When Is It Okay for a Man to Cry?

/ Essay, Family, Life, Thoughts

Men are known as the less emotional sex; they are supposed to be bastions of stability; the rock in the middle of a storm; unflappably cool no matter what the circumstance. Of course, it’s not wrong for men to get emotional. It’s unhealthy to keep one’s feelings bottled up and shoved deep down inside. But when is it okay for a man to display his emotions through crying?

You’ve heard the song I’m Not in Love, by 10cc. Midway through, we hear, “Be quiet, big boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry…” and on and on. Well, I’m here to tell you, this boy cries. And worse, over the course of the past few years, I find myself crying more than ever. I looked up male menopause (yes, it’s real) and there it was, “A common symptom of midlife in men is to suddenly become more emotional. Men who have felt very little emotion for years find themselves moved to tears at movies or find a lump in their throat when thinking about their family.”

The History of the Man Cry

So, I did a little homework.

Men have always cried. Yet the acceptability of male crying has varied across time and across culture. There are many references to man tears in ancient Greek and Roman culture. In Homer’s The Iliad, there is no conflict between Odysseus’ heroic qualities and the inclusion of many episodes of his weeping for home, loved ones, and fallen comrades. Yet Odysseus never breaks down out of loneliness or frustration, which the ancient Greeks did not feel were acceptable reasons for men to cry. They also expected warriors to understand that there were times when public displays of emotion were acceptable, and times when it was appropriate to cry alone. Odysseus frequently tries to hide his tears from those around him.

I helped Alex write a report on this guy! We compared him to Spiderman. What?

The Old Testament is similarly replete with references to weeping. The ancient Hebrews wept as part of their supplications to God and before going to battle. The Gospel writers did not feel that tears were a threat to either the manhood or godhood of Christ and dutifully recorded that “Jesus wept.” Perhaps drawing inspiration from this emotional display, early church thinkers considered tears a gift and a natural accompaniment to spiritual, even transcendent, experiences. The great theologian Thomas Aquinas, like the ancient Greeks, made the distinction between the very public weeping that had characterized Hebraic culture, and the idea that it was frequently best to cry away from people’s prying eyes.

Medieval Japanese and European epics are chock full of male crying. The great warriors in both Beowulf and The Tale of Heiki cry buckets over both great spiritual questions and the death of comrades. The warriors in such stories are expected to cry about issues of war, peace, and ideals, while the women weep over their romantic and platonic relationships or out of general sadness, loneliness, or frustration.

A permissive, even celebratory attitude toward male crying prevailed through the Romantic Era. Popular culture was full of sentimental literature and art featuring men and women falling into each other’s arms and bathing one another with their tears. Tears were seen as proof of a man’s sincerity, honesty, and integrity. But the Enlightenment ushered in a more rational ideal of manhood. Tears came to be seen not as an unmitigated virtue, but as sometimes manipulative, illogical, and false.

During the Victorian Era, those virtues thought to be exclusively feminine in nature were celebrated. Women were seen as dainty and fragile, full of emotion and love. Tears have always had a vulnerable and submissive quality to them and began to be seen as more befitting a woman than a man. As the 20th century emerged, the ideal of the tearless male emerged with it.

The Man Cry Today

Culture’s view of male crying has continued to evolve into our day. While we still expect men to cry less than women, in some cases it has now become more acceptable for a man to cry than a woman. But hang on.

“It was okay to get scared, and it was okay to get depressed, and it was okay to cry and scream and mourn my health and get it out of my system. I thought I had to be a brave soldier … I always found that I felt better about everything after a really good cry. I felt as though I got rid of some toxicity, that I got rid of some of the pain and the mourning.” — Gilda Radner, It’s Always Something, 1989.

Dick Vermeil was a football coach known for wearing his heart on his sleeve. He cried all the time: at press conferences, during speeches, when he cut a player, when he traded a player, when his team lost, when his team won. Yet his crying was never born of selfishness, or a woe is me attitude. He cried because he loved the game, and he loved his players. “If you don’t invest very much, then defeat doesn’t hurt very much, and winning is not very exciting,” he once said.

