*I like the title game; you guys did a good job last time; Newg was remarkably swift with his response. So I ask again, where does this week’s title come from? Hint: it’s not a film. Also, quick note: I was writing this on the stoop when the last paragraph actually happened. It is not a device; those were my thoughts when I heard the notes rise to my ears.
It makes me laugh, sometimes, hearing the children cry. Especially the young ones, the under-fives, the ones who speak in squeaky voices, with no conception of grammar. It’s even better when there’s more than one and their voices chorus and Doppler, wobbling in and around each other, like the sound of a tuned guitar string ringing over that of an un-tuned one. I like this sound, this shrieking choir; I smile whenever I hear it.
Because the kids are young, malleable, prone to eating dirt and running into walls, and usually (at least the ones I’m around) well cared for by their families, I know when they cry that nothing, really, is all that wrong. A scraped knee, perhaps, or porridge for dinner instead of rice. At the worst, the kid’s bit his own tongue, or peed his pants, or was pushed by another crier (who, though in tears him/herself, is automatically disqualified for cuteness due this habit of pushing other children to the point of tears).
I like the way these kids cry because, really, it’s just so honest. I know that whatever they’re crying about isn’t a big deal; I also know, and this is what makes it so damn poignant for me, that these kids, these little children—who will remember probably nothing before their fourth birthday, who have absolutely no frame of reference, who are absolutely and excusably naïve—they believe that whatever hazard has shown itself (including, but not limited to, any of the scenarios listed above) to be the most devastating tragedy they can imagine. There is sincerity to their tears, an emotional honesty that cannot but be beloved and admired.
I admire this so much because it is corrupted so quickly. Though character varies from child to child and cannot really be categorized by age, I lump the six-to-ten year olds in the group Children Whose Tears Annoy and Anger Me. Children in this group cry even when they know they have not been wronged, or that worse things have happened or will happen. These children are attention seekers, standing in the street like Pharisees, there for all to see. For them, crying is not a form of self-expression, as it is with the adorable ones; rather, it is a way of manipulating their (weak-willed, likely morally corrupt themselves) parents. These budding con artists are easy to spot. Their eyes remain calm in their distress, and all cherubic features are hideously distorted (needless to say, cute cries look even cuter when they cry, like my little buddy Pilakyem, whose face squishes together so that his nose looks like a chocolate raspberry ready to pluck); they also exhibit tantrum symptoms, like The Throwing of Rocks at Others’ Shins, The Slamming of Doors, the tell-tale Unnecessarily High-Pitched Screaming, and the give-away No Visible Nose Running.
In my compound Theo and Bien-Être are the con artists. They cry when it is convenient, when it is too quiet, when, simply, they have not heard a plaintive wail for what seems to them too long. They can turn it on and off at will. They hit their mothers and defy their fathers. They are not welcome on my stoop; I will not stand such behavior.
Thankfully, though, the little dickheads are balanced by Pilakyem and Martine. Not once have the tears of either of these kids upset me, except to direct my wrath toward the other two who, inevitably, either pushed them down or stole something from their tiny, beautiful hands. You really should see them cry, Pilakyem and Martine. It’s almost too cute for words. Pilakyem, with his skinny legs and his big brown eyes; Martine, who I suspect is retarded, with her chipmunk cheeks and her skin like creamed coffee shining in the sun.
Whenever I hear them begin to sob I want to run to them, sweep them into my arms, cover them with kisses. Which, come to think of it, is all I ever really want to do to them; but when they cry, the instinct is irresistible.
Ah, there goes Pilakyem right now, crying from the other side of my fence. I will go to him. I will lift him to the sky, his scrunched, distraught face shining down on me. I will pull him close, and hug him, and tell him everything will be fine. Oh, I will hold him, notched above my hip. I will hold him, wrapped around my belly, while he snots in my shirt. Yes, I will lift and comfort this beautiful, beautiful child—unless, of course, he’s peed himself again. In that case, well, I’ll let his mother handle it.
