What, Me Cry?

February, 1977

Midway through my freshman year of college, I received a "Dear John" letter from a young woman whom I professed to love demonstrably more than my own life. It was quite a letter. Her words—written with superb spareness—hurt me more than I had ever been hurt before. And so I reacted to the hurt in a way in which I think many members of my gender react when faced with a situation of inconsolable grief. I walked down to my dormitory bathroom and vomited in the sink.I didn't cry. Looking b...