This leaves men in a gray area when it comes to crying in the modern age. Some people these days encourage men to let loose whenever the urge hits. Some adhere to the “you can’t squeeze tears from a stone” philosophy. I think the key to male crying lies somewhere between these two edicts. A man need not be perpetually stoic. There are, of course, times when we feel sorrow or frustration so acutely that it must be let out. Yet there’s a balance between being so sensitive that a Hallmark commercial can make you weep, shedding some tears over something truly significant. Just as there is a balance between releasing some man-tears and turning into the kind of blubbering mess that makes everyone feel uncomfortable. Here are some appropriate and inappropriate times for a man to cry.

  1. The death of a loved one. There are few things more painful than the thought of separation from those dearest to our hearts.
  2. The death of your beloved pet. A pet can feel like a member of the family. Whether a horse or dog, the bond between a man and his faithful animal runs deep.
  3. When you first see the new life you created. Many a man has found himself choked up as he cradles his newborn child. Let’s put a pin in this one and circle back.
  4. While watching any of the following movies:
  1. Telling the woman you have loved forever that you want to spend the rest of your life with her. (I live in a world of dreams. But, just in case, I have the place picked out. The woman too because Harry was spot on when he told Sally, “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”)

When It’s Not Okay for a Man to Cry

  1. When those around you are looking to you as a source of calmness and strength. Sometimes people need you to be a rock.
  2. When your favorite sports team loses. I am a lifelong Jets fan. I am emotionless. Enough said. 
  3. To the point of irrational thinking or paralysis when you have a job to do. I wanted to strangle Upham in Saving Private Ryan when he cried in the stairwell while his fellow soldier was being killed. When you have a job to do, get it together. But truth be told, I would have done the same.
  4. When you don’t get your way. Little boys cry when they don’t get what they want. Men are disappointed but resilient. I’m not being flip here, but I’m used to it.
  5. When you’re frustrated. Crying because you are overwhelmed and don’t know what to do is just another excuse. You don’t have the strength to think of a solution, so you cry just so you don’t have to think at all. Man, up and figure out your next move.
  6. In baseball. There’s no crying in baseball!

I’ve Been Crying for Two Weeks

Alex graduated from college this past weekend. Of course, I went all nostalgic and studied photographs of him as a baby. (I told you we’d be coming back to this). I don’t know how a parent can ever be prouder of a child. It was a privilege watching him grow every day and every night. And yes, in my mind, he will always remain the 5-year-old I drove to school and while every other parent dropped his or her child off at the drop-off line and drove away, we parked and walked hand in hand to the front door. I cried. Alex cried. A teacher on the inside opened the door and told Alex to walk into the cafeteria and wait until the bell rings. It was like sending him off to war every day. I should have been a little more mature about it, but I just loved spending every second with him.

I picked him up from Hebrew School, coached him in rec basketball for ten years, and gave him a bath every night. We watched Yankee games, New York Jet games, and Miami Heat games. He named his first basketball team the Fireballs after seeing the Heat logo on the floor of a home game. He said, “It’s a fireball.” We saw the Heat and the Yankees win championships and the Jets, well, once again this looks like their year. When he was unceremoniously cut from his 8th-grade varsity basketball team, I took him out of afternoon classes, and we drowned our sorrows with an extra-large banana split. We played pool baseball, basketball, and football. I helped him with school projects, tests, and homework. I taught him to ride his bike, to have respect, and to lose gracefully. (Well, I coached him for 10 years in West Boca Basketball. We both learned how to lose. Our expectations were limited. So, how great was it during our championship run? Even if it was only one season). And years later, we drove to high school, listening to ESPN radio. Those 2.5-mile, 8 to10 minute drives to the school revealed what he was worried about for the coming day. In those minutes, he spilled his anxieties and excitement about what was to come. He’d give me insights about his classmates and teachers more often than not. I’d even find out if he got in minor trouble, those little things that don’t justify punishment or a call home and would be easy enough for him to never tell me. But in the safety of my SUV, he spoke to me. Really talked.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like he gave me the silent treatment otherwise. Occasionally he’d plop down at the kitchen table to chat. And we had family dinners most nights. But as a teenager, he was pulling away a little more each day. He no longer gave me the blow-by-blow, as he did in kindergarten.

