Tag: Tears

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Tears, by Gillian

I saw my father cry three times.

When I was four or five we had a tiny 6-weeks-old kitten. He was all black, and sadly found a shaggy black rug a cozy place to sleep. My mother, no idea he was there, stepped right on him. We heard the terrible sound of crunching tiny bones. Tears were running down my dad’s face as he scooped up the screaming little body to take it outside and put an end to its suffering.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

When our old dog, for years Dad’s constant companion, died, my dad cried.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

For very different reasons neither of us cried. I, even as a child, somehow was playing a part; not being the real me. So, until the time I came out to myself in my early forties, when I did finally become the real me and no longer was simply an actor on life’s stage, I felt very little real emotion. I do not remember ever crying as a child.

My mother never got over losing two children, ages two and four, before I was born. She shut down. She refused to let herself feel any more personal sorrow. She did cry, quite frequently, but never over anything personal; anything really in her life. The first time I remember her doing this was when horrific newspaper photographs accompanied the stories of Allied troops liberating Hitler’s death camps; and why not, that was plenty to cry about. But she also cried at sad plays on the radio, or newspaper tales of abused animals or injured children – anything not actually personal to her. The few times I hurt myself pretty badly, as children do, neither of us cried.

But my dad had tears in his eyes when he carried a toddler me home from a pretty bad fall.

The third time I saw my dad actually cry was after I had come out. I was the authentic me. I had been back to England for a visit and when the day to leave arrived, Dad drove me to the train. As it pulled out of the station and I leaned out of the window to wave, I saw that he was crying. One of several things over my lifetime that I would rather not have seen, but you cannot unsee things.

I sobbed all the way to London. How much easier my former life spent playing a part had been, feeling emotions at best superficially.

Now, I cry at so many things, tears of sorrow or tears of joy; though tears do not necessarily flow. I find the feelings to be much the same whether in fact I literally cry, or cry just on the inside. I cried at the sight of The White House lit up in rainbow colors after The Supreme Court ruled on behalf of Marriage Equality.

I cried for the loss of Stephen and Randy, of this group, as I cry for every loss of yet another friend. I even cry when friends’ pets die.

I cry for our country which currently feels like one more loss, as I cry for the planet as we know it, which is another.

But I have no regrets for my tears. Having lived for so long without them, I welcome them. I almost revel in them; celebrate them. They serve to remind me, I am really me!

© October 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Tears, by Louis Brown

The tragic myth of Niobe, etc

(a) The tragic tale of Niobe is one of the most memorable Greek myths, for Niobe’s story features a striking example of the consequences of hubris, a Greek term defined as arrogance or excessive pride. This myth was popular in ancient literature, poetry and art. Therefore, it is not a surprise that the legend of Niobe appears in one of our oldest and best sources for Greek myths, the Iliad of Homer.

Her father was Tantalus, king of a town above Mount Sipylus in Anatolia, but we do not know exactly who her mother was. Niobe had two brothers, Broteas and Pelops, who would later be a legendary hero and would give his name to Peloponnese. When Niobe grew up, she got married to Amphion, king of Thebes. This was a turning point in her life and a series of tragic events followed, to give her a distinct place in one of the most tragic dramas in Greek mythology. Niobe and Amphion gave birth to fourteen children, seven sons and seven daughters.

The fatal mistake and the horrible crime. At a ceremony held in honor of Leto, the mother of the divine twins, Apollo and Artemis, who was also living in Thebes, Niobe, in a fit of arrogance, bragged about her fourteen children. In fact, Niobe said that she was superior to Leto, as she had fourteen children and not only two. When the twins knew this insult, they got enraged and at once, came down to Earth to kill the children of Niobe. Apollo, the god of light and music, killed all seven of Niobe’s sons with his powerful arrows in front of their mother’s eyes. Although Niobe was pleading Apollo to feel mercy for her last surviving son, Apollo’s lethal arrow had already left his bow to find its mark with deadly accuracy, thus wiping out all the male descendants of Niobe.

Artemis, the virgin goddess of nature and hunting, killed Niobe’s seven daughters with her lethal arrows and their dead bodies were lying unburied for nine days. Turning into a rock Devastated by the slaughter of his children, Amphion committed suicide. Some versions say that he too was killed by Apollo when he tried to avenge his children’s deaths. And so it was that Niobe’s entire family had been wiped out by the gods in a matter of moments, and in deep anguish, she ran to Mount Sipylus.

