Big Boys Do Cry: Losing, Living, and Letting Go

This week I endured one of the greatest and most biting losses of my young life. After hours and hours of dedicated companionship, I was forced to strike down my closest friend with my own hand. That’s right. I shaved my beard. Of course, we’ve all endured horrific losses. Whether it is the cold, steely scrape of a Gillette ProGlide razor or the torrent of tears that marks the passing of your second-grade turtle (R.I.P. Courage), we have all endured loss. Sadness passes as does life and just about everything else one can imagine. But how are we to confront the reality of loss? Does weakness consist in the teardrop? Or is the salty tear the muscularity of the soul?
To provide a personal example I know when my own relatives have passed, I’ve felt compelled to cry and yet haven’t. Why? Because the modern conception of the man is of a “manly man.” If you can’t bare knuckle brawl your way through the toughest bar in Bikini Bottom, if you didn’t eat a bowl of nails for breakfast (without any milk), then you probably aren’t even really a man. You’re clearly some sort of low-down, effeminate freak who likes show tunes (love ‘em), long walks on the beach, and playing with your Barbies after a long day of getting your French Tips touched up. I’m even ashamed to say that at my own mom’s passing, I held back my tears more often than not.

Now, don’t misread what I’m saying. I’m not some gender theorist who thinks that gender is entirely a social construct and that we need to tear down the oppressive patriarchy of societal expectation in an attempt to unisexualize the world. But I am saying that elements of gendered expectations are constructed. For example, biologically men tend to be stronger than women. They often have a greater capacity for size and strength. That is not a societal construct. The notion that women love pink and that men don’t is, at least partially, a construct. How do I know this? Because, as I type this sentence, I’m wearing a pink cardigan. And you know what? It’s comfortable and stylish (crucify me).

Does this all mean I’ve never seen a man cry? Absolutely not. Not only have I done it, but I’ve seen many a man do it. The problem is not that anyone would fault a male for crying at a funeral; the problem is that certain expectations surround the grieving experience. I know it’s been my duty to be there to support my family and friends when our mutual relatives or friends die. Am I expected only to grieve alone? Or can I be both supportive and engage in the twisted catharsis that is grief? Well, I’m a pretty skinny guy, but I like to have my cake and eat it too.
I think that we can learn from the example of St. Augustine. He was the manliest of the manly. He rooted out heresy, wrote some of the most important texts in the Western canon, partied like every member of an 80s rock band combined, and still found time to grow one of the bushiest, meanest beards of all time. When his mother died, he resisted grief. In fact, when St. Monica died he says it was “the man’s voice of…[his]…heart” that dammed the surge of tears he was about to release. He admits that he wept, but states that he was ashamed to do so: “Let anyone read it who will, and judge it as he will…that I wept over my mother for a brief part of a single hour.” No matter how hard he tried to hold it back, the grief came. And if he can cry and experience what is clearly an unavoidable human emotion, why can’t we? So let’s be men of tears; men who aren’t afraid of ourselves (or the color pink). Not only do real men wear pink, but big boys (God help me for going here) do cry.