I was coming home from yoga last week before my trip to LA, I was on the uptown express. It was rush hour crowded. I looked around for someone to give my seat to but no one standing was either as old or tired as I felt so I stayed. I noticed a woman through bags and hips sitting across from me. She was intently looking at something on my side of the train. She seemed concerned and fascinated. I turned to the left to try and see what she was looking at. Sitting at the end of my bench, slumped against the chrome handrails was a well dressed middle aged Puerto Rican man.
He was quietly sobbing.
I looked around at people's reactions. Like the woman across from me, everyone was perplexed at best, frightened at worst. Was he drunk? On drugs? A crazy man?
If you see a woman crying in the subway, you give her a handkerchief. If you see a man crying in the subway, you call the police. Women's tears are common, men's, an aberration.
Had his mother just died? His son? Had he been fired from his dream job? Or did he just feel like he couldn't take it anymore. I was fighting back tears. I don't know about this man but I cry often, usually in private though. I'll get sad in public but I'll find a bathroom stall somewhere to quietly cry in for a few minutes. I didn't want to cause a never-ending chain reaction of crying men in the subway. That's how he was crying. For every sadness every man had never cried for; wasn't allowed or was too ashamed to.
I got off at 96th Street and quickly walked home so I could cry in peace. I made it to the elevator and broke down. I stood in my hallway and leaned my head against the bedroom door jam. That's where I do most of my crying. I felt better. I wonder how far his train ride is. And if he's still sad. I still am, and often wonder if the well of profound sadness will ever be dry.
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 9:00 AM