It gave me a chance to listen and get to know him better. To understand him a little more. And enjoy a few precious moments together each day before we headed off on our separate ways. It wasn’t something. It was everything.

My divorce was ugly. Not for her. The Narc kicked my ass. Everything she had been promising for years, she did. Screw the co-parenting agreement. Who’s going to know? Me? Her? My attorney? The judge who ordered it? Her attorney? Oh, her attorney. This guy was like Giuliani, telling her to ignore it. “Tell everyone, you have sole custody. Keep him away from his weekly visits. They are teenagers. They have better things to do than see him. Tell the boys he was a monster and you’re a victim. Tell them he did not pay child support. They’ll never know. As soon as I get you control of the Florida Pre-Pay that his mother set up for their college education, tell them you and only you are paying it. Keep him away. He’ll take you to court, but we will keep changing the date and as soon as Alex turns 18, he is technically an adult, so you make sure they hate him for the loser he is.”

Okay. I have no idea if he said that. In fact, I’m certain he did not. However, that is how things played out so, in that playground in my mind, that is what I continue to hear. But it got worse from there. I’m weak. Not much of a fighter. The Narc? All she wanted to do was fight. Always. My opinion did not matter. Her sister’s opinion? That mattered. In fact, whatever her sister did or said mattered. And it was not always good. On our first date, she explained how her nephew became a Bar Mitzvah in Israel. “She paid for my parents to attend. She never asked me. She could have paid for me. I needed to be there. But everything is always about her. When my father offered to pay for me, she said that I was not welcome.” (Years later, her sister gave me a toned-down version which seemed to make a little more sense but let’s stick with The Narc’s version for now).

She ignored and disregarded everything we agreed to. She did exactly as instructed by her attorney. I paid child support. She told family, friends, and teachers I did not. We had a co-parenting agreement. She told our sons she had sole custody. And worse? The paperwork states, “In the best interest of the children, neither parent shall demean, belittle, criticize, or disparage one another to the children.” I’m here to tell you she demeaned, belittled, criticized, and disparaged me to both of our sons. Let’s add slandered, libeled, discredited, and spoke ill of.

The Narc passed away two years ago. Before she died, she made sure that her sister kept both boys away from me. And let me tell you, she did a terrific job. I wanted to see Alex at college for the last four years. Oh, how I wanted to get passed everything, but I did not. I texted him and texted him and texted him. Birthdays, holidays, when I was thinking of him. Always making the texts short and reminding him that I love him. I sent him birthday and holiday cards with checks. The checks were never cashed. “What college kid could not use a couple of hundred bucks?” I wondered. So, here’s a good conclusion. The sister must take those cards out of the mailbox, laugh, and throw them away. (Isn’t that a federal offense?)

The Narc’s sister’s husband is a doctor. Two of the three children are doctors. I was told the third child is a dentist. There was never any question in The Narc’s mind that Alex would be a doctor, I don’t believe either of us was consulted. I know, it could be worse. Her sister could have married an Ape Urine Collector and well, let’s just be happy she did not.

What Now?

