Cry

If you are a man who grew up with harmful ideas about being one, you might find yourself unable to do the most natural thing: cry. Parenthood is riddled with plot twists — who would have thought a ride so many people take would surprise me this much — and the punch that stings best is one you never saw coming.

Moments after Issa’s birth.

Hearing Issa cry hurts my feelings. The first time and the millionth. The day she was born and the day I’ll die. The heavy decibels on her guttural weep made the OB joke, “you’ll have no trouble waking up from that.” Thanks, dude.

Smile!

When you experience something ad infinitum — and what better way to do that than to listen to a baby cry — you start to pull on the thread of what it means.

Night after night of fearing Issa’s voice, I started to get curious about crying. Babies don’t talk. They cry. A baby who doesn’t cry can’t tell you how she feels. A baby who doesn’t cry can’t get what she needs. Me not wanting Issa to cry is more about me and my feelings than it is about her and hers.

A few years ago, when I broke my legs and back and shoulder, I did not cry. I did not cry in front of the EMTs when they loaded me onto a stretcher. I did not cry in front of my wife in the ER. I did not cry when I woke up cast-bound, in a hospital bed, alone.

I must have forgotten. Before I was a lawyer; before I was an identity grafted onto a series of devices and platforms; before I was Graham; I was a crying animal.

Three babies: my daughter Issa, my wife Keidi, and me.

Boyhood was all about unlearning that original sin. Shame teaches you that the only way to get into heaven is to kill your crying animal and replace him with a man.

Soon, the man becomes other things that don’t cry. A fighter. An attorney. A professor. It’s easy to keep score on how these identities serve me, and impossible to add up what I’ve lost. Impossible until I met Issa.

The first time that Issa smiled was one of the best moments of my life. This creature you love that seems to do nothing but scream suddenly lights up, and so do you. Her cry, like her smile, never gets old. Still hurts, always will.

Now, I thank Issa when she cries. For what it tells me about her needs, but also for what it told me about myself. A baby who doesn’t cry. A baby who doesn’t get what he needs because he forgot how to ask. I’m only beginning to learn — 37 years of programming makes for a stubborn student — but I’m spending a lot of time with a really good teacher.