I've been crying a lot lately. The worst part about this crying, though, is that the tears are not my own. On the periphery of my stable and happy life I see tragedies. I walk by a bridge every day, that is painted with the name of a boy I never met, but who I feel like I could have liked. I hear about a boy I met a few times, who I envied for his ability to annihilate me in a high-school debate tournament, who never will debate again. I see one of my friends lose her own close friend and I begin to wonder if only the good die young.
I face the inevitable struggle of selfish Connelly and the selfless, nameless good girl. Do I feel sad because something sad happened? Or do I feel happy because something sad did not directly happen to me? Clearly I've given in to the sad, selfless tears. I cry for lives that ended too soon and, yes, out of fear that my own life may be just as fragile as anyone else's. I want to give into something else. Something that is entirely selfish and will make me feel good. Is it OK to laugh when people I know are crying?
Laughter is a remedy. It is not the cause, but the effect. If laughter is really working, really washing away everything that has settled deep on your chest, your head, your heart - then it hurts. The only kind of laughter is the debilitating kind. If I'm not crying when I'm laughing, then the old tears that shrouded my heart only moments ago will not have gone anywhere.
What's the cause if tears of joy are the effect? I'd like to think that there are two levels of causation when it comes to belly laughs, or as my sister likes to call them: "mini ab workouts." There is the moment. Anything could happen. What makes me bend over, with my mouth wide, seeking words to exclaim so the world can feel my mirth, may seem horribly dull or inane to you.
Here are my moments. That time at sail camp when Emelie could not roll up her sail but had a very serious look on her face when she strolled by, lumpy roll of white cloth bundled under her arm. That time I drove my parents home from a too-long dinner and they sang made-up lyrics from the backseat. That time Mitchell and I went skinny dipping in the ocean and Sissy and Erica ran back to the beach house with our clothes so that we were left to streak our way home.
I have more, but these are the ones that I think about often. I'll be reading or writing or watching TV and something sparks the memory of the moment. That's the second level of the "cause," the memory. There's nothing like the laughter in the moment. Never again will I roll around in the sand, naked and happy and finding my situation more hilarious than anything I'd ever been through before. But the memory can suffice. Knowing that I laughed like that at one place, one time, not too long ago, reminds me that I can do it again.
Can I sit down the friends and family of those who were there and then gone and ask them to please laugh with me? Can I put on a stand-up routine from one of my favorite comedians - Daniel Tosh or Ellen DeGeneres - and ask them to please join in?
No. Laughter can be shared but only those people who need it most, will let themselves need it most.
The other day I was sad because I was alive and there were so many people who were not. I was sad because I had a lot of homework to do and that seemed like a silly thing to worry about. My sister tried to cheer me up all day but I refused to let her into my circle of selfish wallowing. Then I made a joke. Sometimes I find myself inadvertently making jokes because the people who surround me are too funny, too inherently happy to expect anything less from me.
Sissy responded to my joke and we started a thread of ridiculous and insipid comments that resulted in our howls reverberating throughout Alderman. It hurt to laugh like this because I did not want to. It hurt to laugh like this because my extended grin perpetuated my pounding headache. I hadn't felt so good all day.
There's a James M. Barrie quote that I carry around in my head: "God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December." I'd like to think that the beautiful bud on the tip of a stem of thorns is nature's embodiment of laughter. My wish and my hope for those who find themselves crying is not to laugh, but to remember that they can.
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com
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