Seán Moncrieff: I never cry. My generation of men had the tears bred out of us

Years ago, when I lived in London, I worked as a researcher on a Channel 4 series about Catholicism and sex. This was when everything was still banned in Ireland: divorce, abortion, homosexuality. So, as the resident Paddy on the research team, I was sent back to Dublin to do some preliminary interviews.

Among them was Nell McCafferty. Nowadays, the word “icon” has been all but worn out through over-use, but if anyone ever deserved the title, it’s her: a giant of Irish feminism and a frontline warrior in the battles over what we used to call the “moral issues”.

She was also (and I’m sure she still is) a fierce woman. I was a young fella, I had never met her before, and I was more than a little nervous about it. I feared that if I asked a stupid question, she’d tell me; or, worse still, she’d start listing out what questions I should be asking.

I can’t remember much about the meeting itself, except that it took place in her house and when it was over, she offered to give me a lift into town. What I do remember is that her car was old and battered and extremely messy. Part of the dashboard was shattered, wires spilling out. She turned the key, but the engine wouldn’t start. Nell explained, rather vividly, that the car was in this state because it had been stolen several times. She turned the key again. Still nothing.

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Then she burst into tears.

It didn’t last long. She wiped her eyes, eventually got the car going and we drove off. She didn’t reference the crying and I was far too intimidated to bring it up. But I was also starting to have a dim realisation about what I had just witnessed.

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As a young Irish man, I associated crying with fragility, with an embarrassing display of emotion that should only happen in private and only with people you know well. But this was completely different. The tears were prompted by frustration: a completely reasonable response to having her car repeatedly stolen. It was something she needed right then, and saw no need to explain or apologise for. What I’d witnessed was someone being emotionally healthy. As a young Irish man, I wasn’t used to that sort of thing.

Over the years, I like to think, I’ve evolved a bit. If I see someone in tears I don’t automatically assume something terrible has happened. Herself isn’t a big crier, but every now and again I can walk into a room and find her bawling: and it’s usually because she just needed a good cry. Not over anything specific. Just the bumps of life.

I never cry. Sometimes, I can feel myself welling up, or get a lump in my throat, but something within me always blocks it from going any further. Biology may partially explain this: testosterone is known to inhibit crying. Prolactin, a hormone that has higher levels in women, may promote it. But of course, it’s more than that. Even if I think the word “crying”, the phrase I’ll give you something to cry about pops into my head. My generation of men had the tears bred out of us. We were expected to be stoic, and if we couldn’t always manage that, then we could punch a wall or drink a bottle of whiskey. Or make a joke. That’s what I tend to do.

Yet there are situations where male tears are acceptable; and where it’s generally understood they have been prompted by relief or joy or emotional overload. Somehow, crying in response to sport has managed to bypass all the intergenerational male conditioning. But not all sport. You tend not to see tears at boxing matches. But if Ireland win the Rugby World Cup, or even get as far as the final, you’ll see men in absolute floods. I look forward to it.