A cousin used to call me Yaktot. I won't try to explain how I got the "tot" part of the nickname, but the "yak" is due largely to my propensity for crying. Oh how I would cry at the slightest fall, or at the faintest hint of childish oppression! Or at hair that wouldn't curl the way I wanted it to. A few jeers from my sisters and my Molave Street friends, and I would run home crying.
Probably because I'd shed a tad too many tears, I stopped being Yaktot in college. I'd cry every now and then--out of anger perhaps, or out of frustration. But rarely out of sadness, or loss. I was heartbroken when a younger cousin died, but I didn't cry the way most people do at funerals. I was realy, really sad when it was time to leave the Varsi people, but I don't remember crying during the farewell bonfire in Baguio. Heck, I didn't even cry at love stories gone awry!
And then, without warning, the tears came back. At a friend's wedding this morning, I just felt the need to activate my tear ducts. There I was, outside the reception hall, waiting for the trail of pictorials to end, when IT hit me. Maybe it's the picture of happiness, or the promise of enduring love. Or maybe it's the way the wedding singer sang Misty.
Whatever it is, I am grateful for the tears. It made me feel so alive. So very part of it all.