When my daughter Cate was in kindergarten, her teacher had a set of weekly jobs that she assigned to students in the class on a rotating basis. Cate’s most coveted job was that of line leader. For weeks in advance, Cate had eagerly anticipated her turn, counting down the days every night during our family dinners. When the week finally arrived, Cate was giddy with excitement. She was smiling ear-to-ear as I waved good-bye to her at the school’s front gate that Monday morning.
When I picked Cate up later that afternoon, I could tell instantly that something was wrong. I walked into the classroom and found Cate sitting with legs crisscrossed in the circle as she always was at pick-up time. But that day, instead of giving a good-bye hug to her teacher and greeting me enthusiastically, Cate hardly made eye contact before racing out the door. As I grabbed her coat and backpack and chased after her, I could see she was fighting back tears.
Once we were home and Cate was cuddled on my lap under a blanket, she shared her story and released the tears that she had been holding back. She told me about her line leader experience—how she had led the class down the stairs and held the door open, saying “have a great recess!” and sharing a smile with each classmate as they passed.
Her voice quivered as she then told me about the two boys who confronted her on the playground. They sought Cate out to inform her that she was wrong to encourage them to enjoy their recess. “Everyone already knows to have a nice recess,” the boys told her. “We don’t need you to tell us that.”
The boys never asked Cate’s opinion. Never considered she knew what she was doing and had made her decision thoughtfully or that she had a worthy perspective or voice. They just told her she was wrong. They knew better.
As Cate talked through her disappointment and hurt over the boys’ behavior, she even further defended herself by saying that her teacher had encouraged her to share a warm greeting with classmates as a way of spreading kindness. Not that she needed permission to be kind. But, even in spreading joy— Cate was “following the rules”. She had been a “good girl”.
As Cate’s tears flowed, I comforted her and assured her that she had done nothing wrong. We talked about bullies and about how bullies don’t treat the person they are being cruel to as a whole human. We discussed that she is not responsible for what goes on inside of them. Nor should she allow their cruelty to take away her joy.
In that moment, as part of our processing, I made up a little poem for Cate as a reminder of our conversation and an encouragement to keep showing up. The words are simple but the reminder has stuck. “The world needs your joy”—I say often to her.
I hope
to teach you manners,
but mostly how to live,
so when someone says
you are too much,
you continue on,
letting your joy
serve as “no thank you”.
there. can. never.
be too much
of you.
I recognized Cate’s tears for what they were. I’m sure she was sad. But she likely was also angry. And no doubt had received conditioning to either hold back entirely or to cry when she was angry. I’ve likely modeled this to her myself.
I’ve thought about women’s anger a lot in recent years—mostly since the confirmation hearings for Brett Kavanaugh, the now U.S. Supreme Court Justice. I remember watching the televised hearings that involved first the testimony of Christine DeBlasey Ford—a testimony that was measured and reserved. Once she was finished, the media shifted its focus to Senator Lindsay Graham—screaming in the hallway, followed by Brett Kavanaugh’s seething, angry testimony.
I’d never witnessed it so clearly until that moment. The expression of anger was so contrasted and pronounced. Rebecca Traister—who wrote several books on women’s anger, wrote a powerful New York Times article about the obvious behavioral norms on display in those hearings and what they demonstrated about who can be angry in public. For women, anger is to be repressed and controlled. Remain rational. If you need to do something—cry. That’s more palatable. In contrast, for men, anger has been allowed and even rewarded.
Anger was these men’s tool. The more anger they showed - the more righteous it must be. The more fury they demonstrated - the more justifiable it must be. Toxic masculinity.
I remember discussing that article with my writing group—a group of intelligent, accomplished women. Each of us shared stories of crying in meetings because we were angry over how we were treated or disregarded. Our stories were similar. Our anger was justifiable. Our tears all that had felt allowed.
“Maybe we cry when we’re furious in part because we feel a kind of grief at all the things we want to say or yell that we know we can’t. Maybe we’re just sad about the very things we know we can’t be angry about.””
I recently was raged at by a man that I’d once worked closely with for almost a decade. I was involved in a decision that he disagreed with. Without asking for background on the decision, he spewed his anger aggressively and indignantly. He refused to talk to me directly about it—preferring to define his own narrative. As with Cate’s playground experience, he never considered that I had intellect, integrity, or a considered point of view. He just assumed he was right, his rage somehow (always?) justifiable. He told me I was wrong. He knew better.
A grown-up playground bully.
As I was processing my own experience, a poem by Kate Baer showed up in my inbox via a weekly newsletter I subscribe to.
now that he has a daughter.
My grown-up bully is a father. Has a daughter. Though he obviously doesn’t care about what I think, I do wonder if this if how he wants his daughter to be treated by men when she grows up and is in a position of decision-making. Since my bully never afforded me the decency of a conversation (only e-mails), I can only imagine. I imagine he thinks his anger is righteous and that the more anger he shows the more justified he must be. I imagine he thinks his anger is “fighting the system”. From my perspective: his anger is part of the system. Toxic masculinity.
**side bar: I am referring to toxic masculinity — not men. I know many wonderful men who don’t behave like this. I am married to one, am raising one, was raised by one, have worked alongside plenty, and have been mentored by some.**
I had never seen Kate Baer’s poetry before, but after reading that poem, I sought out more. I purchased her book from my local bookstore and started following her on Instagram. Some of Kate’s most powerful poems are elimination poems. She takes mean emails she receives and eliminates words to turn them into poems that have a drastically different meaning. This example deeply resonated with my recent experience. Her online bully must have been named Chad — so she called it: When Chad is a dad.
As we collectively work towards a more just and equitable future, let’s start “fathoming what our daughters can be”. And in the process, we can start fathoming what our men can be too.