Brandi Carlile made me ugly cry

And I got the shirt to prove it

Yesterday was Mother’s Day here in the United States (and Canada¹). If you drop a card in the mail today, she probably won’t notice (go ahead, we’ll wait). Given that I am known to align with the calendar (see here, here, and here, too), it would make sense for this to be about mothers. Close. While it’s not about mothers or a mother it is about The Mother, by Brandi Carlile, how it made me ugly cry, why I (literally) wear that with a sense of pride, and why men should proudly feel fully, too. 

Before getting into the specifics of that date, some context. When I was a boy, I cried. Over everything. It may have been an innocent slight on the playground (it was my turn on the swing); calling me Germy instead of Jeremy (even if, like my youngest, it’s simply how one attempts to pronounce my name); a not-so-good test result shared with my mom (always the perfectionist, always running to my mom); bursting into tears when a friend cut the video recording of my choreographed U Can’t Touch This music video in 5th grade before we made an “M.C.” with our bodies (Hammer, don’t hurt ‘em); or a neighborhood boy making fun of my jacked-up tube socks and tucked-in polo shirt into even more jacked-up shorts (eat your hearts out, hipsters).  

And it wasn’t always crying when I was on the receiving end of some perceived slight: I remember bawling when I accidentally took a slap-shot into that same neighborhood boy’s nose with a wooden baseball bat - to be fair, I did yell “slap-shot!” - afraid of the wrath from his dad we (dis)affectionately called (SYNONYM FOR ANGER THAT RHYMES WITH SPURIOUS) (FIRST NAME OF A MEMBER OF THE BEATLES)². I didn’t do myself any favors, either: when a boy up the street called me a “poser” for wearing a Colorado Rockies hat I responded with “isn’t it ‘an opposer?’” Insert tears on the walk home.

I was a highly sensitive child³, as Elaine Aron would have defined it.  Everything overwhelmed me. Having two girls who are prone to crying fits - like when we just asked our oldest to take a bath, followed by the younger when we said her mom was going on a vacation for a few nights alone⁴ - I have to imagine it was exhausting for my parents.  Sometimes the most difficult thing as a parent is seeing a past perceived weakness in oneself manifest in one’s children. 

“He’s in my house eating my birthday cake.” - Adam Gibson, The Sixth Day

Now, this is where I confess something not because I’m unafraid of the reaction but because it’s authentic, part of what made me who I am, and I’m willing to be vulnerable, which is a prime catalyst for growth and community: I also played with dolls. My mom thought it would help create a boy who would one day become a well-rounded man. There was no way that she would know that I would one day be blessed with two daughters so while the practice did prove worthwhile training for braiding hair, playing with their dolls and helping with outfits, it was something I about which I did not boast. So in addition to NERF Bow and Arrow, G.I. Joe, MicroMachines, LEGOs and other toys, I had - and my kids still have, upon a visit to their grandparents’ house - dolls.  So, now you know.⁵

As a teenager, I readily admitted that I didn’t mind having an emotional side. I vividly recall going to see Titanic with two girls in high school, sobbing the whole time to the lyrical bliss that is Celine Dion⁶ and not feeling lesser for it.

Yet as I got older, perhaps as a way to suppress the waxing (or is it waning?) feminine in me, I did a few things I’m not proud of. I avoided books by female authors. I rarely listened to music by female artists (and this was during the time of Napster when no one paid for music). But worst of all, I pulled away from my mom. I stopped going to her for advice. I no longer talked to her daily. There’s an old Irish saying: “A son is a son till he takes him a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life.” Having two sons, but no daughters, I can only imagine this stung my mom twice. I strive to live without regrets. Alas.⁷

So that brings us to June 16, 2019. Manchester, Tennessee. Bonnaroo’s What Stage. Father’s Day. I was there alone (yes, my wife and I take solo vacations, but more on that later) enjoying the start to the last evening of music before heading back to reality the next day. The fatigue of late nights followed by early mornings; the buzz of White Claws proceeded by IPAs setting in.  Brandi Carlile had just finished an Elton John cover and was heading down the back stretch of a set that would end with her getting the key to the city by Mayor Lonnie Norman as the artist who most embodies the Bonnaroo spirit as the first woman to receive the award - and if her applause when standing in with the late, great John Prine is any indication, well deserved - when she started to introduce her song, The Mother.  

