My White Woman Tears - Apologies to Alice in Wonderland
She destroys the world, like Shiva, only over a tennis bracelet
I am fascinated by the “White Woman Tears“ discussion.
I’m Irish-American ex-Catholic, check. And as I youngster I used to cry, easily, in front of those I’d rather have been stoic. I wanted to be a stone when I was young, and I failed.
Something about old age— the hormones, I’m sure— made me dry-eyed and less easily wrecked. I am more likely to cry because of an unexpected kindness, not an attack.
Have I ever cried, say, to get a traffic cop to give me a break? This is the #1 stereotype of the entitled femme trying to get a break from Officer Friendly.
For me, no, not on a traffic stop. I’m more likely to make a joke.
In a real arrest? No. The times I was arrested were serious, and I was withdrawn, disassociated. “I’m leaving my body now.” None of it planned. When arrested in political situations, you just don’t know WHERE it’s going to end up. Nobody is flirting or acting cute. I didn’t cry until I was home, alone, in bed, days later.
I think crying was in my family was initially “secret.” Then, in grade school, tears were the result of humiliation, frustration. I knew if you cried in front of bullies, their persecution campaigns would grow worse, so I fought to get ahold of myself.
I’ve cried the most in front of my mother, and my daughter. Ack. Not glad of either one! Tears are a feminine and maternal demon for me.
The “Disney Alice” epitomizes the stereotypical white woman tears. She’s so pretty, she’s so ridiculous, she’s childish and surprised. Her tears are sometimes convincing to the creatures around her, but others wave her away. The Red Queen does not give her any slack!
Alice, in the Disney flick, achieves her climax when she becomes “huge,” and unmanageable, a bully. She cries an ocean and drowns everyone and everything.
Then the spell breaks, and she is normal-sized lass, bummed that she cried so much and ruined everything. She drowned others and barely survived her own fate. Ooopsie!
Alice’s travails makes me laugh and cringe. She is a very cute “Karen”— crying wolf, and realizing she’s made a mess of it, yet always awash in self-pity.
I’m acquainted with the girly nutjobs on viral videos that enhance the white-girl-tears satires— women who lose their composure over a bag of potato chips or a parking spot. They destroy the world, like Shiva, only over a tennis bracelet.
I laugh at them, I cringe, and I wonder, “Have I ever been a crybaby princess?”
After all, it’s not really color, or ethnicity. “Princess Tears” are a state of being spoiled, and sheltered— which could happen to any Little Lady— whether “white” or not.
When I was a schoolkid, we all wanted to be a stoic and never cry. It was a sign of maturity. There is a class element to this: The parental threat of “I’ll give you something to cry about,” is how my neighborhood of kids learned to SHUT UP.
I stopped crying around my mother early. I hated her tears, hated them. Her tears were a prelude to violence.
I got beat up by boys in school, sure. Many of us did, I wasn’t special, and they also beat each other, the worst of it. I desperately wanted to avoid those confrontations so they didn’t see me cry. I remember crawling up to the top of an old avocado tree, and hiding in the leaves, while I listened to them plot below, their worst designs.
I admired girls who never, ever, cracked. The tough girls . . . I revered them. Never thought, back then, of how their tears dried up. Now I know.
I vowed not to cry around my own child. I broke that vow, and I regret it. You never want to ask children for their sympathy, never a good idea.
I’m 66 now. I cry alone every so often. I cry with happy tears of being moved, I cry with my best friends. I don’t cry at work. I don’t cry in front of an authority figures. Ha! I’m the authority now.
Last time I cried?
Well, last night. One of my dearest friends got in a car accident, and although she’s going to be “fine,” the thought of her brush with death — made my eyes well up. I am not ready to lose her! I’ve lost so many already. “Don’t take her from me!” I cry out to no one. Don’t make me cry an ocean again, because I don’t know if I can swim out.
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Sometimes, when I watch those "Karen" videos, I feel like the white woman is a mentally ill person having a breakdown. Most of the time, they just appear to be assholes. But, still, I think there have been some obviously mentally ill people who need more compassion than our Internet culture allows.
I am currently writing a book about the genocide of California Indians. I read bits of it to members of a collective of anthropologists and artists in London. As I write, I never cry. When I read it to the group over Zoom, I do.