“Don’t cry.” I order myself. “I shouldn’t cry.” I assure again. But whenever I watch the terminally ill patient in “My Love beside Me” say his final goodbyes to his lover, or Alan Shore deliver his heartfelt speech in “Boston Legal,” or the fringe ski-jump national representative team claim its championship through painful endeavors in the 2007 Torino Olympics, I am unable to hold back my tears, again. Every time after I shed my tears, I become abashed at my namby-pambyism, but I can’t help it; I’m just moved too easily by heart-moving stories.

Like many other countries, Korea had a taboo against boys crying. There is an old Korean saying, “A boy is allowed to cry just three times in life. When he is born, when his mother passes away, and when his country perishes.” As ridiculous as it sounds, the three-time crying idea represented the deep-rooted and popular bias against boys, and “crying” in times other than the three was considered unmanly, or even deserving mockery.

Yet, despite being born with Korean blood, I cried a lot more than my allowed three chances. And yes, sometimes I cried because I had broken a bone or two, but most of times there was something more than physical pain behind my tears. It was this inexplicable sense of overwhelming that always made me cry. Sometimes it was sympathy, and sometimes it was extreme happiness; however, no matter in which shape or form it came, such overwhelming always brought a certain sort of awe and admiration along with it. The unconditional love between the soon-to-be-dead and his lover in “My Love beside Me,” or the profundity or genuineness of Alan’s speech in “Boston Legal,” or the perseverance of the team members in the Torino Olympics all stirred up a sense of marvel inside me. I was impressed by such people, fictional or nonfictional, because they displayed great qualities that could move the human heart, such as sacrifice, honesty, and strenuous efforts.

And slowly, impression triggered imitation. Whenever I encountered some great challenge or was discouraged by some terrible source of fear and sorrow, I would substitute myself with that Alan Shore or the Olympic Gold Medalist and urge myself to do what they would have done. When it was my turn to make a speech in the grand finals of a debate championship, I would tell myself, “Would Alan, the greatest attorney in America, ever be afraid to deliver a speech in front of a little pack of audience?” After I concluded the answer is, of course, no, I bravely marched to the podium. Or, when I was afraid that I would screw up my last shot in a basketball game, I would think, “I’m the hero of this game; I’m the gold medalist in Torino!” Unfortunately, a lot of speeches I gave were lousy, and even more shoots bounced off the rims. Nonetheless, it was the successful rest that mattered to me: some of the speeches were exceptional, and few of my last-minute shoots were the buzzer-beaters of the game. Then sometimes, my achievements would present that particular sense of overwhelming, and I would cry. The tears I shed were tears of immeasurable joy and happiness, and they were rapturous enough to make me ignore the embarrassment that would eventually come.

Everybody has his or her own secret pleasure in life, something that replenishes the vitality worn off from daily boredoms and becomes the motivation to try harder. For me, that pleasure is the ecstasy I can feel only when I am overwhelmed by myself; maybe because I’m truly proud of what I’ve accomplished or grateful for what I could do. Often, when I tried to pursue my secret delight, I had to pluck up the courage to confront challenges and make sacrifices, imagining what my personal heroes would have done in my situation. And that has made a great difference, allowing me to rise up as the national debate champion, a decent basketball player, and a much better person.

And now, recognizing what crying has brought into my life, I am thankful of the moments when I had burst into tears. The taboo still exists in my country, but I am no longer ashamed. In fact, I love to cry now, especially when I am proudly overwhelmed with my life. Some might say, “You’re too weak.” Too weak? Well, I am weak to my sort of stuff, but I’m glad that I am, because that wanting to cry has made me much stronger in many ways.