The Zen of Tears

Crying beats stoicism. Doesn't it?

Like other purveyors of the printed word and print-like products, I am writing about Gus Walz, 17, son of Tim. But I’m not coming to his defense.

I don’t want to defend him. I want to be him.

I want to be like Gus.

I don’t want to be like Mike. I don’t want to be your buckaroo. I don’t want to be just like Jesus. I don’t want to be anything or anyone lionized in song or story except Gus Walz.

First of all, I want to cry as Gus does.

Gus Walz cries because he’s pure of heart. He sees something that fills that heart with gladness, and the happy tears just flow. 

I cry, too, but my heart is that of an old man who has seen bad stuff and done bad stuff. 

I cry mostly because my heart is hurt. 

But Gus Walz and I might tear up at some of the same things. I’m not nearly as good a human being as he is, but my tears are among the best parts of me.

“That’s my dad!” Gus trumpeted as his father accepted the Democratic nomination for vice president.

If my father had achieved that, I might have done the same, if I had the guts. Maybe you would have, too. Part of you might have jumped up, even if it wasn’t the outside part.

My father sold pots and pans and toilet paper. I thought he was the best dad on the block. Better than the truck driver, the landscaper or the cook, no matter how cool their jobs were.

Some of the other kids thought I was a little off when they found out I shined his shoes. And they didn’t even know that I also filed his sales records, wrote his business letters and tied his bowling shoes so he wouldn’t have to bend over.

Just think what I might have done if he had been governor of Minnesota. 

The tracks of my tears lead back to 1987 or so, when I broke up a street crime on one night, and got my head beat in on the next.

A few weeks later, after recovery, I saw a TV commercial about a man in his 30s, encouraged to try out to pitch in the major leagues. He uneasily accepts the challenge. I remember him at a fencerow, throwing a ball through a tire in the after-work darkening sky.

Before it was over, I was in tears. I was amazed. I didn’t know I cared about this guy’s baseball career.

I felt the same way about other folks’ journeys, I found. It was weird. And it continued.

After years, I eventually cried less often, which led to a theory that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, and it had just gotten better. I don’t know. Every time I cried, I had felt happier about the situation, and myself. The crying was an indication that I had become a better person, and somehow I had ruined that. 

I had returned part of the way to childish vulnerability, stepping back from the stone-faced stoicism I had developed to protect myself. What good was being strong and silent and dry-eyed?

You don’t have to be yellow to cry

I found there are significant positives to avoiding tearfulness, yes indeed. It’s probably wise to keep your big-boy pants on as much as possible.

Every tear is a risk for an adult. And I had cried quite a bit, for a man.

It’s not a good look.

I tried to hide it, especially from women. They don’t seem to appreciate tears from their big strong protector.

Make no mistake, I haven’t cried in pain, or because I feel sorry for myself, since I was little. I sometimes cried because I was sad for other people. Mostly, it was when I was happy for them.

But more and more, out of self-preservation, I tried not to.

Then there was last week.

I cried during an episode of Leave It to Beaver. I was just that happy for Wally. 

Wally was a good kid. He deserved a little love. He didn’t deserve that meanie Eddie Haskell.

As my silent, happy tears fell in my little rehab room, unnoticed by anyone else, I had an epiphany. After periods of stoicism, I had twice allowed myself a good cry for no good reason, on occasions over 35 years apart, when I may have felt the same emotion.

Gratitude.

In 1987, I had just recovered from wounds that might have been permanent or even fatal, if circumstances were adjusted only slightly. And last week, I published Returning to the Land of the Living, for the first time publicly acknowledging my ongoing seven-month holiday excursion through the Valley of Death, with tourist stops along the way for cancer, sepsis and other exotic maladies.

Maybe Gus Walz’ beautiful emotions dampen fires of trauma that have forged him into the fine young man he is. His situation could certainly have previously attracted painful slings and arrows of outrageous mocking and mimicry — unlike those now falling harmlessly around him, knocked down by an Iron Dome of sympathetic media.

Or, maybe, he’s like me. I love the people who saved my life, and I love the people who, for no good reason, love this undeserving creature, a stumbler from the hand of God.

Either way, I'm having a good cry about it.