Now, for those not familiar with the song nor with Ms. Carlile I say: for shame. I only partially say that in jest as I wasn’t an early acolyte of Brandi (recall, my avoidance of female artists). I admit that the first time I heard her name, I thought someone was mispronouncing Belinda Carlisle.⁸ When I finally gave her a listen, I was gobsmacked. Her voice, the intensity, the lyrics, the raw emotion.  It unleashed something in me.  So when I sheepishly texted Brandon that I needed to see her live, he said her song “The Joke” cuts him every time (apologies for the confession-by-proxy, friend). 

So that June night, before starting up the first notes to The Mother, Brandi took to the microphone. She spoke about it being Pride, about her family’s right to exist, about how her oldest turned five the day before, how she missed her birthday, and how she and her wife didn’t tell their daughter it was her birthday who didn’t even know she was five yet.  If that wasn’t enough, before dedicating it to all the fathers out there, she continued:

The biggest compliment I ever get when I play this song is when I can make a sweet daddy cry.

So there I was, like Lloyd Christmas and Harry Dunne watching the Pacific Bell commercial in Dumb & Dumber. I had reached back into the body-convulsing, snot-producing, blurred-vision bawling of my youth. I could have blamed the fatigue of an end to an exhausting weekend or the alcohol but the truth is, it was just me feeling fully.  I loved every damned second of it. And from the look of it, I wasn’t the only “sweet daddy” crying. My compliments, Ms. Carlile.

For those who know me, I lack a poker face and tend to wear my heart on my sleeve. So when Brandi Carlile was set to play her first MSG show, just three months later, what better way to show my pride than to wear it.⁹  

And proud of it. MSG, September 14, 2019

As we conclude, I’m reminded of a quote I used to hang on my cubicle wall that Jimmy V. made at the ESPYs on March 4, 1993: 

To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heckuva day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.”

Jimmy Valvano died from cancer 55 days later. And while he did not specifically mention tears of sadness, his overall message - to feel fully everyday - is something we can all do to be better men. We owe it to our wives and girlfriends, our sisters and mothers, our daughters and others. And we also owe it to our fathers, brothers and sons, our husbands, boyfriends and male friends.¹⁰ But most importantly, we owe it to ourselves as individuals.

You may wonder what I’m going to do to feel fully. First, I’m going to call (not text) my mom. Then, I’m going to continue reading Brandi Carlile’s memoir, Broken Horses (a book by a woman known to make me cry, in public no less - a two-for-one).  And when I’m done, I plan to pass it on to a fellow man knowing that it may just make him feel fully, too.  But more on that later.

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Here’s the rock, (crying) Jordan.

When was the last time you watched, listened to, or read something that made you cry? When was the last time you ugly cried?  How about the last time you read a book by a woman to tap into something deeper within you? 

Need some inspiration? I dare you to watch this and not well up with some sort of salty discharge¹¹.  Tell us how that made you feel.

We’re building a community, connection by connection, and we need your help bringing this project to others.  

1. Eh?

2. Name partially obstructed, but this may help.

3. As an affiliate of Bookshop.org (read: they are not Amazon), project kathekon will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. You’ll also help a local independent bookstore in your community.

4. Recall, we take separate vacations.

5. And knowing is half the battle.

6. First reference to that angel from the Great White North, but not the last.

7. I’m sorry, Mom.

8. The irony of the Germy/Jeremy conundrum isn’t lost on me.

9. My favorite reaction to the shirt was from an older woman who only saw the words “MADE ME UGLY” and said “Boy, no one made you ugly!”

10. I’ve always wondered: why is it that women call their female friends “girlfriends” but men do not do the same with their brethren? Perhaps an exploration for another day.

11. Told you it wasn’t the last reference.