This essay is not about my usual subjects such as politics or religion or the failures of mankind; it is about crying. Specifically, it is about the crying of men who have passed the age of puberty.
This past week has been a difficult week for me. On Tuesday, April 27, Jim Livermore called to tell me of his father’s death. His father, Harry, was my friend of more than 56 years. Naturally, I cried and so did Jim.
On Friday, May 2, we learned of the death of Sabrina Simmonds. Sabrina was the daughter of Kay and Garth Simmonds, a gentleman who works in the produce department at the Whole Foods Market in Millburn, New Jersey. To demonstrate the fragility of life, Harry Livermore was 92 and one half years of age. Sabrina, unfortunately, lived only five days after her birth. This may demonstrate what all of us have known for many years, that life is often cruel and at best, is a crapshoot.
I was informed of Sabrina’s death by Paul Byfield and by Alrick Simmonds, who is Garth’s brother. Judy, my wife, and I had looked forward to Sabrina’s birth and had kept track with Garth whenever we saw him as to how things were progressing.
Garth works two jobs. One is at the food market, and the other is at a transit company. If my understanding is correct, Garth was able to take time off from work at the food market but he could not make a similar arrangement at the transit company. We knew that Garth’s wife was due to deliver around May 1st and we had not seen him for several days, which we attributed to his staying home to attend to his wife.
When Paul Byfield and Alrick Simmonds met me on the floor of the produce department, one or the other said, “You’re family. You ought to know that Sabrina didn’t make it.” I knew that the child was to be named Sabrina, as Judy and I had prepared a letter to welcome her into this world. But as Paul and Alrick told me, Sabrina just didn’t make it. She was taken from us before we had a chance to even know her.
When the terrible news sank into my brain, I responded as I always do to such events by crying. Paul and Alrick comforted me by saying, “Hey, Ed, it’s OK to cry. You’re family.” At this point I ought to tell you that Paul Byfield and the Simmonds brothers, as well as Owen Ganae in the bake shop, are all Jamaicans. Taking one thing with another it is my considered judgment, after all these years, that the happiest and most outgoing people in the world are Jamaicans. Those Jamaicans came to this country some time ago in an effort to better themselves. Garth’s wife Kay is a Liberian who came here for the same reason and is studying nursing. She had hoped that the delivery of her child would not interfere with the examinations at the nursing school, which occur about this time of year.
So the Jamaican immigrants who do the heavy lifting told Judy and myself, “You’re family.” And they have told me, because of that reason, it is appropriate to cry.
Judy and I are extremely proud to be considered as part of the Jamaican family. They have our love and our support at every turn, and in my case, it is commonplace to expect that I would cry at the news of Sabrina’s being taken from us so early in her life.
Crying at bad news, particularly deaths, is not unmanly. During World War II, on more than one occasion, I wept at the knowledge that my bunkmates in the enlisted men’s barracks were gone. At the burial ceremony for a Scottish soldier who served with the British Eighth Army, I wept as the bagpipes played the mournful tune, “The Flowers of the Forest.” I was not alone.
But World War II is now a distant memory for those of us who were involved in it. Younger people consider it an ancient war that has no bearing on their future. I can understand that. But now we have two conflicts in far-off places called Iraq and Afghanistan. The maws of war in Iraq have claimed more than 4,000 of our soldiers’ lives. I weep at the waste of these lives, and I also weep because there is no light at the end of the tunnel.
I also weep at the loss of at least 200,000 Iraqi lives and at the displacement from their homes of 4 million of their fellow countrymen. This war is a disaster which shows no signs of ending soon.
Aside from weeping over the loss of life, it might also be observed that the war in Iraq has undermined the American economy, with the dollar dropping to record lows and with our prestige around the world in tatters. We are no longer feared by other countries in the world nor are we respected and admired. They view us as invaders and occupiers.
