FLASHBACK

As a young boy, I played hard and consequently fell hard too - diving on the asphalt to save a ball and scraping my knees and hands, nonchalantly climbing through barb-wire fences to go fetch a ball, clumsily handling sharp or corroded metal objects and cutting myself with them accidently, etc. I must've been about six or seven at the time when one of those accidents occured. Immediatly, I was frisked away by my parents inside the home for first aid, and then right away to a nearby doctor's clinic for an anti-tetanus shot. Of course, I really didn't care much for the first aid or for the shot - I just wanted to play more. But, for a boy that young, a sight of a needle and the idea of it being pierced into your flesh - on purpose - seems barabaric. And painful. Like other times before this, I bawled and cried and the shot-spot on my butt went sore, and I cried some more.

All the way through the ride back home, while my mom tried to console me, I continued to cry a river. By the time we reached home, my loud cry had diminished to a quiet sob and a sad face. With my eyes still moist, and my cheeks red from rubbing all those tears off of them, I slowly headed for the door, still clinging to my mom. At the door was my sister, concerned.
"Is he done with his shot? Did he cry?"
"Oh no, not at all! He is a brave boy. He didn't cry one tear out!"
"He is a big boy now. He does't cry!" said my father, who wasn't far behind.
My sister, three years older - and smarter - played along. "Oh very good, bro, very good. You've become a big boy now!"
There I was - the sad face, the red cheeks, the moist eyes. Perplexed.

Since then, I've not cried while taking shots. I've sucked it all up. Medical shots or otherwise.

Some memories from your childhood stick forever in the head, and then you connect the dots and you realize that those are the moments that make you who you eventually ARE. Emote, I don't. I can't.