I was in the mood for some movie watching, perhaps a little Don Cheadle. Normally I would get my fix by watching popping in Ocean's 11 and 12 and getting a little 'Basher'. But this time, I decided to go for serious and revered Don Cheadle; how about Hotel Rwanda? Nothing gets a Saturday night going like tales of genocide. I'm not a big crier and I haven't done so in awhile, even though as of late I've been plagued by a bout of melancholy.
There's something about crying in public that is always seen as being weak. My parents aren't all too emotional, the first time I ever saw my father cry was this past June. He had just began recovering from a terrible spinal infection and heart infection. We were talking and he just started to cry. I sat across from him and did nothing, while I watched a normally loud and at times terrifying 60 year old man, cry.
When Paul and Gregoire are driving back to the hotel after getting supplies, they hit a rough patch in the road. They are driving close to a river and Paul fears that they're heading down a cliff towards the water and that Gregoire will crash into it, so he demands that the vehicle is stopped. He gets out of the car, into the fog. The fog slowly clears out and he realizes that they've just been driving over hundreds and hundreds of dead bodies. Bodies of people that had been massacred and left for dead in the road. Paul throws up in his own hands and returns to the car and tells Gregoire to never tell anyone of what they just saw.
I was in tears. They had been building for the entire movie, but I had been babysitting and you can't cry while a seven year old is upstairs watching Sponge Bob. At first it was just a few streaming tears then they progressively got worse. Worse because Paul left Tatiana in the caravan because he couldn't leave all of the rest of the refugees at the hotel. Worse because Paul thought that Tatiana had jumped off the roof of the hotel with their children. And worse, though tears of happiness, when Tatiana found her brother's children and they were able to leave for Belgium.
I ended up crying so much that when the parents returned home, I could barely look at them in the face, for fear that they'd notice my red eyes and perpetually runny nose. By then I thought it would stop though, I suppose I just needed a good cry. It's been something that has been building up for the past six months. It wasn't just about genocide, which in itself is awful and horrific, but also because I needed something powerful to bring on the tears. I needed something to make me cry about my feelings of shitiness about every fucking thing. I cried because in comparison to what I had just watched, nothing was that bad, I cried because I felt badly about crying.
Yup, I had finally I gotten what I was looking for and what I needed at this particular moment. A good cry. Now if only I can find something to make it stop…