even though i would prefer to say nothing, since it is something i must do on this occasion, let me just say this: i am a storyteller, so i am going to tell you some stories. when i was a third-grade student in the 1960s, my school organized a field trip to an exhibit of suffering, where, under the direction of our teacher, we cried bitter tears. i let my tears stay on my cheeks for the benefit of our teacher, and watched as some of my classmates spat in their hands and rubbed it on their faces as pretend tears. i saw one student among all those wailing children – some real, some phony – whose face was dry and who remained silent without covering his face with his hands. he just looked at us, eyes wide open in an expression of surprise or confusion. after the visit i reported him to the teacher, and he was given a disciplinary warning. years later, when i expressed my remorse over informing on the boy, the teacher said that at least ten students had done what i did. the boy himself had died a decade or more earlier, and my conscience was deeply troubled when i thought of him. but i learned something important from this incident, and that is: when everyone around you is crying, you deserve to be allowed not to cry, and when the tears are all for show, your right not to cry is greater still.
here is another story: more than thirty years ago, when i was in the army, i was in my office reading one evening when an elderly officer opened the door and came in. he glanced down at the seat in front of me and muttered, "hm, where is everyone?" i stood up and said in a loud voice, "are you saying i'm no one?" the old fellow's ears turned red from embarrassment, and he walked out. for a long time after that i was proud about what i consider a gutsy performance. years later, that pride turned to intense qualms of conscience. bear with me, please, for one last story, one my grandfather told me many years ago: a group of eight out-of-town bricklayers took refuge from a storm in a rundown temple. thunder rumbled outside, sending fireballs their way. they even heard what sounded like dragon shrieks. the men were terrified, their faces ashen. "among the eight of us," one of them said, "is someone who must have offended the heavens with a terrible deed. the guilty person ought to volunteer to step outside to accept his punishment and spare the innocent from suffering. naturally, there were no volunteers. so one of the others came up with a proposal: since no one is willing to go outside, let's all fling our straw hats toward the door. whoever's hat flies out through the temple door is the guilty party, and we'll ask him to go out and accept his punishment." so they flung their hats toward the door. seven hats were blown back inside; one went out the door. they pressured the eighth man to go out and accept his punishment, and when he balked, they picked him up and flung him out the door. i'll bet you all know how the story ends: they had no sooner flung him out the door than the temple collapsed around them.