Live and Let Cry

By Edward Keenan • June 18, 2008 • No Comments

James Bond, shaken and stirring, from “Crying Men,” by photographer Sam Taylor-Wood. The whole series is really beautiful. From The Arab Acquarius:

Taylor-Wood explains, “Some of the men cried before I even finished loading the camera, but others found it really difficult. People can decide for themselves which they think are the authentic tears and which they think are fake. It’s about the idea of taking these big, masculine men and showing a different side.”

The whole subject of men and crying is complicated and interesting and, I think, one of the most frequently misinterpreted elements of the discussion of traditional masculinity. Maybe somewhere among some Neanderthals it boiled down adequately to “Boys Don’t Cry,” and to the idea that men are meant to be emotionless and therefore “strong,” but in my lifetime, in the circles I’ve run in, it’s a much more intricately coded set of expectations. (And the thing is boys do cry, because children can’t keep control of themselves — men are a different story.) Generally, in public and while at work, one would rightly expect that a man should master his emotions rather than having them master him. Therefore temper tantrums, screaming and crying fits — all of which put you and those around you in a position of needing to react to your emotional state rather than dealing properly with the situation at hand — are something to learn to avoid. Allowing your emotions to get the better of you in moments of difficulty and crisis isn’t just a sign of weakness — it is weakness.

This is especially true when the tears are — as so many are — no more than an expression of self-pity. The only reaction other people can have to your outburst of overwhelming emotion (this is equally true when that emotion is expressed as rage) is pity for you.

On the other hand, privately, or at appropriate public moments — a funeral, a monument, the conclusion of a Championship series — tears can be, I think, perfectly manly.

Me? I’m a different story. I cried very few times throughout my twenties, and most of the times I cried I was hammered. It wasn’t some social programming that kept the tears away. Many times I was actively trying to cry (especially when I was alone and feeling overcome) because I wanted the catharsis tears can provide (look at Taylor-Wood’s picture of Forest Whitaker, that’s what I was looking for). It just wasn’t the way I was wired. I’d mope plenty, but I could seldom cry.

Nowadays, I’ve been known to well up when they move the bus on Extreme Home Makeover — a purely manipulative piece of emotional pornography — though I still can’t find the key to the waterworks at times when it might be appropriate for personal reasons. And I find crying a far more natural reaction to joyful occasions than to sad ones. Whatever that means. More thoughts on this some other time. All I mean today is: I like the pictures.

(Hats off to Andrew Sullivan.)