I don't understand people who don't — or worse, can't — cry. For the longest time, growing up, I felt I would never cry. I saw my parents that way too. My Dad, a man, would obviously never shed a tear. Yet, I had grown up hearing stories about how bitterly he had wept the night the doctor had informed him I wouldn't make it.
My mother? She's one notch higher. I saw her take in my grandmother's death with a face so stoic it scared me. Maybe because she is the oldest daughter. I have never asked, but I know, people who don't cry scare me.
I remember growing up thinking the only way to be strong was to never let anyone see me cry. When my dida passed away, my sister accidentally saw me cry in front of the mirror. It's a story she still tells everyone sometimes. Do you know what I did that day? I still went to school. I was 15.
When I came to college, I remember a close friend of mine called me up the night her father passed. I couldn't receive the call. The next day, when she burst into tears over phone, I remember breaking down like pieces. I cried so much, she was forced to ask: "Why are you crying more than me?" I had no answers.
Ever since, I have wept freely. I have wept in corners of my college. I have howled with borrowed grief. I have tried to control my threatening tears until the train passed. I have broken down in public places, with no one — and yet, too many people — to notice.
Very recently, a few other friends I have were telling me of their parents' health problems, and I don't know why tears threatened my eyes yet again. Why I cried so much on that one call with my friend after a breakup. To the child who grew up seeing two people who never cried, how did I become someone who cries so easily? I'll never know.
