The crying game

by RAF KATIGBAK

What makes a man a man? According to the Internet, there are actual rules. Beyond the single physical requirement of having a wee-wee, there’s a code of conduct that all manly men are supposed to obey. The rules range from general (e.g. “Bros before hos”) to the quite specific (“Thou shalt never share an umbrella with another man” or “If fast dancing is absolutely necessary, a man may never raise his hands above shoulder level”). Of course, being socialized by four older sisters, I was completely unaware of these unwritten laws and so commit egregious unmanly errors on a continual basis. Unlike true men, I have cats, I have enjoyed fruity alcoholic beverages in a non-tropical location and I can sing along to a surprising variety of Andrew Lloyd Webber numbers. I am by most counts what many males would call a “total pussy.”

However, there is one manly thing I do excel in: crying. Or, more precisely, not crying. One cardinal rule of manhood is that real men don’t cry. Well, there are actually two circumstances in which crying is permissible: 1) during a sports movie when the underdog triumphs against the odds and, 2) if lightning strikes you directly on your penis causing it to explode. Then it’s okay to shed a single tear and do that thing where you clench your jaw and let out a weird whiny sound for five seconds. Me? I don’t cry. It’s not that I don’t want to cry—in fact, I would love to just bawl my friggin’ eyes out because it actually looks kind of awesome and cathartic. But it’s just that I can’t. Maybe it’s because I don’t process sadness like normal people, or maybe I have a malfunction in my eyeballs. But no matter what I do, tears just don’t flow.

Last weekend, I had the chance to try it again. My friend O. invited me to a sound event he put together called “The Sorrow of the World.” The Facebook description read thusly: “The idea is to record approximately 40 people collectively crying, wailing and emotionally ‘letting go.’ The recording will take place in the dark and without an audience. Participants will be asked to temporarily forget about identity and join in spontaneously with the group’s screams, howls and lamentations without offering any hints of language or nationality.”

To say I didn’t have reservations about the experience would be a lie. The idea of being trapped in a room full of snivelling and blubbering people was not my idea of an awesome Saturday night. But I figured, just like sticking things up your butt, you never know what it’s all about until you try, and who knows, maybe a room full of sad saps wailing away would set off a chain reaction that would force tears out of my own eyes, kind of like that puke scene in Stand By Me.

So there I found myself Saturday night, in a recording studio in the Mile-End, sitting cross-legged in heavy pitch-blackness, surrounded by 47 friends, strangers and acquaintances, waiting for O.’s countdown. He had given us a few minutes of silence to collect our thoughts and to “channel some of the pain of others.” Images of war, genocide, murder, death and tragedy filled my mind like a fucked up collage. I remembered the sadness I heard in my mother’s voice when she talked about her father, who after a long battle with cancer was not expected to survive the week, and I quietly held onto that feeling. I was ready. We all were ready. Sitting. Waiting to cry. Five…four…three…two…one…

Nothing. No blubbering, no wheezing, no wailing, not even a sniffle, just complete silence for what seemed like an eternity. Just when I was desperately wondering who was going to break the silence, it began. A girl across the room began quietly whimpering and I clearly remember remarking how her soft heaving sounds were reminiscent of someone in the throes of carnal passion. I was at once excited and embarrassed by the thought. Then it grew, slowly picking up steam around the room until it crescendoed into a cacophonous symphony of lamentation. Screaming, wailing, howling—there was something excited, frantic, almost sexual about it. Men and women let themselves go and even worked off each other, call and response, gasping, moaning. No tears would come, but I decided to give in to it and began screaming like a banshee, enraptured by the moment. It was then that I thought of adding an appendage to the rules of manhood: It’s okay to cry if it gives you a total boner.

That’s kinda manly…right?

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA