Why are we so interested in Theresa May's tears?

Bad governments, like struggling football teams, have tendency to become chronically unlucky. Not much of what happened to Prime Minister Theresa May in her conference speech was her fault: lax security that allowed a comedian to make the occasion a joke; lettering falling apart behind her; a never-ending coughing fit. Another politician—Jeremy Corbyn, a man whose good fortune now seems untouchable, maybe—would have shrugged these problems away. For Theresa May, they now seem less like eventualities and more like death omens. Gone is the woman who would crush the saboteurs. Now she’s just poor Theresa; weeping Theresa.

The fact remains that image matters as much as policies. There was a reason to believe that Corbynism wouldn’t have survived the association with Corbyn himself; yet, during the elections, it was proven that it wouldn’t have worked without him. Similarly, Theresa May’s image was once the Tories’ greatest asset. It’s now a problem.

A lot has been said about Theresa May entering a “Gordon Brown phase.” To put it simply, people are beyond hating her; she’s now an object of pity. There are similarities, of course: like May, Brown’s Labour had become chronically unlucky, to the point there were actual car crash sounds in the background as he launched a new poster.

Yet there is also a crucial difference. Pitying Brown was never be seen as something that could help him. If anything, feeling sorry for Brown only encouraged the media to be harsher—at one point, it was even implied that he was unfit for the job of Prime Minister if, as the press speculated based on a list of foods Brown wished to avoid, he was on antidepressants. His unhappiness was another piece of political gossip for the press to pick over, not something we should feel bad about. Likewise, Ed Miliband, a man who spent his leadership followed by the slight whistle of backstabber, was never meant to be seen as sympathetic in his “weirdness.”

It’s not cynical at this point to wonder what’s behind the subtle cues that we should feel sorry for May. Commentators point out that it’s hardnot to feel sorryfor her. Perhaps it is, but it feels strange to be told of her fragility. May isn’t struggling because she’s a frail woman; she’s struggling because she’s embraced a dogmatic view of Brexit, immigration and austerity that left her nowhere to go when it backfired electorally. But putting her gender aside is impossible.

Sexism is a curious thing: it depersonalizes women in very particular ways. Theresa May’s career started in the shadow of another woman—Margaret Thatcher—who was supposed to be something of an inspiration. May, too, was meant to be an obstinate Iron Lady. Thatcher was proud of the fact that she was not like other men and women, famously saying she “owed nothing” to the women’s liberation movement. She posited herself as neither a sister-in-arms nor one of boys, but simply an outstanding politician—yet she was not above using gender roles as well when she saw fit. Neither, as it happens, is Theresa May; it might seem like a long distant memory, but she was once called “Mummy” by her own ministers and talked about how her and her husband so “boy” and “girls” jobs. But Thatcher never stumbled; May did. If May is not an astounding enough politician to be above things like gender—as Thatcher believed herself to be—then what is she? An average woman.

Out, then, come then the stories about the tears. We must find out if Theresa May cried. She was “on the edge of a breakdown,” according to the Times.  A headline from LBC tells us that she “admits” she cried over Grenfell. She was, the Sun tells us, offered resilience training due to her tears.

This obsession with tracking women’s tears isn’t uncommon and it cuts across political lines. Nicola Sturgeon, who also took a hit during the election, had her body language analyzed to see if she cracked. Angela Merkel, another woman who had unfortunate times in election, generated a similar curiosity by British commentators on Twitter. Ousted Brazilian President, Dilma Rousseff, who had a reputation for toughness, spent most of her impeachment procedures having the press ask whether or not she would show humility. Sympathy, however, is not quite on the table for everyone. Diane Abbott generated less hand-wringing about how it’s “impossible” not to feel sorry for her until the full extent of the abuse she receives was revealed in recent analysis. Most Labour MPs have got the hysteria treatment that underlines stories about May’s tears. Not many of them received sympathy.

Politics is a brutal business, and though we might wish for a gentler, kinder one in the future, something of the struggle will always remain; the brutal grind of choosing whose interests and livelihoods are a priority. Feeling bad for Theresa May is human and maybe even positive—there’s not much to be gained by seeing politicians as monsters—but who and, most importantly, how people get to be pitied remains, as always, highly selective.