Boys Don’t Cry

SHI: I think one should not very hard on themselves. It is OK to go “soft and high-pitched” sometimes and let out those timid feelings. Even in the presence of women. They won’t judge you for it, especially the normal ones.

I have cried in front of women including whores. It is fine as long as you don’t go overboard. I mean once you let out those nasty suppressed feelings, you feel better anyway. So, why suppress them? Just wipe your tears and girly shit once you come to your senses and be a man once again.

“She-men” are the ones who CONSTANTLY whine and gripe about their lives. Everyone’s out to get them, life is unfair to them, they’re just melodramatic and won’t stop. EVER.

It’s perfectly fine to let out those buried emotions once in a while. Even if you’re a man.

Yeah but you’re from India. Indian men are supposed to be more open with their feelings like that. It’s no big deal for an Indian man to cry as long as he does not do it too often. India is sort of a let it all hang out society.

The US? Especially White US culture? Nope. Boys don’t cry. Period. You cry when someone dies. You can cry when your dog dies. That’s about it.

Women here will crucify for crying – they hate it. They hate all weakness in men really, but so do Hispanic women and possibly Black women. I think all women feel this way, but I don’t know women from other cultures very well. Maybe there are cultures that are ok with men showing weakness as long as they do not show it all the time.

Some of our pet cats died. There were times when my father put them in boxes and took them out to the back (we had 2 acres) to dig a hole and bury the box with the cat in it. My mother told me afterwards with the deepest look that I still find very hard to describe, something between amazement, shock, profundity, compassion, and deep empathy, “He cried when he buried the cat.” The thing was my father didn’t cry much.

He did cry sometimes. One time as a very young man in college there was a wild fight at our house of the glorious kind that we often had. My Mom even slapped me in the face. Thinking back, I clearly deserved it, but at the time I didn’t think so, so I pushed her down on the stairs. I didn’t push her down the stairs. We were on the stairs. I pushed her down while we were on the stairs.

There was wild fighting and I took off with my brothers to the park where we smoked pot. For some reason they stuck up for me, even though I was being a huge asshole.

I think the fight was about pot. The stuff’s practically legal now so no one cares, but you all have no idea the Hell the rest of us went through back in the day when we smoked that stuff. It was literally a war, a civil war. You were living in wartime.

The pot-haters were everywhere and the shouts, condemnations, admonishments, and abuse were regular and ferocious. A lot of people our own age really hated it too, so there were  continuous conflicts on that front. Not to mention at work where things got really weird.

I came back later and my Mom said my father had cried after the fight. He  had taken my picture on his drawer and turned it face down. My mother said with a sense of gravity and amazement, as if announcing some rare but profound event, that he was crying as he did this. My face was turned down on the drawer. You couldn’t see me anymore, only the back of the frame.

What was he doing? Killing his son I suppose. Or saying goodbye to his son, an emotional funeral for his favorite son, the apple of his eye. The light of his life, the dream of his days, his favorite boy – was dead and gone. My father had absolutely adored me as a boy. I was his hero and his alter ego. He projected himself right onto me and loved the reflection flowing back.

In adolescence, I rebelled against him in a ferocious way about a variety of reasonable things. He thought he had a right to tell me what to do. I didn’t think so and I still don’t. Nobody tells me what to do.

There was fight after fight after fight. There were even fistfights, but I found that when my fist neared his face, it somehow lost a lot of its power. Hitting your own father full force was too much for me, no matter how much I despised him.

Apparently this rebellion of his favorite son, his dream son, was too much for him. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that. We had good times after that, but things were often rocky in adulthood.

The last couple of years of his life I stayed with him a lot, and we made a sort of peace with each other. I think he knew he was near the end, and it was finally time for an armistice. And I am starting to cry as I write this – my eyes are watering up. Because let’s face it: it’s a sad song, my father and I. So you can see I do cry. Just rarely and not too much.

I am happy I can still cry. Thank God for those tears! Thank God I am still human!

But still, at the end of the day when it’s all gone bad, one last hard thing remains, and that’s:

Boys don’t cry.

I would say I’m sorry
If I thought that it would change your mind
But I know that this time
I’ve said too much
Been too unkind

I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try and laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry

I would break down at your feet
And beg forgiveness
Plead with you
But I know that it’s too late
And now there’s nothing I can do

So I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try to laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry

I would tell you
That I loved you
If I thought that you would stay
But I know that it’s no use
That you’ve already
Gone away

Misjudged your limits
Pushed you too far
Took you for granted
I thought that you needed me more

Now I would do most anything
To get you back by my side
But I just
Keep on laughing
Hiding the tears in my eyes
‘Cause boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry

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5 thoughts on “Boys Don’t Cry”

      1. Hah hah that’s just being a masochist IMO, but that’s just the way it rolls I suppose.

        Almost ALL cultures frown on men crying, including my own. But there’s a difference between letting it out openly once in a while and being a crybaby. Of course, you don’t cry in front of everyone: only people that you really trust.