So you see, from my viewpoint, there is much to weep about these days. But I take comfort in knowing that we are part of the Jamaican family. When Paul and Alrick said, “Hey, Ed, it’s OK to cry. You’re family,” it gave me great comfort.
I suppose that the feelings of my Jamaican friends not only reinforces our welcome in their midst but also reminds us that we are all part of the family of mankind. The sense of familyhood clearly extends beyond the borders of a country. It involves all humankind.
The discussion with Paul and Alrick took place yesterday. Since that time, I have thought about them, about Garth and his wife Kay, and about Sabrina. And for reasons unknown to me, a poem cannot be shaken from my brain. It is “The New Colossus.” You may recognize it as the work of Emma Lazarus, whose family had been in this country since before the American Revolution. For whatever it is worth, Emma Lazarus was a Sephardic Jew. Perhaps her background in that faith gave her a deeper understanding of what it would mean to be an immigrant looking for a place to live and prosper. Biographical material also suggests that there were occasions when her Christian friends would refer to her as that “Jewess.” “The New Colossus” was written in 1883 and 20 years later, in 1903, the poem was inscribed and placed at the base of the Statue of Liberty. The poem reads as follows:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shores.
Send them, the homeless tempest-tost to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

I believe that Emma Lazarus’s poem aptly states the message that there is hope for all of the children of mankind, immigrant or native born.
For the Jamaicans who consider us part of their family, I would remind them that the Statue of Liberty is an immigrant herself. She was fashioned in France and shipped to this country to be assembled on a small island in the harbor of New York City. When Miss Liberty lifts her torch beside the golden door, it reminds all of us that we are part of the family of man. And as for the Jamaicans considering us part of their family, Judy and I are not only proud but flattered as well. Jamaicans enjoy life and are happy people. At our ages, happiness and joy are a wonderful thing to have. And if you see a grown man crying once in a while, put your arm around his shoulder and tell him that it is quite alright for a grown man to cry now and then. And then say that you understand.
This week ended with another tragic affair. It has nothing to do with immigrants but it may have something to do with the family of man. Today, the greatest horse race in this country took place, the Kentucky Derby. It was won by a burly horse named “Big Brown” with the second place going to a filly, a female horse, named “Eight Belles”. She was the only filly in this race. When Eight Belles passed the finish line, she collapsed and it was found that both of her front ankles were fractured. Unfortunately, this is a fatal injury for a race horse and she was euthanized while still on the racetrack.
When one of the trainers of Eight Belles was asked after the race for his reaction, he gave a very thoughtful reply. He said, “I did the manly thing. I cried.”
And so this quotation from one of the trainers of Eight Belles has been lifted to supply the title of this essay. Men and animals have a close relationship, and I am certain that the people who raised Eight Belles are grieving. Perhaps they will also cry and if that is the case, I would like to tell them that this old weeper understands.
E. E. CARR
May 3, 2008
Essay 312
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Kevin’s commentary: A few thoughts strike me here. The first is pride. Pop has made himself a member of quite a few families, including the Jamacians mentioned, a family of very kind Costa Rican immigrants, and of course his biological family. It speaks volumes of Pop’s character that he is so close to so many people. I got to meet Jenny recently and she treated Pop as well as any family member would. Pop is loved by a whole bunch of people, and that’s something he should be very proud of.
The second, though, is that this past weekend there was somewhat of an occasion for tears. My brother and I were visiting Pop and Judy in good old New Jersey. When it came time to leave, there were a good bit of crying all around, but none from Pop. Clearly from this essay, he knew that it was okay to cry, but he saw no real reason to do so. His empathy for others’ predicaments seems like it outstrips his own concerns by far, which is a rare quality in a man.
In honor of Mr. Livermore, here are five essays in which he is mentioned. He seemed like a heck of a fellow.
THE POWER OF PRAYER
“THERE’S NO REASON LEFT TO STAY HERE”
MORE ON THE MOTHER TONGUE
SYNONYMS FOR THE MALE UNMENTIONABLE
“LOWER THAN A WHALE TURD”