 I don’t know. I move forward. I pray. I pray Alex one day wants to know the truth or at least my side. Maybe one day, he’ll ask himself why he has no relationship with my family. I’m not dead. The people he’s with will always remind him how his mother was one of the greatest people who ever lived and if it comes up, his father was a worthless piece of shit who’s not even worth his time. For the record, she was the poster child of narcissism. The problem is that I had no idea what was going on. Waking me up in the middle of the night to yell at me after reading my texts or my e-mails or if she found nothing, well, that opened the door to her hatred of my mother. My mother. A woman despised by two people. The first was a nasty man. He married her sister and well, let’s just say he shared many of the same characteristics as my ex. The other? You guessed it. The Narc. It was only after all the years of trying to satisfy The Narc’s crazy whims that she finally said, “Enough.” But by that point, dementia began taking over her mind. On a good day, I would remind her how she not only gave me Linda’s phone number but after a few dates when I said she was not for me, she and my father insisted on meeting her and then that I marry her. As I said, I am not terribly strong, and Linda and my parents strong-armed me into something I never wanted. But it was never about me. Linda was going to be a bride and my dad was dying and wanted one more kick-ass party. They both got their wishes.

I miss Alex. I miss both boys every day. (I know. They are young men but they will always be my boys). I know it’s about putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. But it’s hard. I know I’m not the greatest human being who ever walked the planet. But I also know, I’m far from who I was when The Narc beat the crap out of me day after day after day and worse. Night after Night after Night.

How does a narcissist destroy you?

I stood by and watched as she managed to convince joint friends and other community members and family members that I am the crazy one and she is the victim, of her masterful manipulation strategies. People were hoodwinked and did not even realize it. My name was slandered. Most days I feel alone, humiliated, discouraged, disheartened, and vengeful.

Was it totally necessary for her to take the kids with her? Yes. She had to. Isn’t it bad enough, that after I gained the strength and courage to leave the narcissist, and after I’ve already lost my self-worth, my youth, my time, most of my money, my sanity, and whatever else I lost because of being in a narcissistic relationship, now I must lose my kids too? It just isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.

When a narcissist disappears from your life, they leave destruction in their wake. Through their love bombing, gaslighting, and manipulation, they’ve managed to turn you into a shell of your former self, with no clear way back to who you once were.

Her family? They have successfully strong-armed me out of my son’s life. The Narc was never going to allow me to have a life with them. She knew if I did, she would not win. And that’s what this narcissistic game is all about. Winning and losing. They are completely binary. So, they either win or lose. But there is no winning because narcissists will not stop until the mission is completed. Somewhere The Narc’s sister is aware that my sons can never talk to me. She must maintain her legacy.

I lost. I stood up as best I could to her disgusting stupidity and brutality, but I did not, of course, manage to beat her at her own game. It was a fight to the bitter end, one in which I was not defending ideals or beliefs but simply my own self. And now that she’s gone, her family feels this need to kick me harder than she did. How terribly sad!

I will continue to miss Alex and Andrew. Every day. I will continue to be proud of them and I will continue to pray for them. I will continue to practice acceptance. I won’t dwell on the negativity of it all. Narcissists do nothing but create a vortex of drama that leads your life into a cesspool. I continue to drag myself out of the cesspool and land on solid ground, where peace and sunshine abound. I cannot allow the narcissist to steal my joy, even if she managed to manipulate my children into her web of deception and ugliness.

As for crying? Well, what’s clear is that after I cry, I feel better. My face and shoulders are more relaxed. I feel a little lighter and more energized. Sometimes I find myself smiling or even dancing. I’ve looked for studies on increased emotionality or sensitivity in older men and haven’t found anything conclusive. The research I’ve seen tells me that as we grow older, women are more likely to be empathetic than men. I don’t know. Perhaps social scientists will eventually find a way to exhaustively quantify the changes. Right now, though, it’s important simply to know what I and other men are seeing and feeling. We are more willing to admit to and feel the terrible pain of our losses; to weep in celebration of our own and other’s loving connections; to know and feel the threat that individual and collective greed and selfishness, and the fear that feeds them, pose to all of us and to generations beyond us. That our tender emotions are hopeful signs, not of weakness or pathology, but of a necessary and welcome growth — in our compassion, wholeness, and, perhaps, our wisdom.

I cry when I think about Alex and Andrew and all that lost time. We never get back time. But if Alex answered one of my texts and met me one day for coffee, I don’t even know what I’d say, but boy would that be a start. For now, I must watch Eddie and Jamie from Blue Bloods get married again. That always brings about a good cry.