When Alex was three years old, I wrote an article for Martial Artists Wired, the title of which I forget but the content I do not. It revolved around an epiphany of sorts I experienced while two young boys in the dojang were sparring. They were both under ten years old; one was a couple of years younger than the other, and the younger of the two connected with the other’s nose with a solid punch. They both stopped—face contact among children has always been against our sparring rules—but it wasn’t an accidental infraction of the rules that stopped them, it was what may or may not come next.
The younger boy burst into tears; the older boy sucked it up.
Every male in the room had the same reaction: a cringe, a gritting of the teeth, and a pointed not-looking at the boy who was crying. It was a message every boy over ten years old in that room knew: don’t cry. Whatever you do, you don’t cry, even when it hurts like hell. He knew it already; he steeled himself against the pain, and forced himself to be ready to continue fighting.
The younger boy, Char pulled off the floor to console. He was upset and distraught over hurting someone else, and he was still young enough that the tears came easily.
I watched all of this happen, and was instantly both fascinated and ashamed. I left my wife to console a crying child, and I fully accepted that the older boy would not/should not cry. At his age, he had already adopted the mask of masculinity, and would not cry in front of his peers no matter what. I was ashamed because I not only understood it, I did not disagree with it.
At least, I didn’t disagree with it until the weight of it unfolded in front of me. I had a three year old son who was quite open with his feelings. He cried when he was hurt, he cried if someone else was hurt. Any time his baby sister was hurt, he cried. His tears came easily and naturally, and at the time I appreciated his sensitivity. When I realized my complicity in how those boys I was teaching were hardening themselves, I wanted to do better for my son.
Never did I want my kids to hear me say the words big boys don’t cry. At the same time, it wasn’t as easy as I supposed to let my sons know that having emotions is not a thing to be ashamed of; the few times in their lives I have cried they were either too young to have made note, or the situation—when my father died—was one in which anyone would cry. I didn’t hide it from them, but they also never really saw it beyond that one time.
In the aftermath of Char’s accident, those first hours when I really didn’t know if she would live or die, my son came straight out and reminded me it was all right to cry. I was on the edge of tears all the time, yet it took permission from a 13 year old to push me over the edge. So clearly, my kids were not learning through my example. I tend to hold as tightly as the next guy, and I did wonder from the time to time if I had failed miserably, because my oldest son had lost the easiness with his feelings over the years.
He is sensitive and caring, but he sucks it up. Like every man out there, he sucks it up.
This afternoon I took him to purchase textbooks for the upcoming semester, and on the way home an SUV passed us; the rear passenger window was open and their dog was riding happily with his head hanging out the window, tongue flapping in the breeze, and it made us both laugh.
It was a beautiful Golden Retriever, and after a moment of amusement, Alex leaned forward with his head on his knees, and started crying harder than I’ve seen him cry since he was four or five years old.
He was reminded too vividly of Stoner, and misses him desperately. He’s been gone just a little less than a year, and while Alex cried when Stoner died, it was only a few tears that he couldn’t hold back, and as soon as he could, he stopped. He gritted his teeth against the sorrow, and swallowed it whole.
We had Stoner cremated, and I assumed that when Spring rolled around, Alex would be ready to bury his ashes, but the urn has been on a shelf in Alex’s room since then. He hasn’t been ready; he still isn’t ready, and today was testament to how tightly he still holds onto that dog who was truly his best friend.
I was upset and sad when Stoner died, but I’d lived a life without him in it, and I knew that sooner or later that upset would pass and the goofy things Stoner used to do would do nothing but make me smile. I understood that in canine terms he was an old, old man and had lived long and had been happy. Alex never saw me cry when Stoner died because I just didn’t. Whether he took that as meaning he should not, I don’t know, but today he was wrecked with grief, and I had to pull the car over to give him some time.
I may not have cried for Stoner, but I can certainly cry for my son and his pain. Because, really, there is very little in life that can pull your heart apart like seeing your child in agony, no matter how tall he gets or how mature he seems.
He has to understand, real men do cry, even if it’s at the side of the road, even if it’s for no other reason than one of his reasons for living is hurting so, so much.
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