Carnett: Men don’t cry? Just wait

My pastor preached a sermon recently in which he said it was OK for boys to cry.

Really?

He emphasized that boys should never stuff their emotions. It leads to ulcers, heart attacks and strokes.

That’s not the way I learned it.

I don’t remember crying as a kid — though I’m sure I must have. My dad was a man of few words who showed little emotion. He wasn’t unkind or cruel. He just didn’t emote.

Dad was a product of the Great Depression. He served in World War II. He was also the father of three kids whom he busted his butt to feed. Though he rarely if ever said it, we knew he loved us. How’d we know? Simple. He worked on Christmas Day.

He wasn’t the perfect dad who coached my Little League team. I never played Little League. He wasn’t the sensitive dad I could confide my innermost feelings to. We never discussed emotional stuff. He never put an arm around me and squeezed. But when I sat on the living room floor reading the newspaper, he’d occasionally come up from behind, give me a kick in the rump and order me outside to mow the lawn.

None of that bothered me. He was my dad.

The two things he emphasized as I grew up were: Show respect to your mother, and males don’t cry. It’s a sign of weakness.

As a consequence, I never cried.

The only time I remember crying between ages 10 and 40 occurred when I was 19. I’d enlisted in the Army a week earlier and was in basic training at Fort Ord, Calif. For the first two weeks I was desperately homesick.

One night, I stole into my barracks’ latrine and shut myself in a toilet stall. I balled my eyes out — without uttering a sound. I clenched my teeth, tightened my abs and stuffed sobs so hard that I turned blue. Afterward, I felt wimpy and embarrassed.

I must confess that I saw my old man cry once in my life. He and mom drove me to Oakland to board a troop ship for Korea. I kissed my mom in a parking lot of Oakland Army Terminal. She was sobbing, but that was standard operating procedure. I squeezed her and said, “Bye mom. I love you.”

Next, I reached over to shake dad’s hand. He pulled me to him and I heard a muffled squelch escape from his throat. It was unmistakable.

I turned quickly and double-timed it to the reception center and reported in. Dad was crying. I nearly lost it among the other GIs.

Now, as a senior soon to turn 70, I cry at the drop of a hat. Well, I don’t exactly bury my head in my hands and blubber — that wouldn’t be dignified. But I do tear up and choke back potentially wracking sobs as I watch three-hankie movies with my granddaughters. They cry too but then giggle when they see opa struggling to keep it together.

I also tear up at flash mob performances of the Hallelujah Chorus; seeing a service member home from overseas surprise his 8-year-old daughter in her classroom; hearing any song from “Les Miserables”; watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington; and listening to my 20-month-old grandson sing “Let it Go” from the movie “Frozen.”

Alas, in these latter years I’ve become a sappy mush-pot.

I took my wife and sister to see a performance of “Jersey Boys” not long ago. The music is from my era and brought back wonderful memories. Sis and Hedy loved it. I loved it too but got unexpectedly emotional. My nose was a faucet the entire performance, and I had to bum tissues off Sis. What a wuss.

My 15-year-old grandson, Ethan, is a high school freshman. He started this fall on the varsity soccer team. I watched him score the winning goal in the opening round of the North Carolina state playoffs. I whooped.

Then I cried.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.