There is nothing as lucky, as easy or free

I can't exactly pinpoint when my perception of crying changed most recently because it's shifted so many times throughout my (and everyone else's) life. A baby usually wails through the first moments of life, after leaving the dark, warm, comfortable place it occupied for 9 months or so to a world blindingly bright, cold and sterile. Adjusting, he or she must unconsciously struggle to fill the lungs with air to get oxygen in and figure out what exactly is going on, a process much simpler while in the womb. First lesson on Earth: bawling demands attention. Even if only to maintain sanity, no hearing human being can sit through an infant's ear-splitting howls without seeking a way to just make it stop. It is the only real method of communication at this point. Soon the child learns to speak and motives begin to change. Powerfully sobbing tells others you fell off your bike or you really wanted the giant, bouncing ball in the store. It's learned quickly that tears don't always happen spontaneously but you can also stop or start at will. This is especially helpful to get siblings in trouble. The early years of schooling teach that gender plays a part in this display of feeling. Girls can cry because they are considered fragile, emotional and weaker. Boys crying in public is an invitation for laughter and name-calling from fellow males. Of course this varies depending on different cultures and the way parents raise children.
When I was 13, my Nana died. I was alone because I'd stayed home "sick" from school that day with mysterious (but hardly rare) stomach discomfort. My mom had called to tell me and I can't remember what my initial reaction was but I didn't cry. I thought well, that must've been the reason the day felt different. Even though she was 85 and had been in hospital for two weeks, I was genuinely surprised. To me, that situation meant nothing because every breath she had taken stemmed from endurance. Having been given last rites multiple times (including once when my dad was about 7), her spirit had seemed more powerful than death. I felt guilt for not crying. By this age, I had been conditioned to shut out emotions and push them elsewhere in an attempt to avoid the pain. Tears only meant crueler taunting or feeling embarrassment for showing vulnerability. I wasn't male but I wasn't delicate. Her wake was the first and only time I'd seen my father, and possibly any man, cry. My whole world had changed in that moment. With this abrupt disruption and her open casket in view, I bawled hard but as silently as possible, hiding my face in my father's dark suit. During times that crying would be socially accepted and even expected, I wouldn't or couldn't. My mother would cry during episodes of 'Touched By an Angel' or during yet another reading the story of the birthday balloon (now I guess I'll have to tell that one here soon). Something in me wasn't going to allow it.
Maybe after living with Taryn for so many years, that something broke down in me. A few years ago, on a day that I had to be certain all my emotions were in order, she found me blubbering in our living room while watching an Avril Lavigne video. Now, my eyes could water during an emotional point in a film, seeing something exceptionally beautiful or when hearing a heart-wrenching story. Normally, I'm not overcome when I'm sad but when I'm frustrated or feeling trapped by an adverse situation. I feel the emotion run through and come over me, energy that can only be sensed but not analyzed or perceived. I still don't cry very often. But when I do, I know that something powerful has gripped me that I can't just explain or reason away. It must be meaningful when it has been transmitted through that most inherent of communications. I suppose it still is embarrassing, depending on the circumstances but I've no choice but to accept it.