Boys Don't Cry

Jan 8 2020

We grew up simply knowing

boys don't cry.

That real men were stoical.

That when our fathers were sad

after dinner each night

they would quietly slip away,

to a den, workshop, basement bar

and close the door behind them.

The things men do in silence

sight unseen.

That you were a team player,

so when the others taunted the sensitive boys

with suck it up, buttercup

and don't be a girl

you gladly went along;

reluctant, at first,

but then didn't take long to learn.

That the singing cowboy had it right

with dust gets in your eye,

as he lowered his hat

and turned away

and brushed a hand to his face.

           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I think of the artist

who left her tears to dry

then closely observed the patterns,

the hidden landscape

of crystals and fats

on scraps of blotting paper.

So, can the chemistry of tears

tell sadness from joy?

Snow-blind, from overwhelmed?

Obstructed duct, from fleck of dust

from lovers' last farewell?

           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last time I cried

was a movie about a dog.

Because I have always been touched

by the suffering of animals;

but otherwise, keep it to myself.

An unused muscle

that weakens
and then wastes.

But I still remember weeping,

the giving-in

the breaking dam

the abject surrender,

reverting to that little boy

who was so easily undone.

The tears

on the tip of his tongue,

their mix of salt and sweet.

The perverse pleasure

of the warm immersive wetness.

How it felt

to be betrayed, misused, bereft;

the hot piss of self-pity,

the flush of self-righteousness.

There were no formal lessons.

Suppression

was simply in the air

imbibed like mother's milk.

So he grew into the real man

he aspired to become,

who feels his pain as keenly

as the boy once did,

but struggles to weep
as strong as he is.

Ian Tyson is the troubadour, and the song is Cowboys Don't Cry. Marley and Me is the movie. I've actually cried at lots of movies since, but I don't think ever as intensely as when the dog dies.

I actually cry pretty easily. Mostly at movies. But never (ever!) in public.

There was a coincidence of tears today.

First, I was listening to Terry Gross (of NPR's Fresh Air) interview Peggy Orenstein on her recent book Boys & Sex.

(https://podcasts.google.com/?feed=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnByLm9yZy9yc3MvcG9kY2FzdC5waHA_aWQ9MzgxNDQ0OTA4&episode=ZTM4ZTY5ODctYjdjZi00NGFlLWI1NzQtOGVlMDRhNzU1NDZl&hl=en-CA&ved=2ahUKEwiY-NyFpvXmAhUCb60KHUEfCPIQieUEegQICxAG&ep=6&at=1578531006134)

She speaks with teenage boys about their attitudes to sex and relationships with girls. One subject that came up in the conversation is how boys are strictly socialized not to cry.

Orenstein also has an article in the Jan 2020 Atlantic (The Miseducation of the American Boy) adapted from the same book. (https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/01/the-miseducation-of-the-american-boy/603046/)

Later, I read a review (in the New Yorker) of The Crying Book by poet Heather Christle . This is where I got the fascinating bit about the artist (actually a photographer, whose name is Rose-Lynn Fisher) who looked at dried tears under the microscope, revealing their hidden landscapes. (https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-crying-book-reveals-how-tears-can-help-us-and-how-they-cant) What struck me most, though, was the observation that humans are unique among all animals in that we cry tears not just as a result of injury or for basic lubrication, but as a response to emotion and as a form of social signalling. So perhaps it's not language and abstract thought that make us human; perhaps it's simply the ability to cry.