I'm not one for crying buckets. I've felt depressed as hell, sure, but through the worst of it all not a single tear leaked out of my eye. I went something like four straight years without shedding a tear, once.
Well, stop the presses, here's some breaking news.
I actually cried, dammit. I cried, at my job, over something that happened six years ago and that still shakes me to the core today.
My summer job involves teaching middle school students, for the uninitiated. Each morning we have a little something called "Morning Inspiration", and a different person each day is responsible for bringing something in that inspires them to be who they are, to teach the way they do. At first I had thought about bringing in Taylor Mali's poem Miracle Workers, which I thought seemed like a reasonable choice--the man's a poet and a teacher, and we the teachers are supposed to work miracles for these kids. But what emotional impact did it have on me?
The short (and correct) answer: none at all.
Then my mind flitted to that Korean saying I have posted in my classroom, "Ha myeon dwen da" (you can accomplish anything). I threw that out soon after, remembering how much my tae kwon do instructor used that phrase (and subsequently how irritating it got for me).
But then it hit me like a ton of bricks--the little voice in my head smacked me and shouted, "Hey, stupid, your grandpa wrote a freakin' book. Surely that counts for something!"
Sure as hell does.
The book, which was originally written in Korean, is titled (roughly translated) to "Do You Know What it Means to Fight For My Country?" It tells of my grandfather's experiences joining the Korean army at the age of 19, as well as actually fighting in the Korean War in the early '50s against impossible odds. I still can't read it, since I don't know enough Korean, but this is what my dad tells me.
But what inspired me so much about this book was this last bit: he fought, won, and lived to tell the tale 50 years later against impossible odds. My class is a pretty impossible group to manage--to teach some of them anything at all would be a pretty tall order. And my little blurb was that, if HE could triumph against impossible odds, so could we.
And then the floodgates opened.
This book was published only two months after my grandfather passed away 6 years ago on July 4, 2004.
Since that day, I've graduated high school, completed my first year of college, been in an a cappella group, played an incredibly difficult piano piece, performed in a couple of plays, and made a few thousand on another game show. I've also grown by half a foot and gone from a soprano to a bass in a couple of years.
Six years have passed, and all these things have happened. My grandfather was not present for a single one of them.
And it was all because of a fucking bike accident.
Sure, I cried a river at the funeral. But after that I never cried at all, not for four years straight. The time I finally snapped was at an acting camp--I suppose we were all being overdramatic about things, but knowing that I wouldn't be back to some amazing place ever again saddened me deeply. Grandpa got no tears from me for a long time. At least, until today.
Some people say they've "had a good cry" when they emerge from the bathroom, eyes puffy and nose clogged. For that time in between my crying spells--let's call it my "tear drought"--I could never understand how a crying session could be "good."
It's an emotional release. I've had many pent-up emotions over the years--times I wished I was able to cry, but never did--that my tears from today finally flushed out. It was these moments, these moments where others were crying when I wasn't, that made me feel less human. Was I just a stonefaced sonuvabitch who couldn't care less about your fucking problems and sob stories? Did I need the Tin Man to sell me a damn heart?
Well, no. At least I can make it rain, and let the plants grow in its wake.
