I don’t cry very much. When I was at a 4H citizenship conference at the age of 18, I found myself apologizing while embracing all the crying kids during some circular candle lighting ceremony that somebody had thought up as a way to make everybody cry. I wasn’t crying. I blamed it on my heritage or my family life or whatever seemed to sound appropriate for each teary eyed person that I was interacting with. The truth is that I had not had the same experience that they had just had. I had maintained some level of detachment as the words and actions were unfolding. There were probably a few people who did the same , but were able to turn on the tears when the peer pressure started.

Over the next week, I am going to try to write about almost every memory that I have of my own crying.

This post isn’t actually a memory, although it almost feels like one. It is actually a storyboard in my mother’s photo album. When I was four or five I received a sailor suit for my birthday. The 70’s were a strange time. Anyway, there is a picture of me at my mother’s side in my grandmother’s kitchen bawling my little eyes out because I wanted to wear the sailor suit. And then there is a second picture of a smug but still somewhat upset me in a sailor suit standing very straight with my chin tucked in a bit too far. I was one of those kids that has yellow hair until they are eight or ten.