His eyes moistened and a solitary tear streaked down his face. He’d warned me that it might happen, that he might cry, but I hadn’t really thought he’d been serious. We were at the office having an introductory meeting. Bradley (not real name) was a colleague and I was set to start a new project with him. We had agreed to meet in the summer when most of the work force was on vacation. With a slower pace at work, we figured that we could afford the luxury of taking a little time to get to know each other. The office lay out included cute little break-out spaces meant to provide non-formal spaces to meet, away from the rigidity of white-boards. We were seated at one such space with a round table and semi circular seat of a rich navy blue. An outrageously large but stylish lamp hang above the seating of a similar colour and the back rest was styled as bamboo sticks arranged side by side.

It was late afternoon and the sun peeked in through the high windows, with a little splash of sunlight finding its way to the seating area. It was in that sun-favoured spot that I had chosen to sit. I had gotten there early, and chosen to just sit and enjoy the sun, instead of rushing to finish something else.

When Bradley arrived, he tentatively said my name, checking if it was indeed me that he had planned to meet. We had never met so he only had my Outlook picture to go by. Once we confirmed that we were indeed talking to the right person, we jumped into the introductory conversation touching on career paths, early passions and family.

The conversation that had brought him to tears was on the latter topic. He had been describing how his 13 year old daughter had overcome bullying after moving to a new school and how she was now thriving. He said that after he’d turned 40, the water works would just go off on their own. He had been greatly affected by seeing his little princess go through such a harrowing experience as bullying, while he, her father and protector, had been unable to rescue her. Having her figure it out by herself and thrive is what had brought on the tears.

I regarded him with a mixture of wonder and jealousy. That a father would be so invested in the daily goings on of his daughter’s life was foreign to me. That he would be able to emotionally connect to her plight, was a reality I could not comprehend. But that he was moved to tears on account of a life experience his daughter had gone through, simply did not compute. This had not been an experience of my African upbringing. So I regarded him with wonder, much like a scientist might regard a specimen in a petri-dish.

The jealousy I felt was brought on by the the fact that his tears were so easily available and that he wasn’t ashamed to be crying in public. He was embarrassed, true; but not ashamed. I, tried to think back to the last time I’d cried and thought it was probably while watching a sad movie. I wondered how it felt like to be able to connect so directly to one’s feelings and act on them, no matter who was watching.

Must be nice.