I got a shot today. Went to the doctor and took it in the hip, bravely.

Walking out, I joked to the nurse, “Do I get a sticker?” “If you were a big boy,” she quipped.

“What do you have to do to be a big boy?” I inquired. “Not cry,” she answered. “That’s what big boys do. Did you cry?”

“No.” I said, wanting to be perceived as a big boy and not immediately recognizing the myth I was buying into. Within seconds I figured out the stream of consciousness that I had unconsciously joined and proceeded to give her a bit more conversation than she was expecting. “No, I didn’t cry,” I reaffirmed and then added a most eloquent sixty-second lecture that detailed my mental model of the world as it relates to boys, men, and crying. I ended by reassuring her I had cried often and that my definition of manhood had little to do with hiding feelings or pretending to be brave. I even included how Pete Rose stood at first base and cried when he broke the all time, major league record for number of base hits in a career.

The nurse appeared unfazed by my incredibly intelligent speech and responded with, “Well, since you didn’t cry, you can pick a sticker.”  “That’s what big boys do.”

Four rolls of stickers were placed on the counter and presented to me from which to select my big boy reward. My choices included a football, soccer ball, basketball, and a baseball. Left purposefully on her desk, well out of my reach, were the stickers containing a ballerina, Dora the Explorer, sparkly stars, and an assortment of flowers. A second, and even more eloquent, sixty-second lectured welled up inside of me. I decided to save the second lecture for another time and place, took a baseball sticker, displayed it on my shirt, said “thank you,” and walked out.

That’s what big boys do.

Chick Moorman