        Last time I cried was after my mother died suddenly. I was inconsolable for several months. And I even cried about in front of a whore I was sleeping with. But I don’t remember behaving like a crybaby. Although I don’t see anything wrong with anyone crying in that situation in public.

        I don’t think it’s a culture thing; Indian culture, if anything, is more macho – especially on the village side. They (men) don’t cry when they kill their unwanted female babies. For one, I have nothing to do with that kind of culture. I just don’t feel that I belong there anymore.

        It’s just my personal opinion that boys should be allowed to cry when the situation demands. There is no need to really care about what others think. See, you’re stronger already when you don’t care what others think.

        Crybabies – now that’s another story.

  1. I came back later and my Mom said my father had cried after the fight. He had taken my picture on his drawer and turned it face down. My mother said with a sense of gravity and amazement, as if announcing some rare but profound event, that he was crying as he did this.

    My face was turned down on the drawer. You couldn’t see me anymore, only the back of the frame. What was he doing? Killing his son I suppose. Or saying goodbye to his son, an emotional funeral for his favorite son, the apple of his eye. The light of his life, the dream of his days, his favorite boy was dead and gone.

    My father had absolutely adored me as a boy. I was his hero and his alter ego. He projected himself right onto me and loved the reflection flowing back. In adolescence, I rebelled against him in a ferocious way about a variety of reasonable things.

    He thought he had a right to tell me what to do. I didn’t think so and I still don’t. Nobody tells me what to do. There was fight after fight after fight. There were even fistfights, but I found that when my fist neared his face, it somehow lost a lot of its power. Hitting your own father full force was too much for me, no matter how much I despised him.

    Apparently this rebellion of his favorite son, of his dream son was too much for him. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that. We had good times after that, but things were often rocky in adulthood.

    The last couple of years of his life I stayed with him a lot, and we made a sort of peace with each other. I think he knew he was near the end, and it was finally time for an armistice. And I am starting to cry as I write this – my eyes are watering up. Because let’s face it: it’s a sad song, my father and I. So you can see I do cry. Just rarely and not too much.

    That must have been rough, dude. It happens in Asian cultures where parents have a lot of unreasonable expectations from their children. It creates a lot of unreasonable pressure on the kids.

    Luckily my dad’s been always chill about my lifestyle choices. He’s a thorough gentleman. He smokes Cuban cigars like a classic old timer (they are very dear to him). It’s an honor to know him today although back then I feared him. I think mentally he never left the 1960s and 1970s.

    My dad was a bit of a rebel himself back in his youth, so he never really prevented me from behaving like a junkie. He always told my mother: “I’m confident about my kid. He might stray right now, but he’ll come to his senses one day.”

    That day is yet to come though, and I feel guilty about letting my parents down. They had great expectations of me, which I possibly may never fulfill. But my mother isn’t around anymore, so this worry is half-pointless now.

    I never had any curfews in my teen and college years. I could smoke, drink, have sex with other girls, whatever. Anything as long as it was out of his sight, which I always respected. I mean he knows I’ve spent so much time in Thailand. But I still not dare tell him about my hooker-humping stories. It’s a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of thing.

    In front of my father, I turn into a squeaky clean person. I know that’s a double life, but I respect him enough to maintain that illusion. So when I posted pics on Facebook cavorting with many different women (to make my Facebook friends jealous), he called me up on my phone and ordered me to “take those stupid pictures down”. I immediately complied.

    There’s a lot of difference between me and my father. The day he dies, he’ll be remembered as a respectable gentleman. When I die, I’ll be remembered as a player, a backpacker piece of shit, and a whoremonger. There are other reasons why I’m just a breath away from becoming an outlaw.

    Sometimes, I wonder if all the early 20’s rebellion was really worth it. Had I stayed the course and respected my parents advice, maybe I’d have been more successful in my career. I’d have a wife and kids of my own. But no, I had to choose a life where I’d rub shoulders with pimps, touts, and whores.

  2. I was brought up thinking men shouldn’t cry, and I even had many female playmates (not sexual).

    Anyway, crying is fine for a death, assuming it’s very close (dad or something), but even then, a man should try to not cry in public if they can help it.

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