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Sunday, July 30, 2006
Gil: Weeping folks
By Sandy Gil
Sunday Dunes
MEN and women have different perceptions of crying. Men generally think that crying is a sign of weakness. That is why men avoid crying as much as possible. On the other hand, women are generally more expressive about their feelings. Women are more prone to cry. To the chagrin of men, even the most insignificant and mundane event can stimulate a woman's tear ducts to produce -- nay, to overproduce -- salty liquid called tears. Women say crying is good for the soul.
-o0o-
I once had an aunt who religiously went to Sunday Mass with her children. And while her children accompanied their mother to this weekly sacred celebration for a totally different reason (they wanted to show off their best clothes and to check out the opposite sex), my aunt was nonetheless unperturbed by her children's disinterest in the ritual.
For four consecutive Sundays however her children noticed their mother crying intermittently during Mass. This naturally bothered them, and so they started to behave, thinking that the reason their mother had been crying was because of their pagan behavior.
As it turned out, my aunt had actually been crying because of the weddings that had been going on for the past four Sundays. And she did not even know the married couples...
-o0o-
During my youth, I have been to not too few dates to the movies. And many of these movies had certainly been tearjerkers. The most embarrassing thing though about having to impress your date is the futile attempt at some sort of tear duct control. One's eyes begins to blur; the sides of one's neck throb and ache; the nose begins to drip and one cannot sniffle; one's jaws quiver and there is great difficulty breathing. Sounds like someone on the verge of a heart attack, right?
Then my date, looking straight ahead at the movie screen, nonchalantly digs into his pocket and hands me his handkerchief. It is precisely at this point that the dam breaks. The whimpering turn into sobs, and the sobs turn into silent weeping.
At the end of the film, I dare not move. With the theater still in darkness, I wish with all my heart that the film credits took forever to give my red and tear-stained eyes time to return to their natural state.
-o0o-
Nowadays, presumably as an adult, I have the luxury of watching tearjerkers alone at home, particularly with the invention of an advanced technology called the DVD player. What is really strange however is that no matter how many times I have watched "West Side Story" or the two versions of "An Affair to Remember", I still cry... and with great gusto at that!
A friend once asked me why I repeatedly cry when I watch these two classical films, even though I know exactly how the films would end. Did I really think that the ends would change each time I watched them? Hmmm... Now that I am thinking about it, I am no longer sure if that friend is really a friend.
-o0o-
I never realized, until recently, how easily the folks I work with cry. There is one particular afternoon I shall never forget when all I had to deal with at work were weeping folks.
The first one dealt with a lady who, after bearing for years with a rather hostile work environment, was informed that she would be deployed to another department. Relieved with the news, she completely broke down -- weeping for some 15 minutes on my shoulder. Apart from my distress at her soaking my dress with tears, I could feel the anguish and rage that her tears released. It was as if her two eyes were not capable to crying out all her tears, so that I too had to weep with her sorrow. I ended up with a muscle strain on my shoulder.
Immediately after that, I had to deal with another officemate who preempted himself in resigning from his position. He was a very honest man, but really not quite smart. After being informed that he was no longer going to be renewed, he too wept. This time, I was not inclined to offer my shoulder for him to lean his balding head on. No way!
As if that were not enough, here comes another lady. She breaks down because an official form she was to sign had been changed. What's more, it had no form number! Whoa...
-o0o-
That same evening, when I reached the solitude of my home, I realized that there are better and gentler ways to care for the soul.
For Bisaya stories from Davao. Click here. (July 30, 2006 issue)
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