There she pleaded [with the] Gods to [put] … an end to … her pain. Zeus felt sorry for her and transformed her into a rock, to make her feelings [express themselves from the] … stone. However, even as a rock, Niobe continued to cry. Her endless tears poured forth as a stream from the rock and it [her statue] seems to stand as a moving reminder of a mother’s eternal mourning. To this day, Niobe is mourning for her children and people believe that her faint image can still be seen carved on a limestone rock cliff on Mount Sipylus, with the water that seeps out of the porous rocks bearing a strong allusion to her ceaseless tears.

The meaning of the Myth the tragic tale of Niobe centered on the consequences of hybris, a strange concept in the Greek antiquity, which said that, if you act with arrogance towards the Gods, then you will be punished. Actually Niobe’s story is a classic example of the wrath of gods against human weaknesses and has been beautifully narrated in Homer’s Iliad. The tale of Niobe also finds mention in Metamorphoses, a narrative poem, written by the renowned Roman poet Ovid, who, however, has inverted the traditionally accepted order and portrayed the desires and conquests of the gods with aversion, while elevating human passions to a higher Source:

(b) O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn! Version of Bruce Springsteen

“O Mary Don’t You Weep”

Well if I could, I surely would, Stand on the rock where Moses stood, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Well Mary wore three links of chain, On every link was Jesus name,

Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Well one of these nights about 12 o’clock, This old world is gonna rock, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Well Moses stood on the Red Sea shore, Smote the water with a two by four, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Well old Mister Satan he got mad, Missed that soul that he thought he had, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Brothers and sisters, don’t you cry, There’ll be good times by and by, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. God gave Noah the rainbow sign,

No more water, but fire next time, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep. Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more. Pharoh’s army got drownded, Oh Mary don’t you weep.

_______________

The phrase vale of tears (Latin vallis lacrimarum) is a Christian phrase referring to the tribulations of life that Christian doctrine says are left behind only when one leaves the world and enters Heaven. The term “valley of tears” is also used sometimes. (Wikepedia).

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. His Lacrimosa (weeping) is part of his Requiem Mass 1792. Was completed by Sysmayr.

Cry Me a River Diana Krall

Now you say you’re lonely
You cry the whole night through
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you.

Now you say you’re sorry
For being so untrue
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you

You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember all that you said
Told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me

And now you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you

You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I…

16 October 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Tears, by Pat Gourley

“The greatest purveyor of violence in the world: my own government, I can not remain silent.” 
April 4th, 1967. Martin Luther King

More often than not these days when trying to write something for this group I am stumped with little coming to mind. Perhaps in part this is due to my having exhausted my “story”. And to be sure these days at my age I find myself doing many fewer things that might be worthy of repeating to anyone.

However, with this topic as I have pondered it over the past week I am struck with how many things actually do come to mind to write about. This may be related to the fact that through cable news, the Internet and social media in particular all manner of bad crap from the world over is continually barraging us and much of it is tear inducing.

I am a believer though that we live in the best of times and the worst of times. Not falling for a false romanticizing of ages gone by I do believe that for most of Earth’s people things were much worse in the not so distant past. Much work of course remains to be done however. I hope for worldwide Democratic Socialism and the death of Capitalism. That will require great effort, much more than just a Resist t-shirt, the occasional demonstration or a bumper sticker. To quote Oscar Wilde on the difficulty of the individual effort involved in creating change: “Socialism is great but it takes up too many evenings”.

Thinking about my own tears I am aware that it seems much easier for me to cry these days than it did several decades ago. For me the years 1985-1995 in particular were filled with so much death and suffering that perhaps I had become numb and immune to it and stopped being able to muster any tears. The death of my partner David in 1995 from AIDS related issues did however break the dam open and the tears began to flow again. Are the most genuine tears always personal?

Now it seems I can cry around a whole variety of issues. Things I see on TV often trigger tears. Rescues of abandoned pets or animal shelter adoptions that go well that are dutifully recorded on video and most often posted to Facebook prompt the waterworks.

Seeing people return to their burned out homes in California is particularly tear inducing. Also footage of refugees in boats is almost always a trigger for tears. The cholera epidemic in Yemen fueled in no small part by U.S. support of the Saudi inflicted violence raining down on that country is a very sad case in point and speaks directly to King’s statement above.

I was though most recently brought to tears reading a piece by Glenn Greenwald he had posted to the Intercept (the intercept.com): https://theintercept.com/2017/10/05/factory-farms-fbi-missing-piglets-animal-rights-glenn-greenwald/

It is a multilayered and long story that is a very difficult read because of the content and the numerous photos of pigs being horribly abused in a factory farm in Utah. It is the story of two rescued piglets named Lilly and Lizzie and the draconian measures carried out by the FBI at the behest I assume of the factory farm in Utah that breeds and slaughters over a million pigs a year.

