If This Were 1968, I'd Be In Tears Right Now....

 

It’s well known that nothing disturbs or easily distracts a New Yorker, or any life-long urbanite in a busy, crowded environment.  Sirens, cars, subway car entertainers and acrobatic acts no one invited, loud smartphones and people conversing on them, train conductor announcements of things we all know too well already, they all combine to compose the rhythm of city life.  The expressway below one’s flat is the white noise that instills our sleep.  On a visit to the country some time back for a much-needed getaway, I was kept madly awake all night by the blessed silence.

But there does remain one sound that for many remain too piercing, enough to break the deepest concentration.  That’s the sound of an infant’s incessant cry.

There’s been enough published and established studies on just why that’s the case, and all the neurological human links and synapses that support that, to have to bring them all up here.  But the point is, all those studies and tests prove that we’re indeed not a bunch of holograms or AI software components.  Being disturbed by a child’s cry makes you human.

Parents bearing infants or very small children at their side are in many situations well-aware of just how disconcerting the explosive wail of their child can be to a docile room, and might even be inclined to dash out with their young when they suddenly erupt.  Sometimes though, given the place and the situation, they can’t.  Like on transportation.  Mass transit is famous for this, and riders won’t be too deterred by the annoyance.  But sometimes it’s just a little easier to be affected.  I couldn’t help noticing the plight of an eighteen-month-old boy and his young parents one night on the E train. He was planted in a deluxe stroller, completely boxed in by transparent plastic-cover walls, looking something like the Popemobile. The caged-in kid was in a tearful rage.  Despite whatever his mama did on the outside to entertain him visually, he would not be placated.   At one point his foot became free of the cage and she zipped open just enough to squash him back in, upon which he really kicked and screamed.  A great finale as they reached their stop and departed.

That was an endurance enough for this spectator.  And I’m pretty sure any veteran parent, old or young will laugh at this and care to attack with, “You think that’s bad…?  You haven’t raised a child…”

Well, touche, I guess.  Accepting the challenge is probably what immunizes you to the emotional effect driven by all those studied neurological synapses that end up distracting a subway rider when four young swinging, kicking acrobats don’t.  The question however remains, is that branch of human survival necessarily an entirely good one…?

Again, too much question, long and deeply investigated by others and not enough space here.  But the fact remains, by human design, babies cry.

And humans placate them.  And in their nurturing, growing children are generally taught not to, as a default. 

Our sociological structure is one that makes no room whatsoever for such emotional frailty.  Even if specialists, counselors and TV doctors are showing up all over the place in the 21^st century, informing us of the value of crying, excoriating us for teaching boys not to cry, and trying desperately to educate us on coming to terms with embracing and accepting our human sensitivities that make life occasionally inconvenient, the world around us just won’t have it.  A room full of people won’t put their lives on “pause” for those who have to finally just bury the rag in their face when it’s time for their tears.  Especially since, in a good many cases, people just might.

In almost any high-pitched, and sometimes hostile encounter of dispute, maybe a work situation or at some public facility, things can chug forward in an almost boringly predictable fashion.  The boss won’t relent, co-worker or client won’t cooperate, people at the front desk won’t accept my ID or form that’s supposed to get me what I desperately need and rode three hours on the train here to accomplish.  Argument ensues.  Things get loud. Ultimately the disillusioned, troubled party marches out of the room with stoic indignance.  But what if he or she doesn’t..?  What if that showdown is resolved suddenly in a flood of desperate sobs..?

While one’s collapse into tears can in fact diffuse an angered stalemate like the symbolic thunderstorm in Sidney Lumet’s famed adaptation of Twelve Angry Men, all too often, it will lead many parties in the room to suddenly judge and dismiss the crier as less-than-capable of playing this game.

