The Tears of Leah

Powerlessness and Power are Sides of the Coin with which we Build the Future

#feminism #mentalhealth

Lately I can’t stop crying. Maybe it’s the pandemic, maybe it’s every stupid shitty thing going on, or maybe as I age I get closer – rather than farther – from my emotions. Everything hurts more. Things I once would have brushed aside now cut to the core. I’m raw. It’s kinda’ miserable, except when it’s wonderful, but at least it’s been interesting.

As a woman, I’ve been socialized against tears both explicitly and implicitly. If I cry, I won’t be taken seriously. I need to prove that I am capable and adult because the assumption is that I’m only adult to the extent I can project an emotionless male-coded stoicism. If I’m overly emotional then I’m less reliable when I report an experience. Less worthy of respect or deference when I ask for what I need, and I have less agency. On the list of people who will listen to me less are the doctors I need to save my life, the judges I need to accord me my legal rights, the police officers I need to be able to call in an emergency, and so on. It’s a big - maybe even life threatening - deal. To be treated as an adult, I must adopt the male coded affect of toughness and stoicism, and to deviate from that paradigm is to sacrifice my power in increments with every tear. Nowhere was this more apparent than in Brett Kavanugh’s horrifying Supreme Court nomination hearings. Evoking by stark contrast the stone cold dignity of Anita Hill, and the pained reflective calm of Christine Blasey Ford, Brett Kavanaugh had an angry meltdown in front of the United States Senate, secure in his masculine privilege that the Senate would share his indignity at being called to account for his abusive behavior. Had either Hill or Blasey Ford come anywhere near to displaying the emotion Kavanaugh displayed, they would have lost all credibility. Hysterical women, to be pitied but not heeded. Kavanaugh got a Supreme Court seat out of the affair. Big girls don’t cry.

Another historical figure’s (midrashic) tears come to mind. Our mother Leah is described as having weak (soft? Something else?) eyes, ענים רכות (Gen 29:17). The midrash tells us that this is because she wept since she knew that she was destined to marry Eisav, who was unrighteous (Bavli, Baba Batra 123a). Women[1] throughout history, including Professor Hill and Dr. Blasey Ford, have had ample cause for tears at their lack of sexual agency. Me too. Or more to the point, #MeToo. These tears come from powerlessness. Fear, frustration, and sadness in the face of your most intimate self being denied selfhood.

These days, as I cry my way through personal and public conversations, wherein I cannot be dispassionate, but refuse to be quiet, I have tried to find something else too; power. My tears are a culmination of experiencing trauma and victimization, being in touch with how I feel about that, and speaking up. While my audience may see and hear me cry, and respond to me as a hysterical women or tainted witness, I reject that narrative. My tears underscore lived experience, and they are not embarrassing or infantilizing. They demonstrate the strength to feel pain and not hide it, not a weakness to be covered up and dismissed to preserve social psychological comfort. But since power is by definition relational, no matter how I feel about my tears, to find power in them someone else has to acknowledge it. So I turn again to our mother Leah. Another approach to רכות is found in the Midrash Tanhuma. In this telling רך comes from ארוך meaning long. Leah’s eyes were ‘long,’ which the midrash understands to mean that she could see far into the future, “since God gave Leah gifts that continued for all time: the High Priesthood, the throne, and the anointing oil.”[2] (Midrash Tanhuma, Vayetze). It seems to me that Leah’s eyes are weak with tears, but also wise with knowledge. That this is a source of both pain/powerlessness, and the kind of strength it takes to become the backbone of a nation, rings true. Leah knew what it was to suffer. But she also knew what it was to build a future with her own hands, heart, and womb. Her tears mourn the past and look to the future. I cannot describe that “long” vision as only powerlessness. To me it seems the experience of powerlessness is transformed through the alchemy of her tears into the unimaginable power which has sustained the Jewish people against all odds. I hope that others can look at my tears and see power as well, even as I am learning to. But more deeply, I hope we can all stop labeling our basic humanity as weakness, and treat survivors with the respect all humans deserve. If we hold someone’s tears against them, or hide them from public discourse, we lose the very “long” vision and wisdom we need most. So whenever I feel pathologized, or condescended to on the basis of my tears, I will (endeavor to) look to our mother Leah. If she can cry, and still see the future, so can I. I hope we all can.

[1] Here I use the term ‘women’ to mean anyone experiencing socially assigned femaleness and consequent legal and interpersonal loss of agency, rights, or power. [2] In context it means her descendants had these gifts because of her merit, not that she personally experienced them. Reward and achievement here is intergenerational.