Non-Fiction

Sitting this thing out in Copenhagen, I am calling out to mother and father in Eastern Standard Time. The Atlantic is busy, hardly with ships or passenger jets but with frequencies meeting, arcs of correspondence barraging opposite shores. Life lines. Then the sudden commotion of a system in lapse, and I watch their faces freeze in an uncertain expression. Mother’s teeth are clenched, her voice interrupted, the lenses of her glasses washed out in the reflections of sun that has long left me. Father is preserved in a state of rest, flat in bed with his head propped, eyes shut. She was telling me, “The optometrist have cancelled your father’s appointments. The prescribed lubricants promote hair growth and his lashes are…” I attempt to finish her sentence in the time spent waiting for their image to resuscitate. His lashes are ingrown and scratching at his ailing sight. He has no choice but to close his lids, to defend his eyes from the onslaught of rough proteins. The numerousness and length of their strands approximate the appearance of a centipede crawling across his face, like some alien thing sent down to impair vision, to render all things ahead abstract. The prescribed remedy has had an unforeseen side effect. He cannot see an optometrist and he cannot see me. His lashes are…His lashes are plumaged wings, beating their fortified density against the sky so that he might fly to meet me, to take me home. I am likely suspended just the same, fixed to some permanent countenance unknown to me. But the digits uptick anyway, advancing at the bottom of the screen towards some time in which all manner of things might move. I am sitting in a poorly lit room waiting to see, for their tableau to cease, and for life to begin again.

I would be lying if I said I was not afraid when the pandemic first started, back in March. I was terrified. But I have found comfort in knowing that this is only temporary.

Before the lockdown began, my life in Dubai was an amalgamation of morning walks at the beach, iced coffee from Costa and evening bicycle rides. Initially, I felt confined. I could no longer engage in the activities that I looked forward to the most. One would think that being an introvert would make staying at home easy, but it doesn’t. The thirst to meet up with my friends is insurmountable. I lost the agency I once had over my life. It took some time, but I built a routine to help me stay grounded. I keep up with the news, but I don’t let it get to me. Life is full of suspended moments like these.

The weather is changing, as it always does, and we are no longer in the same world that we were in two months ago. I have come to realize that it is during uncertain times like these that I need to find a balance within myself and learn to cope. Like a tree, I am doing my best to stay rooted to the ground that holds me despite the accompanying chaos. My branches are strong and vast, and my leaves are dense. I am trying to stay put where I am, growing and altering myself to adapt to the new seasons, turning into an evergreen.

The racism that this country’s history and present is rooted in is heartbreaking. To know that there are adults who are still teaching their children that it’s okay to be prejudiced is frustrating especially at a time like now, where we as a human race should be supporting each other. Every time we think as a nation we have taken a couple of steps forward we take another ten steps back.

With faith, I have confidence that this virus will run its course, and life will go on. But the same cannot be said for racial discrimination. As of now, over 100,000 people have died in the world due to COVID-19, and all some people can think of is how it originated in China. That doesn’t matter anymore; it’s a global virus now, not a “Chinese Virus” as our president so carelessly said. When our president says things like this is the “Chinese Virus” he must have forgotten that we have hard-working Chinese-American citizens in our country.

At the beginning of the virus, I asked one of my Asian-American friends if she felt a change in how people looked at her. She said that she did feel that people were looking at her differently. As an African-American in a predominantly white suburb, I have felt the feeling of isolation. Of being the only minority in the room. And of people saying offensive things to you with or without them knowing the gravity of their words. It’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone. This is why I’m ashamed to read on social media and see on the news, my fellow African-Americans verbally and physically attacking Asian-Americans. We are better than this. African-Americans encounter racism and hatred every day, we know the pain, so why are some of us helping fuel this unwarranted behavior?

As I’m writing this over 40,000 Americans have died young and old, Asian-American, Caucasian, African-America. The virus doesn’t discriminate, but we do. We are fighting a war out here, against COVID-19 and one can argue that right now, in America, we are losing. So why must we continue to fight a senseless war against each other?

 

After three weeks at home, the quietness grows heavy, settling in the creases of the house, under the radiator, between couch cushions, at the chemical pool in the bottom of the last Lysol bottle. Time creeps away fearfully, sinking through the checkered bug screens my dad installed in our windows on Sunday in preparation for the coming spring, because spring comes no matter what. One day bleeds into the next, like watery letters morphing into words and sentences and paragraphs and fairytales. Minutes fall into hours like cobwebs from the windowsill my mom swipes over and over. Into days into weeks into months.

We are still permitted to leave the house for daily exercise, which is strange, because before this global pandemic, no one seemed so inclined to line the bike trails and beaches. I bike faster than my dad and brother in order to keep up with my racing mind. I hurdle the roots protruding from the path, like fingers grappling at a cliff’s edge, until I come upon a clearing. I pause to let my heaving chest settle into my body again and give them time to catch up to me. Strips of moss lay out before me like a carpet, and I crane my neck at the trunks stamped into the earth, stretching towards the hollow sky, empty of planes for weeks now. I never thought about the woods being alive until this moment, but it seems to breathe. Around me, in spite of me, it fills its lungs and exhales shakily, relieved of humans’ burdens temporarily.

I think about the indifference of it all, how the brook still bubbles, chipping away at the strings of ice outlining the fleshy mud around the edges, even as another body is chained to a ventilator. The birds still flit about, exchanging wisdom between drooping boughs of pine, even as another fifty-something man tugs at his belt buckle and mutters something about the Chinese, searching for a source to blame when none can be found. The sun still bores it’s light onto my shoulders, consistently and reliably, shrouding my peach tank top in a wash of shallow radiation, even as the final stock of medical masks reads sold out on Amazon. Because spring comes no matter what.

