Primal Fears

By Karen McCullough

A couple of months ago, my daughter and her three small boys visited from Indiana, staying with us for a couple of weeks. After the novelty of a new set of toys wore off, we looked around for things to do. Fortunately we live in a small city that has a lot of entertainment options for children. We took them to the local children’s museum, to the public library for story hour and to the park down the street.

Two daughters and three sons watching the giant turtles.
Unfortunately I didn't get a picture of the tiger.

One of the most successful trips was to the local science center/zoo. The weather co-operated with a warm, sunny day, and the kids had a blast watching monkeys swing from ropes attached to various parts of their habitat, seeing the meerkats as they scampered up and down logs and sandpiles, and viewing some spectacular and impressive birds.

Only one odd incident seemed out of place in the trip. We were walking along the zoo path, approaching the tiger enclosure. One enormous cat prowled gracefully along the edge of the inner fence. He’s a magnificent beast and unquestionably an alpha predator. Even with the double fence I felt a frisson of unease walking past him.

My three-year-old grandson, holding my hand as we ambled by, felt more than that. He let out a sudden shriek, grabbed both my legs, and yelled, “Don’t let the tiger eat me.”

I picked him up and assured him that we – myself, his mother, and his aunt – would not allow the tiger to get near him. He calmed down after that and never said another thing about it, even when we walked back past the tiger compound to return to the main building.

Later I thought more about his reaction. My daughter’s family doesn’t have a television in their house, though the children do watch a few carefully selected programs and movies online.  They read, or have read to them, a lot of books, probably a dozen or more a day. But those are childrens’ books.  How did he recognize the tiger as a fearsome predator that—had he come across it in the wild—might in fact have eaten him?

Admittedly he’s only three and the tiger is much bigger than he is. Its teeth are impressively huge. But the way he reacted seemed to be from something deeper and probably much more primitive than conscious comparison of his size with the tiger’s or even the tiger’s teeth. I suspect it’s the same instinct that makes most of us afraid of snakes and spiders, something baked in our brains from thousands of years of human experience

As a grandmother, I want to protect my grandkids from all the dangers they face. As a writer, though, I want to be able to tap into some of those primal feelings. If I can make the reader that afraid, or just as deeply sad, intensely relieved, or joyously happy, I’ve done my job. There aren’t many books that have brought me to that level, so I know it’s a hard thing to accomplish. But for a writer, it’s a goal worth striving for.

The Crying Game

by Gina Ardito

http://cheezburger.com/7105050368

I'm a big crybaby. For decades, I've been told I'm too sensitive, I take things personally, I like drama, and a dozen other accusations to explain my habit of bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. I make no excuses for my floodgates. In fact, I admit, I love a good cry. It relaxes me, re-balances my tumbled emotions, and often allows me to look at problems in a new way.

I cried the night before my wedding. Not due to jitters, but out of sheer excitement and an overabundance of love. When my daughter was born, I spent half the night crying. Ditto six years later when my son was born. Both times, for the same reason as my pre-wedding crying jag. When I had  to drop my daughter off at college for the first time, I managed to keep the tears in check until the drive home--when I blasted Bette Midler singing "Baby Mine" (a favorite song to cry to, originally in Walt Disney's Dumbo and always guaranteed to break me down when Mama Jumbo rocks Dumbo in her trunk). Songs have a huge impact on my tear ducts. Broadway show soundtracks get me every time.

And when it comes to movies, Dumbo's not my only source for waterworks. I cry at the same scenes in movies every time I watch them. I cry when E.T. dies, at Andy's funeral in Philadelphia, when Aurora pleads with the nursing staff to give her daughter "the shot" in Terms of Endearment, when the high school band plays Mr. Holland's Opus, and when Sarah begs her father to remember her in A Little Princess. I'm a glutton for punishment, and I'll watch these movies over and over, knowing I'll weep, and looking forward to it.

I cry when writing sad scenes in my books. I once killed off a character, then walked around the house in mourning tears for days. Forget those abused animal commercials. I can't look.

Scientists say that when we're stressed or upset, our bodies fill up with toxins, and crying is one of the ways we rid ourselves of those toxins. Tears heal our emotional wounds. Another reason we cry is in awe of something beautiful. Those who suppress the urge to cry tend to deaden their emotions, which isn't at all healthy. In fact, in Japan, "crying clubs" provide attendees with sad books, television shows, and movies to engender group cry-fests. Crying, like laughter, is a big part of what makes us human. 

In the words of coach Jim Valvano, "If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."

I think I'm well on my way. Are you?