’t gentle; we’re aggressive. Black girls aren’t…
Let me tell you what black girls are. People.
We’re people, and you know what? We’re all the things above and more. But we aren’t given the space to show that. So we don’t, and then we get to a place in life where all our relationships are based in fear. Yes, there’s love, but there’s also fear. You show a sliver of emotion, a morsel of sadness and maybe, just maybe, you cry in front of someone (who you completely trust, by the way) but because crying is equated to weakness, you’ve fucked it all up. And now, now they think you’re incapable, you’re small, you’re crazy.
I cried in front of that person. The person who made me look deeper into what mountains truly are. And cried, I mean face totally wet, voice caught, body tired, cried. And it felt good, it felt welcomed. It felt like a release I needed to engage in months prior, it felt like shedding skin and growing anew. It felt like peace. It felt like a breath of the cleanest, purest, freshest air. I was comforted and loved and talked through it. They let me know that I wasn't at all any of the things I made up in my head, or was told before. That I was simply me and they were simply there and going to continue to be there. Through each and every tear.
So, with that being said, dear black girl, I’m here to tell you that it simply is not true that you will never know safety. I never thought I would find someone who genuinely loved, genuinely cared and genuinely listened to me, but I did. Dear black girl, I’m here to tell you, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to scream and be sad and to show, publicly, your emotions. Dear black girl, it’s okay and welcomed that you wear your heart on your sleeve. Dear black girl, you have a heart of gold, so use it.
Yours truly,
Caesar.