The Judeo-Christian ethic as we’ve come to know it in the post-Depression-Era, war and crime-scarred world, decrees that crying remains a form of correctable weakness.  If there’s one thing we’re effectively taught as cubs, it’s to obliterate and beat that foolish desire to cry. It’s a behavior reserved for infants, unwelcome on the part of an adult in any mixed or social situation, and what’s more, you just might end up tempering an entire room with it.

That’s bad.

The sudden display of that kind of desperate, uncontrollable collapse on the part of a sober adult can bear a very manipulative effect on a room full of strangers, at least.  Ones that don’t uncomfortably bolt from the room might be inclined to approach and try and comfort and communicate with the crier.  Maybe support or rally to their cause, try to help them immediately alleviate their crisis. Mainly because people don’t ordinarily, under any healthy circumstance, behave this way, and maybe it’s up to us to help this injured party, the way we’d want and need were we the victim.

You just can’t have humanity playing out like that all over the place. Three or four more people letting it all hang out and crying wolf like that, and no one’s ever gonna get anything done. A trend like that could put society out of business for good.  At least that’s how us cubs are taught.  If you’re not careful about that, you could make some enemies you didn’t know you had.

I knew an extremely dear young lady once, who reportedly lost more than three office jobs, despite her steel efficiency.  A mystery until a friend of hers candidly explained:  The young woman had this tendency, upon any “must-work-well-under-stress” situation, to melt down into a pile of tears, not unlike Holly Hunter in Broadcast News.  Of course, in the movie, Holly made a point of breaking down privately, where she wouldn’t scare anyone.  This young lady wasn’t afraid to scare anybody.  Her fearlessness made her the bane of the polite, kind, caring team’s existence.  In three different outfits.

So what do us full-grown lions do, living by these rules and consequences..?  If we don’t antagonize and terrorize others, we internalize.  That’s a great way to get along.  It’s a gateway to sleep loss, depression and a life of metabolic dysfunction and illness.  But it’s also what sells products, dreams, bolsters the Faith Movement, and keeps this commercial orbit spinning.  Do you really want to be the one to genuinely stop the world by bursting into tears in the middle of the room..?

There’s certainly a plethora of more dignified and impressive ways to vent one’s frustration or depression, on any level, clinical or sub.  People old and young are resorting to them in these United States more than ever, with weaponry more attainable in ways that will not, for too many reasons, see blockade.  Would these potential perpetrators in fact be able to seek and receive the help they need before their violent intentions become action..?

Those of us not so mentally disturbed or neurologically impaired remain the strong, the brave.  The ultimately normal Hawkeye Pierces in the M*A*S*H series that is our daily lives.

As I recall, I cried too much as a boy, reputedly after an infanthood not known for tearful departures.  I was raised by my sensitive, single mother in the 1970s, which probably explains it thoroughly.  But even she on occasion almost veered toward encouraging me to beat the inclination. I never disputed that, and thankfully never shed a tear again until I was nineteen and woke up late one night to find her drunk, after eight sober years, in the kitchen threatening to take her life.  I didn’t really know how to respond to this other than some Movie-Of-The-Week-styled emotional outburst, so I feigned a pile of petrified tears, until help arrived in the form of phone-woken relatives, who’d come over and scream it out ‘til everyone got tired and passed out.  Not ‘til a couple decades later would, sure enough, some suppressed metabolic and emotional depression send me into what I didn’t yet realize was a much needed corrective and cathartic drown in my own tears.  Nothing to be treated, or medicated.  Just damn well enjoyed.  And whether I knew it or not, I did.  I had to shelter in place for a few days.  Dashed out of rooms into phone booths and bathroom stalls when I had to.  But the onslaughts cleared up.  I just wish I could have understood and appreciated them more back when they were unpredictable.

None of that now. But that eighteen-month-old subway prisoner with no right to be upset, and I the same, shared one very common bond.  We were tired, angry, lonely, fearful, and just needed to screech our heads off.  Thanks to that benevolent young man the other night, I lived quite vicariously.  Now there’s a solid citizen.

 

Noah F.