The piglets were rescued by an animal rights group called Direct Action Everywhere: https://www.directactioneverywhere.com

The FBI was enlisted to track down the piglets since animal rights activists on occasion have been designated as terrorists and numerous states now have AG-GAG laws which criminalize whistleblowers photographing and exposing the horrors of America’s factory farms. Good news on this front is that Utah’s AG-GAG law was recently ruled unconstitutional based on the First Amendment by a Federal judge. Stay tuned however since the First Amendment is under attack from many corners these days, very possibly including the Supreme Court.

So your tax dollars were at work when a caravan of FBI agents accompanying a veterinarian descended on an animal sanctuary in Erie Colorado to collect DNA samples from the suspected escapees Lilly and Lizzie even though the sanctuary itself had nothing to do with the piglets’ liberation. As of this writing Lilly and Lizzie are thought to be safe and both have recovered nicely from their horrific beginnings.

So for me I guess my tears are often painful but cathartic. But is crying about anything ever enough?

I don’t want to end on a preachy note but oh well what the hell. Addressing the carnage in Yemen will require many necessary evenings of activism, sorry Oscar, but helping Lilly and Lizzie and their millions of kin is much easier: just quit putting so much animal product in your mouth.

© October 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Tears, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m writing a memoir about my too-brief relationship
with Rafael Martínez who provided me my first experience of falling deeply,
hopelessly in love. Part of my preparation has been to study what writing
teachers say about memoir and, just as important, to read several memoirs. I
read Frank McCourt’s ’Tis, Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind,
Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie, several excerpts from other memoirs,
and am currently reading Paul Monette’s Borrowed Time.
I began the Rafael project years ago but realized I
was not yet ready to deal with organizing and writing about the experience of
love and loss. The grief was too keenly edged for me to be honest about myself
and fair to everyone else. The events took place fifteen years ago.
Two years ago I started readdressing the project. About
three weeks ago I started reading Monette’s AIDS memoir, a book I had read
years ago. I hoped I might learn a lot. A wealthy gay couple living in southern
California, Ivy League educated, driving around in a Jaguar, an attorney, a
Hollywood film writer living a rather high life seemed like a lot to take in. I
wondered if this story would even touch me.
By contrast, Rafael was HIV positive and poor, helped
a lot by Colorado AIDS Project. His doctors estimated he had about eight years
to go, but what they didn’t know was that he had full-term Hepatitis C. It was
diagnosed only three weeks before it killed him. Monette, while not my favorite
gay writer, skillfully took me to their home, clinic after clinic, test after
test, all experiences I knew too well for I went to such places with two friends
and with two lovers—just not in a Jaguar. Writing about Rafael while reading
this book opened my tear ducts, and I wondered: did I not cry enough fifteen
years ago? It seems likely.
My early weeks with Rafael showed how much we loved
one another and how practical and romantic we could be. I told him I would like
to meet his family before he ended up in the hospital. I was earnest though we
laughed. We thought we had time, but we were wrong. Too soon he was in the
hospital. There I met his younger brother, a very nice Mexican man who came north
on behalf of the family. The parents had learned that Rafael was gay and HIV
positive only six weeks before this hospitalization. The family’s life was in
crisis. Rafael got out of the hospital but then went back in with another
problem. Eventually more of the family arrived. I was caught between my lover
and his family; between Rafael’s insistence that they treat the two of us as a
family of our own, they being guests in our home, and what I saw so clearly in
his mother and father, the needs of shocked parents facing an illness they
didn’t understand and the possibility of losing their son altogether. In short,
I was pushed into an interpretive role of supporting both my lover and his
parents and siblings. I walked that tightrope, one that my ministerial experience
had so well prepared me to walk. And I was helpful. I cried but not much; there
were too many other people needing to be consoled and reasoned with and their
English was so poor and my Spanish functionally nonexistent.
We made it through. I helped them as Rafael was dying.
Still Rafael was strong and helpful and insistent. I was so proud of him. He
took care of his family. He reached out to nurses who were having difficulty.
He reached out to me. And of course, I cried, but not very much, not enough I now
am sure.
I’m carefully reading Monette’s scenes of bedsides,
hospital corridors, tests, last minute trips to favorite places, accommodation
to losses. I read; tears gather and fall.
I’m crying now.
© 16 Oct 2017  
About the Author  
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com