One man’s quest to have male crying be socially acceptable

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On a flight home, I feared a full-blown migraine headache was kicking in. The ache behind my eyes bulged and throbbed, as if a golf ball were lodged there.

I had been reading a novel and reached a part where two brothers, once deeply committed to each other, experienced a profound fissure. The thought that this could someday happen with my own brother, whom I loved fiercely, unraveled me. Before I knew it, I was sobbing, all-out chesty heaves and whimpers. My girlfriend stared out the window with set, narrowed eyes. Nearby passengers and attendants stole glances my way.

If this wasn’t enough of a surprise – I hadn’t cried in 19 years, since I was 11 – I did something that unwittingly became one of the most important acts of my life.

I stared back.

I made sure they saw my bloodshot eyes. They were going to have to turn away first.

I had always worked hard to put strangers at ease. Those stare-downs on the plane had filled me with the same adrenaline rush I got from confronting people who butted into lines or talked during movies.

Not healthy?

On the first warm April day in 2007, my sister called to tell me that our father had died. I wanted to be the first in my family to get to him. For two years I had spoon-fed him, held his hand, whispered in his ear that I loved him.

When I found my father, he was still wearing his glasses. I removed them, careful to leave the dandruff dusting on the lenses, and tried to close his mouth. I kissed the radiation scars on his forehead and sat down on the bed, holding his hand. It was still warm.

For a year and a half after that everything set off tears. At one point a therapist I was seeing said: “Look, if you’re still crying every day the next time I see you, you’re going on an antidepressant. This just isn’t healthy anymore.”

That was when it hit me. “I don’t want to stop crying,” I said. “It feels sacred.” Crying was the good fight.

When I cried in public, I refused to hide it – not at funerals, not at the movies when the house lights came up. I was on the offensive and made sure that guys of all ages saw my bloated eyes after a good cry. I wanted them to confront, if only for seconds, the notion that the depth of men’s emotional lives can exist beyond the world of sports.

Tough it out

In 2011 my son, Macallah, was born, and I suddenly feared the impact of my crying. As a first-time parent and an educator who was painfully aware of the bullying epidemic, a new fear crossed my mind: Should I teach my young son to follow my path toward vulnerability? The very thing I had fought so long for could have menacing repercussions for my child.

One day last October, my family attended my wife’s high school reunion. A family event preceded the evening party, and Macallah found a 5-year-old playmate. A beanbag-tossing game lapsed into a mash-up of hugging and wrestling until one of them, usually Macallah, fell down. At one point, Macallah threw his arms around the much taller boy and rested his head against his shoulders. His eyes closed, and a beatific smile crested his face. The older boy looked disoriented, then a grimace emerged as he lifted Macallah and threw him to the ground.

Macallah struggled to get up. His eyes widened in hurt and confusion. Then came the tears. He looked to me as I was talking to a mother in her 30s. “You’re OK, little man,” she said. “Tough it out.”

Macallah looked at the woman, then at me. I got down on my knee. I hugged him.

“It’s OK,” I whispered. “Go ahead and cry if you need to.” Macallah lifted his arm to wipe away the tears. I intercepted and gently pulled his arm to his side. This was the toughing it out I wanted my son to learn.