For The Love Of Black Men
“Black men may be hated, feared, admired, or made the object of sexual fantasy, but they are rarely loved – either by others or by themselves…Sadly, the real truth, which is a taboo to speak, is that this is a culture that does not love black males, that they are not loved by white men, white women, black women, or girls and boys. And that especially most black men do not love themselves. How could they, how could they be expected to love surrounded by so much envy, desire, hate? Black males in the culture of imperialist white-supremacist capitalist partriarchy are feared but not loved.”
I’ve been reading hooks’ “We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity.” It is eye opening and it rings true. We have bought our objectification as men and so has everyone else. Nobody loves us AND we don’t love ourselves.
People want our bodies or style, want us to be the groom on the cake, but they don’t want the REAL us, don’t want a REAL relationship which requires openness/listening/hearing/sensitivity/feeling/seeing/being heard, being experienced, being butterball nekkid before your beloved. Who’s willing to commit to that? None of us, it seems. Most of us want an ideal, an illusion, want to be captivated, carried away, catered to, babied, blindfolded. Marriage becomes the end of the journey, the casket with a bow, not the beginning of an incredibly complex, one-day-at-time journey into the heart of the self and your partner.
This behaviour, of course, is programmed. But when it comes down to it, we all have to feel the feelings to escape the digital chip implanted in our backsides, sidle up to the taboo emotions that we suppress as a matter of course. If we don’t, we will continue to confront people with our facades rather than our ‘face of vulnerability.’ Few today keep it real, least of all us. We can be mean, tart, hard – but can we be vulnerable, sensitive, open?
We want, desire, crave desperately a relationship – but is the partner simply a silhouette, a black stick figure that we project our hopes, fears and dreams on?
Black people must be willing to heal in order to survive. Healing is dealing, dealing with the shadow, the racist toe-jam that must be plucked one lint piece at at time. We cannot continue to wear our daishiki-tudes and cover up the fetal-posed child within us – it’s destroying us individually and collectively. We have to go towards the inner pain, reach it, grasp it, hold it, love it. If we ain’t lovin’ that, we ain’t lovin’ anything else. Or getting loved, you can believe that.
It takes an honest soul to allow themselves to go there. Are you now or have you ever gone THERE?
As I’ve read this book, I’ve paid attention to how I approach other men. I harden myself, ‘mean mug,’ give a look of toughess, invulnerability. I present another face to women – is it real?