When I was in kindergarten I was put in time out for singing too loud. I still attest to this day that I had in fact diminished my volume when the teacher asked and was wrongly punished. I felt this injustice as a five year old. My reaction: to cry. I cried the rest of the day at school, on the bus ride home, on the walk back home, under the dining room table.
In third grade I decided to call a teacher a bitch. Unfortunately I have always had a habit of speaking too loudly and at the same time not paying attention to my surroundings. The teacher heard me say this and punished me swiftly. I admit now looking back that it was a very cruel thing for me to say. I deserved the punishment. Of course I hate being in trouble though. My reaction: to cry.
On more than one occasion through out elementary school and middle school I would receive a poor grade. Now to me this met anything less than an A. Once I earned the highest grade in the whole class on an assignment most people failed. It was a B-. My reaction: to cry.
As a sophomore in high school I was fu**ing up royally during a volleyball match and my coach rightfully took me out of the game. I was so mad with myself and knowing she was equally disappointed made me even more upset. I went to the end of the bench and cried. At the sight of this, needless to say, I sat the rest of the game. My reaction: to cry more.
In college I received a C- on a paper. I think that was the first C I had every received on any paper in college. I was a junior. I went to see the teacher and figure out what I did wrong. She ripped each sentence to shreds. My reaction: to cry. Don’t worry she didn’t change my grade and she ended up being one of my favorite professors.
When I worked at National Geographic I was under a great deal of stress, as I was finishing up school at the same time. I wrote something and of course it wasn’t perfect. I blame shear exhaustion and maybe an unhealthy habit to be perfect, but as my boss sat and edited it, as she would anything I wrote I could feel it coming. I cried.
Two days ago the vet came over. Beaugarde was not any better. He was worse. I hadn’t slept very much and I knew I was leaving on Friday for a week. Not that my neighbors aren’t capable of taking care of my dog. I know Beaugarde gets slightly sad when I am gone. He shows his discontent by being disobedient when I get back. At the same time I questioned whether my neighbors would really want to hold Beaugarde up to go to the bathroom or heat up water and create a make shift warm compress for his legs.
The vet is just as puzzled as I am. He says he will think about it and then come back tomorrow. Then he says if he doesn’t get better after that I can just give him away and get a new dog. He might as well have just picked the dog off and hand him over to the meat venders, because that is what would happen. Here they kill dogs and eat them, and surely Beaugarde is no exception. My reaction to all this: to cry.
Unfortunately, in all these years, while I know it is not in my best interest to cry over such silly things I have gotten away with it. But I guess it is someone’s idea of a good joke that I am now living in a country, where it is totally UNACCEPTABLE to cry, especially over a dog—again dogs are food to many people here.
I try to hide in my house so no one knows I am crying, but at the vets insistence on just getting a new dog, one that is better, I can’t help myself.
My Maman comes to lecture me about crying. Saying I need to have courage and that everyone gets sick and that Beaugarde will get better. Il faut avoir patience. Then she says she is mad at me for crying is she is going to leave if I don’t stop. This of course makes me worse; I hate for people I care about to be mad at me. My reaction: to cry.
I take a bucket-shower and come into my room where Beaugarde is sitting. I lie next to him and cry some more. I want to get it all out before I show my face to Benin again. As I cry, Beaugarde crawls over to me the best he can and starts licking my face. He has been getting better ever since.
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