On Crying in Public

When Gazes Avert.

There was one day in particular this past December-the week before Christmas, to be exact-where I cried in public for over an hour. If the force with which tears release themselves can be categorized on a scale between 1 and 5, mine alternated steadily between 4 and 5 pretty much the whole time. First, in my cubicle at work, which I left immediately. Then on the eight block walk to the subway, where I switched between sobbing into a cell phone mouth piece to no one in particular when certain people did not answer their rings. Finally, on a thirty-five minute subway ride, where I maintained little anonymity in an less-than-crowded car on a Wednesday or Thursday afternoon in broad day light, several hours before New Yorkers tune out their miserable work days with music, newspapers, or the latest Stieg Larsson novel. In spite of my preoccupation with my own situation that day, I remember being simultaneously aware that I was that girl - the one exposed to perfect strangers who break out in sweats trying diligently to avoid eye contact while running through a myriad of reasons as to why the magnitude of her tear-scale is skyrocketing (a break-up? a death in the family? a scandal at work?). And yet, as the hour progressed, I also recall making eye contact with not a single person, except for my co-worker who bravely struck up a conversation simply to say, Go home. The bystanders were successful in their gaze aversions because to catch the eye of a level-5 crier is risking becoming part of their story, even if the gaps in between are never uncovered and they never truly understand where exactly they fit in. Enjoy!

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