My dad used to say that our bedrooms looked like a tornado came through them when we were young, and left messes on the floor. He should’ve seen a flash-forward to today—our bedroom floors are a minefield of packages from online shopping, blankets and pillows from makeshift beds, and suitcases bursting with athleisure clothes. There are plastic bins filled with summer sandals that we rarely wear, because we don’t go out. At the foot of my bed is a tangle of cords to charge my laptop, phone, and watch. If our childhood rooms were hit by tornadoes then, now they must have endured a hurricane.

I was catapulted back to childhood when Brigham Young University went online due to the Covid-19 pandemic and I moved home to Northern California with my parents and three younger sisters. I am twenty-one, in the stage of life that most people spend as far away from their parents as possible. I mourn for my personal space, reliable career trajectory, and the comfortable bed that I left at school. However, there must be something good to be learned from living like a child again. I remembered a few trade secrets that were long forgotten: do the dishes on your own so you don’t get asked to, do your homework before watching TV, and never be the most available person in the room when the dog needs to go out. Be humble, be forgiving, and help cook dinner to avoid cleaning it up.

I am once again sleeping in the room I grew up in, and I can almost sense my younger self here with me. I think there are things we can learn from each other. She can teach me to dream again, to marvel at the rain and the worms on the pavement. I can teach her that giving is more important than receiving, a lesson she thought she learned long ago but didn’t. If she were here, I think she would crinkle her nose at my chosen major— finance— and I’d shake my head at her fantasy of becoming a famous author.

Even though I sleep in the room I grew up in, the walls are painted a different color. Every piece of furniture within the room has changed. This isn’t the same childhood that I experienced years ago; it is a strange, hybrid one. I wake up to watch lectures about economics on Zoom in the morning, and then make Froot Loop necklaces and find my old treehouse in the afternoon. I dance with my sisters for a few minutes, and then write a paper about literary theory. I can do more things now than I could when I was younger, but I wish I could channel the carefree, inquisitive energy of my childhood.

At night, my family gathers around the dinner table to share bits of news that we scavenged throughout the day from websites and social media. We trade out-of-context statistics as bedtime stories, numbers that I cannot trust but know that I should. It is a fascinating juxtaposition that the world is experiencing tragedy and loss as I experience innocence again. I want to end the suffering; I want to save the world as I dreamed of doing when I was younger. I am less naïve now. Perhaps the best I can do is to stay home and allow that hope for a better future which I used to carry, grow within me again. When I emerge from this experience, I want to be more optimistic. I want to be more determined to make positive change. I want to be closer to my family, more grateful for my friends, and more gracious in every social interaction I have.

The desire to stay up past bedtime isn’t something that one grows out of. My sisters and I sometimes gather late at night to talk about our fears, our insecurities, and our excitement for life. Of course, it is a purely imaginative exercise; real life is not progressing at the moment. One time, my mom stood in the doorway and told us stories about her college days. Someday, when it is my turn to stand in the doorway and tell stories to my kids, I will tell them that the whole world seemed to stop when I was in college. I’ll tell them that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be to live with my parents again. Childhood isn’t a stage of life that most people get a second chance at once they leave home, so I am lucky to spend this time reconnecting with my family and with the child I used to be. Besides, Froot Loop necklaces taste better than I remembered.

December: The news breaks out for the first time.

January: People start to take notice.

February: Fear and panic overtake the streets (and grocery stores, supermarkets, pharmacies).

March: The world comes to a grinding halt, and everything goes cold. A virus has brought humanity to its knees. We are not prepared.

Mid-March: I think about the milestones I’m missing. Senior year. Prom. Parties. Graduation. Chilling with my friends. Meeting up with other college-bound strangers I clicked with over the internet. Saying goodbye to my teachers, my classmates, and my grandparents who live two cities away. Asking them for their blessing as I head off to another country for college. I’ll be studying economics, I’d say. Maybe minor in computer science, creative writing, or sociology? I’m not sure yet, but it’s okay. There’s a whole world for me to explore. Wish me luck!

April: I wake up and relive the same day over and over. I lift the screen of my computer and surf the internet, a chamber of bad news after bad news after bad news. I’m not sure what is real anymore. Headlines contradict each other; social media is a bloodbath. Colleges are going online this fall. World leaders move to tighten quarantine procedures. Here are five simple ways to open your own home bakery and have a little fun with your free time! My phone dings with a notification: we are considering deferring enrollment until spring in response to the crisis. Not fun.

It is easy to feel upset. Easier to feel annoyed about rules and lockdowns and being thrust into an uncertain future blind.

It is hard to realize how privileged most of us are to have boredom as our number one enemy.

Now: I wake up. Sometimes, I try out new breakfast recipes. On better days, I choose to do something more challenging, like making bread. It’s tiring, but I enjoy the burn in my arms as I wrestle with the dough across the counter. I dive back into the habit of writing stories, a hobby I was forced to let go of when the junior year hit and left me perpetually exhausted. I find movies for me and my siblings to watch together, video call my grandparents, learn the basics of programming. A new routine; unfamiliar, but welcome nonetheless.

I no longer think about lost milestones and missed opportunities. These little things may not be as exciting as prom or a high school party, but they can be new milestones. Proof that I was here, that I did not fade away with the blur of days and weeks and – oh, another month? Maybe the bread will be edible this time.

There is always a silver lining. There is always something new to explore.

The world may have come to a standstill, but we must keep marching on.