A Worthy Weep: a Memoir-ic Reflection on Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air
On the whole, it’s probably wise that we as a culture have drifted away from the granite-like male sentiment that ‘real men don’t cry.’ Men can cry. That’s cool.
But that being said, as a man, I tend to shy away from a good, hearty cry. Call me old fashioned. As a six-foot-four male who weighs about the same as an adult black bear, I prefer a more stoic attitude toward life. It is no simple task to get these waterfalls gushing. But were you to walk into my Traber dorm room on one blustery January morning, you would find me strewn across a couch, a very recently read copy of When Breath Becomes Air sat ajar on my lap, looking as if I’d somehow mixed up my eyedrops with Jalapeño juice. I haven’t cried that much since Avengers: Endgame.
