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The very first day I saw my dad shed tears was in November 2006. Now, in order to understand the intensity of my shock, you need to know who dad is. Dad is huge, well built, assertive, and has the strength of ten thousand men...
Dad is a near perfectionist, a lover of extremely good music, a master chef, as a matter of fact, a crisp definition of everything ethereal. Dad was and still remains my god. So you would clearly understand the utter horror and disappointment I felt when I first saw dad shed fat, hot, rushing tears. Dad’s eyes were as red as a famished rat, dad’s shoulders were slumped, dad was defeated. The year 2006 was a bad one for dad.
Having lost his elder sister to whooping cough, dad was devasted. And here I was, beside dad, wondering in all my teenage imagination, who the heck this new being was. As I grew older, and occasionally reminisced on this singular event that rocked my view on masculinity, I began to realise how skewed my perception had been about men. Obviously, something patriarchy and all its doctrines was and is still responsible for.
A similar event would play out itself in 2015. My partner, J.A.D.I.N.G. who I had just be seeing for a couple of months, had called one dusk to narrate a gruesome experience to me. Like dad, J.A.D.I.N.G was crying into the phone while he complained bitterly about his situation. Now at this point in this narrative, I believe that it should already be obvious that I am an alpha female and a pressure cooking, steam-letting-out, train hooting feminist. So as with dad’s, I was also shocked. But then again, this was even more heightened as I watched my shock alchemize into rage and finally into disdain. For a week, I loathed J.A.D.I.N.G. And he never knew why. Though we still exchanged regular calls and dozens of ‘I love you’s’, somewhere within me, I was seething with rage. But then, as I walked back home one dreary afternoon, a certain realization hit me rock hard in the face, like strong gusts of the harmattan wind. I suddenly came to the awareness that despite my claims to the feminist manifesto, a part of my subconscious was still chained to the generalization that only weak men cry.
More so, in the year 2017, I got another soul-awakening experience. My university colleague and close friend had just ended a call to an unbeknownst receiver, at the other end, with the words: ‘I love you’. Now, within the homophobic Nigerian millieu, in which I was groomed, this comes off as a total no-no. You do not ever say ‘I love you' to another man. What would pass off as slightly acceptable is the phrase: ‘One love man’, which is usually said in a very husky voice and in a quite rugged manner. But then, you do not, ever, say the L word to another man. But here was my friend, breaking all the stereotypes, and confirming that the receiver at the other end, was his close male associate and there there was clearly no sexual attachment to their friendship. It was merely just one male telling another male how intensely he felt. Literally, this became the last straw that pierced through my subconscious and removed all its cloak of prejudices on the way men do, and should express their emotions.
To make sure I never wore this cloak again, I embraced the following assertions as my mantra:
a)Dad is a god. But even gods cry.
b)J.A.D.I.N.G expresses his vulnerability, to me, through tears. But vulnerability does not in any way translate as weakness. As a matter of fact, it is an intense show of strength.
c) Saying ‘I love you' to other men should not be perceived as weird. Men are emotional beings, as all humans are.
With the above-mentioned positions, I have never been more sure of myself as a feminist than now.
Written by Onwuegbuchi Nneoma. She is a graduate of English and Literary Studies at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. She is in love with Nina Simone and Tracy Chapman.
Posted by @pocarlee
Dad is a near perfectionist, a lover of extremely good music, a master chef, as a matter of fact, a crisp definition of everything ethereal. Dad was and still remains my god. So you would clearly understand the utter horror and disappointment I felt when I first saw dad shed fat, hot, rushing tears. Dad’s eyes were as red as a famished rat, dad’s shoulders were slumped, dad was defeated. The year 2006 was a bad one for dad.
Having lost his elder sister to whooping cough, dad was devasted. And here I was, beside dad, wondering in all my teenage imagination, who the heck this new being was. As I grew older, and occasionally reminisced on this singular event that rocked my view on masculinity, I began to realise how skewed my perception had been about men. Obviously, something patriarchy and all its doctrines was and is still responsible for.
A similar event would play out itself in 2015. My partner, J.A.D.I.N.G. who I had just be seeing for a couple of months, had called one dusk to narrate a gruesome experience to me. Like dad, J.A.D.I.N.G was crying into the phone while he complained bitterly about his situation. Now at this point in this narrative, I believe that it should already be obvious that I am an alpha female and a pressure cooking, steam-letting-out, train hooting feminist. So as with dad’s, I was also shocked. But then again, this was even more heightened as I watched my shock alchemize into rage and finally into disdain. For a week, I loathed J.A.D.I.N.G. And he never knew why. Though we still exchanged regular calls and dozens of ‘I love you’s’, somewhere within me, I was seething with rage. But then, as I walked back home one dreary afternoon, a certain realization hit me rock hard in the face, like strong gusts of the harmattan wind. I suddenly came to the awareness that despite my claims to the feminist manifesto, a part of my subconscious was still chained to the generalization that only weak men cry.
More so, in the year 2017, I got another soul-awakening experience. My university colleague and close friend had just ended a call to an unbeknownst receiver, at the other end, with the words: ‘I love you’. Now, within the homophobic Nigerian millieu, in which I was groomed, this comes off as a total no-no. You do not ever say ‘I love you' to another man. What would pass off as slightly acceptable is the phrase: ‘One love man’, which is usually said in a very husky voice and in a quite rugged manner. But then, you do not, ever, say the L word to another man. But here was my friend, breaking all the stereotypes, and confirming that the receiver at the other end, was his close male associate and there there was clearly no sexual attachment to their friendship. It was merely just one male telling another male how intensely he felt. Literally, this became the last straw that pierced through my subconscious and removed all its cloak of prejudices on the way men do, and should express their emotions.
To make sure I never wore this cloak again, I embraced the following assertions as my mantra:
a)Dad is a god. But even gods cry.
b)J.A.D.I.N.G expresses his vulnerability, to me, through tears. But vulnerability does not in any way translate as weakness. As a matter of fact, it is an intense show of strength.
c) Saying ‘I love you' to other men should not be perceived as weird. Men are emotional beings, as all humans are.
With the above-mentioned positions, I have never been more sure of myself as a feminist than now.
Written by Onwuegbuchi Nneoma. She is a graduate of English and Literary Studies at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. She is in love with Nina Simone and Tracy Chapman.
Posted by @pocarlee
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