Crying Room

Once again we’re hearing stories about Universities having safe-spaces and crying rooms. I didn’t go to college, no, I joined the military for my ‘higher learning.’

“To each his (or her) own,” is how I figured it.

We didn’t have safe-spaces. In fact, we really didn’t have any sort of space we could call our own – not with Drill Instructors emptying drawers, dumping out foot lockers, tossing mattresses and bedding around the bay and screaming in our ears.

We did, however have a crying room, though we never once dared call it that. We only used it twice, but believe you me, that was more than enough.

No, we called our ‘crying room’ the gas chamber. And I remember doing fine both times, not one tear shed, that is until ordered to remove my mask and suck in a lung-full of ‘2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile a cyanocarbon,’ commonly called CS or tear gas.

There’s a reason there’s a saying painted on the far wall that reads, “Even the Brave Cry Here.” Let the tears commence – followed by violent gagging and in some cases, projectile vomiting.