Personal Narrative: Eeing Adults Cry

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eeing adults cry has always made me profoundly uncomfortable. My family has never been open to emotional expression and I can count each instance I’ve witnessed an adult cry outside of a funeral or some other massively important life event on a single hand. This pseudo-phobia of mine reached its peak when I was approximately 13-years-old; I sauntered into the foyer of the recreation center where I spent my summers, ready to chatter about whatever mundane topics I felt direly needed to be discussed. Instead of the typical image of gleeful children prancing around with their newly greeted friends, I saw a mother wailing, begging Ms. Yolanda, the director of the center, to accept a deferred payment for that day’s field trip to the local baseball
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