BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY My father (Menachem) Imanuel Marx died Friday, November 13, 1964, when I was 13 years old. My mother woke my brother and I up with the news early that morning. We went to the hospital and saw him for the last time. I didn’t cry then. Daniel and I went to school that day. I didn’t tell anyone. Two days later at the funeral, I was still being “a man” (i.e. not crying). Until I was in my second men’s group around age 31, I didn’t allow myself to cry . I rationalized this by saying to myself: “ How does x compare with the death of my father ?”. I am self-identified as a Jewish man . Growing up that meant being intellectual and not emotional . Our Sabbath dinner was the only time in the week, when we couldn’t read at the table. While I was “schooled” on feelings through my men’s work (, most significantly through helping co-found Men Stopping Rape, Inc. in 1983), it was only several months ago that I was able to first
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