Alone in a closed metal tube, 40,000 feet above land and miles from anyone you know. Surrounded by people who share your fate, but who do not acknowledge you. They, like you, sit facing forward in rows, focusing on their own discrete box of space. The cabin is dim and it hums; you look down at your folded hands in your lap, lit by a pool of light from above. There’s nothing to do: no email to check, no messages to send out, and minimal distraction. If you felt a gaping hollow open up inside, if you thought you were not going to make it, you would have no way to reach out to your loved ones.
Is it such a stretch to imagine a commercial plane as one of the loneliest places in the modern world? Why is seat 27F on the 6:35 from JFK to LAX the perfect place and time for a good cry?
Recently, I sat with a few friends around a table in an apartment in the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn. It was after dinner, and we were drinking rum I had brought back from a recent trip to Nicaragua. The conversation moved from travel to flying and then turned to tears.
“I cried during Miss Congeniality,” my friend Connie said. “I remember the whole time thinking ‘this is so embarrassing that people can see that I’m watching Miss Congeniality and crying.’ But, there’s something about being on an airplane that makes me feel like it’s okay.”
Immediately, everyone chimed in with their own versions of Connie’s experience. We all had some story of choking up while flipping through satellite TV, catching glimpses of sitcoms and insurance advertisements and breaking down.
There’s no scientific research on the phenomenon, though, and there isn’t even much coverage in the popular media. However, it’s become quite clear that this experience isn’t limited to my small social group. In researching the subject, I’ve heard from mothers, young couples, sturdy middle-aged men, grandmothers, irony-obsessed millennials, and more; a 2011 segment on This American Life showcased writer Brett Martin’s tearful breakdown on a plane during the end of the Reese Witherspoon vehicle Sweet Home Alabama.
In 2011, the airline Virgin Atlantic ran a survey asking customers to describe their on-flight emotional experiences. Overall, 55 percent of travelers said they had “experienced heightened emotions while flying,” and a striking 41 percent of men stated that they had “buried themselves in blankets to hide tears in their eyes from other passengers.”
There are many theories about why humans cry ranging from the biophysical to the evolutionary. One of the most compelling hypotheses is Jeffrey Kottler’s, discussed at length in his 1996 book The Language of Tears. Kottler believes that humans cry because, unlike every other animal, we take years and years to be able to fend for ourselves. Until that time, we need a behavior that can elicit the sympathetic consideration of our needs from those around us who are more capable (read: adults). We can’t just yell for help though—that would alert predators to helpless prey—so instead, we’ve developed a silent scream: we tear up.
“It’s the biological equipment used by infants to maintain proximity to their caregivers,” explains Ad Vingerhoets, professor of social and behavioral sciences at Tilburg University in the Netherlands, and one of the world’s leading experts in crying. Vingerhoets agrees with Kottler: the basis of crying is in forming and maintaining attachments.
But with adults, the issue becomes a bit more knotty. In a study published in 2000, Vingerhoets and a team of researchers found that adults, unlike children, rarely cry in public. They wait until they’re in the privacy of their homes—when they are alone or, at most, in the company of one other adult. On the face of it, the “crying-as-communication” hypothesis does not fully hold up, and it certainly doesn’t explain why we cry when we’re alone, or in an airplane surrounded by strangers we have no connection to.
As adults, we cry for complex and diverse reasons: we cry in grief, or in reverence of the self-sacrifice of another, or in awe of the beautiful and sublime, or alone in our bedrooms, screaming internally at our own inadequacies. All these multifaceted experiences do, however, share a common underpinning.
In the same 2000 study, Vingerhoet’s team also discovered that, in adults, crying is most likely to follow a few specific antecedents. When asked to choose from a wide range of reasons for recent spells of crying, participants in the study chose “separation” or “rejection” far more often than other options, which included things like “pain and injury” and “criticism.” Also of note is that, of those who answered “rejection,” the most common subcategory selected was “loneliness.”
In both adults and in children, “the prototypical situations that induce crying are always related to loss or separation, and/or powerlessness,” Vingerhoets says—our experiences of these things just change with age. While, as adults, crying no longer functions as a means of keeping our caregivers close, it still retains a vestigial element of attachment—we keep crying past the point of its practical usefulness because of a deep, lingering lack.