Men don't cry: a bereaved son finally claims strength in expressing his grief through the tears he thought were forbidden to him - brothers - Column

In the spring of 1987 Mama caught what we thought was a common chest cold. It beat her down for a week before she was diagnosed with pneumonia and hospitalized. Three days after that she slipped into a coma. On her fourth day in the hospital, the doctors gave up: "We're sorry, folks. There's nothing more we can do for her."

Even though they said she wouldn't make it through the night, our own denial of the reality allowed us to go home, clinging to the slightest possibility that they could be wrong, that she would make it. As Daddy and I rode in the car, dead silence occupied the space between us. I desperately wanted him to say something to reassure me that she'd be okay. But he said nothing. Once we arrived home, the silence followed us into the house and kept us company throughout the night.

The next morning, believing the Lord had heard my prayers, I rushed to the phone and dialed the hospital to find out if my mother had improved. I asked the nurse about Mama's condition. A hesitation alerted me that she was about to deliver devastating news: "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Mrs. Hunter passed away at 5:49 A.M."

I felt the hot tears rising behind my eyes. Then Daddy entered the living room and in his calmest tone said, "Shorty, I have something to tell you." Before he could finish, I switched into man mode. I squeezed my eyelids as tight as I could, forcing back the tears. I stood up with my shoulders erect, swallowed the knot in my throat and said as calmly as I could, "I already know."

As a child I was always told that suppressing my tears during the roughest of times was essential for a man. For the rest of the day I recited in my mind, like a scratched record, my proclamation for manhood: Don't cry. Gotta be strong. Gotta be strong for everybody. Gotta be strong for me too. I spent the next few days suspended in what I now know was emotional purgatory: I was living with the fact of Mama's death but not yet free to mourn.

But why was I so determined to conform and not cry? Who conditions men to be this way when our hearts feel pain? Even when embroiled in turmoil and heartache, men remain committed to the idea that under no circumstances should we allow our feelings and emotions to surface for the world to see. That would destroy our image, make us appear soft and weak. It's our duty to be strong, our duty to say to our wives, mothers and sisters, "Everything's going to be okay." And if we're the sole proprietors of the problem, we'll just solve it quietly.

After the casket was lowered into the ground, after I closed the door behind the last visitor paying respects, I stood still in the doorway, and reality hit me like a freight train: Mama's gone.

Yet I could feel her spirit wrapped around the house like a warm blanket. There was no denying her presence, and I couldn't accept her absence. In an explosion of emotions, I broke down and cried.

After my eyes couldn't swell any larger, and the pain that buckles your knees had eased, I felt less burdened. With a lot of soul-searching and praying, I came to terms with Mama's death and the fact that I had cried. I accepted that my tears didn't undermine my masculinity.

Today I implore brothers not to allow preconceived notions that "men don't cry" to keep them from confronting their issues. We need to stop passing an emotionally crippling idea on to our impressionable sons and younger brothers. They learn by our example. They should know that crying is not a sign of weakness, but a healthy and necessary part of healing. To be a man in time of trials and tribulations is to acknowledge pain, accept the situation, refocus and continue to live.

Tierney E. Hunter is a middle-school teacher and freelance writer living in Miami, Florida.

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