Mr. Pathetic

As we drove away from the concrete jungle of BWI and into the wooded rolling hills, the love of my life asked me how often I cry.  She had written a story on crying and her sources had said there were benefits to crying.


She asked me: had I cried this year?  Had I cried this decade?


Boys aren't supposed to cry.  I wondered if she had seen me in the movies.  Surely she had.  I had tried to hide it.  But I tear up at the stories.  When the "awwww" moment comes, I can see sadness... the beauty ... and the hope.  And I cry.


Maybe she hadn't seen it.  The theater is dark.  But the truth was I had read a really sad book that day named 'The Lovely Bones'.  A fourteen year old girl had been murdered by a serial killer and it tore her family apart.  There was so much sadness, I couldn't help but tear up multiple times.


So I told her: maybe you should ask me, "how many times have I cried today?"


She had loaned me the book so she understood.  She told me I was empathetic.


But boys aren't supposed to cry.  So I asked her: did you spell that like M. Pathetic?  Monsieur Pathetic.  Mr. Pathetic.


It has been a long time since I have cried for myself.  I've whined and complained for my lot, but not cried.  I shouldn't have even whined and complained.  My life has been one of very many blessings.


I have never been truly hungry.  I have never felt unloved.  I've been blessed with the opportunity to self-actualize.  I cannot cry for me.


But... if you've ever been truly hungry?  I have cried for you.


If you've ever been truly oppressed... or beaten?  I have cried for you.


For those innocents killed?  I cried for them.


For those who grow up only knowing hate and misunderstanding?  I cry for them as well.  And then I cry for us.


Call me pathetic if you will, but this boy cries.