Trust those who cry in public
When a man watching a play showed me being vulnerable is strong
Years ago, I can’t remember how many, I had the chance to work on a play. Forgive me if the details are hazy. It was a beautiful play, made up of monologues based on the words and stories of people who had been homeless in my hometown, one that was meant to bring their lives and experiences and knowledge to audiences who may have walked past them, maybe even given them a dollar, but never asked.
I’m not sure we got it all right. I remember worrying about the translation of such deep, complicated lives into art to be consumed by those who could afford a ticket. Nonetheless, I remember sitting next to a man, whom here I will call Donny, during one of the performances. His story was one of the stories being told on the stage.
It was a story of unraveling. He had lost a job when he missed too many days to care for his wife, who had lost her job when she became sick with cancer. When his wife passed away, he fell into deep grief and, fast forward to the time of the play, I had picked him up from the tent he was living in to drive him to the theater.
As we watched, I sensed his body next to mine. He was holding himself very still as if bracing himself for the part of the story that he knew would come but still had to prepare himself for after all these years. His hands were clasped in his lap, unmoving. His shoulders stiff.
When a funny part of the story came, a silly line about some music he liked, I think it might have been Flavor Flav, the audience laughed. I seized the moment to look over at him and smile, to try to convey how glad I was we were both here, listening to his story be told on the stage. When I glanced at him grinning my stupid grin that I grin I saw that tears were streaming down his face. I was caught off guard by his face.
The face of this man I knew to be polite and quiet and serious, this man who had never said much to me over the year I had known him, but was helpful and calm and reserved, this man who spoke in short sentences, and spoke only when you asked him something directly. This man was now sobbing openly in a theater of mostly strangers, overcome by his own story, a story that he already knew because it was his, and he whispered, not necessarily to me or anyone who was there, but just into the air:
My God, I miss her so so much.
I am thinking about Donny this morning as I am sweeping cobwebs out of the corners of my house, trying to catch up on the neglected chores of my week, another week of long hours, long drives, and long days, of heating up leftovers and saying goodnight to my son long after he has gone to sleep. I’m thinking about the world we live in where strongmen who never admit they are wrong reign supreme; where atrocities are eagerly rationalized; where winning is all that seems to matter. Where strength and resiliency and “alpha men” and “girl bossing” are celebrated; where doctoral degrees are revered and your mistakes are wounds that last forever; a world that favors the strong over the sweet.
And I think we would be better off if the Donnys of this town, this state, this country, and this world would be cherished as much as or even more than those who keep it all together, all the time. I trust those who cry in public and unravel because their hearts are big.
