Column: Boys don’t cry but real men do

I think I frightened my nephew the other day.

Thirty-four-year-old Craig, who lives in Portland, Ore., stayed with Hedy and me in Costa Mesa for a few days. We had a wonderful time.

One night Craig and I became engaged in a conversation that took us to the outer realms of teleology and existence. We discussed issues relating to the purpose and meaning of life.

And we were both down with it! The conversation was compelling.

At one point we talked about Craig’s “opa” (grandfather), who also happened to be Hedy’s father and my father-in-law. To me, Opa was a second father. I loved the guy. He died more than 20 years ago, when Craig was 13.

Craig’s memories of Opa are the musings of an adolescent.

My nephew shared a story or two and asked me questions about his grandfather. At one point — from out of the blue — I broke into tears. I told Craig of the night shortly before Opa died when I told him that I loved him. Opa looked into my eyes and said, “I know, Jim.”

I came apart in front of my nephew. Not deep, wrenching sobs, mind you, but a catch of the glottis, a nasal back-snort and a bite of the lip.

Dang! Where’d that come from?

I felt so, well … awkward.

I mean, I used to hold Craig on my lap and pat his tousled head. Here I sat before him, vulnerable to the world, a sniveling wreck.

Ahem. How about those Dodgers? That was weird.

But Craig helped me to ultimately feel OK about my faux pas. He put a hand on my shoulder, nodded and blinked a couple of moist blinks. Just two dudes struggling with shifting cultural boundaries.

I’m well aware of the fact that as I’ve aged I’ve become bound by my emotions. But I hadn’t entered our deeply personal conversation expecting to bawl.

I hate showing weakness.

As a young man I eschewed crying. In my scheme of things crying was tantamount to wetting oneself. Men don’t cry. Ever. John Wayne didn’t cry. Mickey Mantle didn’t cry. My dad didn’t cry.

I stepped on a piece of glass in Newport Bay at age 6, nearly severing a tendon. I didn’t cry. I fell off the jungle bars in second grade and broke my elbow. I stuffed my tears. I took a rock to the forehead in a neighborhood brawl when I was 10 — and bled like a stuck pig — but didn’t weep.

Ta-dah: At one point in young adulthood I hadn’t shed a tear since the fifth grade.

In 1962, at age 17, I took my girlfriend to Hollywood to see the film, “West Side Story.” She cried. It was a moving story, and I truly loved it, but I was stoic. Not a tear.

A couple of months ago — 56 years later — I watched the film with four of my granddaughters (ages 12 to 17) and blew my way through a box of Puffs Ultra Soft tissues. I wept wantonly.

What happened to the stoic Carnett? I’m not sure. He grew up. Fell in love. Got married. Had kids and grandkids. Lost loved ones. And became mortal. Somewhere in all of this he dumped his embargo on yowling.

Crying, I’m told, is a stress reliever. It’s also said to lower blood pressure. And, as I’ve discovered in the last decade, it’s not a choice.

It’s understood that testosterone inhibits crying. When I was in my 30s, I bet I didn’t cry once a year — and, no, I’ve never been a bodybuilder.

But, as an enlightened modern male I still can’t walk into my bedroom, sit on the side of my bed, bury my head in my hands and let it fly. I can’t.

What I do is tear up and have a “globus sensation” (lump in my throat). I intentionally immobilize my diaphragm to short-circuit attacks of the spasmodic humph-humphs.

And — I don’t know if this is just me, but — I have an uncontrollable twitching at the corners of my mouth. Whaaaaat?

Could you pass the Puffs, please?

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.