3B
Wednesday, February 14, 2018 // The Statement 

Soundtracking: Crying in Public

N

othing is simultaneously as 
embarrassing and relieving 
as letting the waterworks 

flow for the entire world to see.

Yes, I know everyone is staring and 

whispering about this grown child (I 
am in no way a grown man, so I guess 
this’ll have to do) breaking down and 
sobbing rather loudly on the fourth 
floor of the Shapiro Undergraduate 
Library. But if you think about it, it’s 
pretty beautiful that everyone trying 
to study is witnessing my cynical, 
20-year-old shell melt away.

Gross.
Sometimes it be like that. Some days 

it’s stressing about work, some days 
it’s the inner psyche knocking, some 
days it’s because I can’t find my second 
glove. Life is overwhelming sometimes 
and a good sob is some pretty solid 
medicine.

I’m not talking about crying at the 

movie theater. Everyone does that. You 
aren’t special. I cried last week while 
watching a certain movie with an 
infamous peach scene.

Visions of Gideon — Sufjan Stevens
For starters, when you expect to 

cry at a movie based on what you’ve 
already heard about it, it is a largely 
anticipated action. You prepare. You 
grab extra napkins on the way into the 
theater. You wear your fuzzy crying 
sweater (everyone has one of those, 
right?) and every fiber in your being is 
prepared. On top of the anticipation, 
many other people in the theater are 
also crying. The other sniffles give 
you solace and let you know you aren’t 
alone. The best is when one person out 
of everyone in the theater isn’t crying. 
Then they feel left out while everyone 
releases their inhibitions à la Natasha 
Bedingfield.

Get a heart, Tin Man.
While cathartic, I get much more 

satisfaction after the fact when the cry 
comes out of nowhere. It’ll suck in the 
moment but when it’s over, you walk 
forward with a new outlook on life.

And your face is squeaky clean.
I think it’s safe to say everyone at 

this University has cried in public at 
least once. If this isn’t the case, I have 
cried enough to cover at least four or 
five people bottling up their feelings. 
In the wise words of John Mulaney, 
“I’ll just keep all my emotions right 
here and then one day, I’ll die.” Stress 
just hits you every once in a while. Let 
that shit go.

Responsibilities — Thane, BJ the 

Chicago Kid, Anderson .Paak

When I’m in the middle of a book, 

all responsibilities fall by the wayside 

(besides 
this 
column 
of 
course). 

This was indeed the case recently. 
When I finished a heart-wrenching 
autobiography by poet and musician 
Patti Smith, I was at peace. Then, I 
thought for two seconds about how 
much work I had skipped over because 
I couldn’t stop reading. I had so much 
to catch up on and the thought made 
me buy a one-way ticket to Sobsville. 
I was riding first-class, getting served 
tissues and blankets and pints of ice 
cream while I composed myself.

After, I was ready to work. You just 

need that mini freak-out to drive you 
to get shit done.

But this cry is caused by stress. 

Stress is terrifying and everyone 
should acknowledge it as such.

I am more baffled by the cries that 

come out of left field. I can’t really 
justify it by saying I woke up on the 
wrong side of the bed. Sometimes cries 
smack you upside the head with no 
explanation.

Fire of Unknown Origin — Patti 

Smith

I’ll set the scene. I’m walking through 

Angell Hall after lecture, just got out. I 
wouldn’t say it was a particularly great 
lecture, but nothing that happened 
in class would reasonably be sad or 
stressful. It’s not like my voice cracked 
in the middle of lecture or anything 
like that. That would be absolutely 
ridiculous and I would definitely sob 
after that.

I’m walking through the halls and 

I walk past the vending machines. 
Another student is staring at the 
options, carefully weighing which 
high-in-sodium 
snack 
she 
has 
a 

hankering for today. Completely normal 
action. As I pass, I watch her type in 
the number of the corresponding snack 
on the keypad. It should be a successful 
transaction if she concentrated. Just 
then, tragedy rears its wicked head.

The moment the machine registers 

the number the student chose, it begins 
to dispense the snack. It turns out the 
student misread the snack she wanted 
and hit the wrong number, resulting 
in a different outcome than she had 
planned. With her head hung low, 
she bends down and reluctantly takes 
the snack she never truly wanted and 
walks away. I stop dead in my tracks.

Oh no.
I Feel the Earth Move — Carole 

King

This shouldn’t be happening. I 

shouldn’t be affected this way. It was 
just a snack. She’ll still get some food, 
even if it wasn’t what she specifically 
wanted. It was a happy outcome. I 

squeeze my fists like the Arthur meme, 
trying to stop whatever is going on in 
this physiological reaction.

I can feel my ducts welling up. My 

bottom lip becomes incredibly heavy, 
weighing my entire face down. I start 
clearing my throat, trying to mask my 
voice breaking.

Students walk around me. I’m sure I 

pissed off some kid late for class because 
I was just standing still in the hallway, 
staring at a vending machine and the 
ghost of the previous transaction. But 
I wasn’t even conscious. I just wanted 
everything to pause like in Adam 
Sandler’s classic piece of American 
cinema “Click.” I needed a minute to 
compose myself.

I Want the World to Stop — Belle 

& Sebastian

The first tear is almost ready to 

break free from the prison that is my 
tear duct. To be fair, the guards in 
this prison are incredibly loose, with 
inmates leaving all the time but this 
specific first tear has been in the pen 
for a minute. It is ready to bask in the 
glorious fluorescent light of Angell 
Hall.

Still blocking the flow of students, I 

know we’re past the point of no return. 
It’s going to happen whether I want it to 
or not. At this point, I don’t really have 
time to do any soul searching to try and 
connect this vending machine incident 
with any specific moment from my 
childhood in a path of free association. 
All I know is this tear is going to fall 
and I am going to have to handle it. At 
least I don’t have anywhere to be.

Three, two, one. Blastoff.

Drown In My Own Tears — Ray 

Charles

And the floodgates are open! It’s 

a free-for-all at this point. I finally 
pick up my feet and run into the 
Fishbowl. Somehow, I find a seat in 
those comically large swivel chairs so 
I can attempt to shield myself from the 
computer lab patrons.

One caveat to that plan, however. The 

Fishbowl earned its name because it’s 
completely surrounded by glass. Every 
passerby in the hallway is watching me 
shed many tears all because someone 
chose the wrong selection in the 
vending machine. Droplets stain my 
shirt and I am confident enough to 
say I am an incredibly ugly crier. I’m 
basically that photo of Kim K.

You know the one.
Finally, I have run out of tears and 

I can move on with my day. While the 
reasoning didn’t have a lot of logic, I 
feel … free.

Free — Pageants
I have cried many a river, but when I 

step outside in the winter months after 
a good cry and the cold breeze stings 
my cheeks, I feel cleansed. All of my 
worries dripped down my face one by 
one and now I’m dry, ready to think 
constructively about the best ways to 
make sure I am keeping up with my 
mental health.

I can’t let the worries of the world 

drag my shoulders farther and farther 
into the dirt. Sometimes, a cry is just 
what I need.

It’s not usually expected, but when it 

happens, I’m grateful for my fucked-up 
psyche.

BY MATT HARMON, DAILY NEWS EDITOR

ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS

