Rite of Passage

I awoke this morning thinking about my experience in the gas chamber. No, not that one. I'm far too young to be a holocaust survivor.



It was a rite of passage in the military. We all had to walk into the gas chamber in order to get through basic training. The gas was chlorobenzylidene malonitrile, a non-lethal gas used in military training, as well as for riot control by law enforcement.



We filed into the chamber in groups of five or so, with our gas masks on. We stood in front of the drill sergeant, who also wore a gas mask. The drill sergeant, however, got to keep his mask on. It was probably best to go first in this situation, as you didn't know what to expect and didn't have to stand there and watch someone else freak out when the mask came off.



I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest, awaiting that moment when my mask would come off. I dreaded it but knew that it was something I had to get through. We were instructed before we entered on what to expect. The drill sergeant would tell you to remove your mask and then ask your name and social security number. In those days, we didn't worry about identity theft. Besides, who would remember your information under such duress?



I watched with dread as soldier after soldier took off their mask and went into hysterics. One girl immediately ran outside before reciting her information and was told that she would have to walk through again.



When my turn came, I removed my mask and my senses were immediately assaulted by the most noxious fumes imaginable. I felt like I was dying. Any area of my body that held moisture burned as if I'd jumped into a lake of acid. I proceeded to recite my name and social security number, which came out as something akin to tormented gibberish. Thankfully the drill sergeant let me leave, satisfied that I'd done my duty. I ran out of that building faster than I'd ever run in my life and began my agonizing walk around the track to clear my mucous membranes.



Everyone walking the track was in various stages of coughing and crying, both of these processes being involuntary. The only thought in my mind at the time involved the sheer misery I was in.



As my sinuses began to clear, I became aware of new thoughts of how thankful I was to be breathing fresh air. The air that I'd always taken for granted was ridding my body of this noxious gas, restoring my sense of well-being. Dignity wasn't a concern; survival was the only thing that mattered. The track was full of female soldiers spitting the vile taste from our mouths, tears streaming down our faces, snot running from our noses. There is no glamour in becoming a soldier.



The lessons that I took from this experience were numerous and valuable. I learned that a sense of duty can pull you through the worse kind of hell and that the comaraderie you feel for those who travel through hell with you is invaluable. I learned to appreciate the many comforts that we take for granted as a nation and I came away with a deeper sense of empathy for those who lost their lives in a most undignified manner during the holocaust.

I realize that I was nowhere near death that day in the gas chamber. Still, I came away from the experience with a renewed appreciation for life. For a nineteen year old girl, a soldier's rite of passage also became one of womanhood. I carry those strengths to this day and they have made me the person I am.