Don't Cry for Me

by Daniel Black

Hurt is worse than anger, you know. Anger dwells in the head, then fades. Hurt lingers in the soul. It rearranges your feelings without your permission. It blinds you.

I felt ashamed. I envied this woman and her daughter, the way she bore and boasted her child’s identity. There was something honorable about that, a sacred link between the two that felt so...right. Every child wants their parents’ applause, and I had not applauded you.

Men of my time were mean and hostile because we feared losing power. Feminists in the ’80s declared that “manhood” was a socially conceived idea. It was an oppressive notion. In some ways, they were right. We had nothing if we didn’t dominate others. We knew we could lose everything at any moment. Liberal women and gay men told us we were about to. Their freedom disturbed our self-worth—black and white men alike. That’s why we lived in fear.

Silence isn’t always quiet though. It troubles a man’s soul, forcing him to admit what he’d rather forget.