Boys Can Cry

We need to create safe spaces at schools and homes where frank conversations can happen without judgement

- Priyali Sur

IN June 2021, as the pandemic forced the world into virtual mode, as WhatsApp, Snapchat, TikTok and Instagram became our interface not just for human interactions but also for knowledge and information sharing, I gave birth to a beautiful boy. When I held my baby in my arms, I whispered, “I have no idea, absolutely no idea about how to raise you. About how to be the parent you deserve.” You see, I come from a family of girls. We are two sisters, my mom also has only sisters, and my sister too has only daughters. As a girl born and raised in patriarchal India, and as a journalist turned gender-rights activist, I knew what to tell my daughter. I knew how to prepare her to take on a sexist and misogynistic world. But a son! Those three letters were unknown territory to me.

Fast forward to March 2025, and I found myself gripped with that same fear, rather exponentially, as I sat watching the Netflix series Adolescence. As Jamie sat shaking and crying in the police van, asking for his dad, I imagined my son there. When the polite and shy 13-year-old suddenly changed character and shouted at his therapist in a burst of rage, I tensed up. My son is only about three now. But on a daily basis, he interacts with a world that tells him he has privilege because he is a male. And this signals to him that his emotions should be suppressed because “strong boys don’t cry”, which creates a false sense of entitlement in him with the message—“you can grab what you want without consent”. I worried about my baby boy. When he chose a pink yoga mat at gymnastics, he was told, “Arrey yeh toh ladkiyan use karti hai...tu toh ladka hai” (Girls use this...You are a girl). When he wore a bindi, he was asked, “Arrey, ab chudiyan bhi pehnoge kya?” (Will you wear bangles too?)