Yesterday marked my first full week working from home, and two weeks since I finally took COVID-19 seriously. Just three weeks ago I was another millennial contrarian convinced that the coronavirus was something over-dramatized; I dismissed it as another strategy of 21st-century yellow journalism during times of political (global) angst surrounding election year. In a matter of days, though, everything seemed to rise, crumble, and fall at once: This wasn’t just something fabricated or millions of miles away: this was a global pandemic. Is.
Fact: the media is manipulative. Discernment is crucial, and I admit my own apathy because it takes work to distill the truth. I know I rejected the initial whispers of paranoia (around November) because all (US-based) news surrounding COVID-19 was tainted with racism, both inherent and politically driven. And as much I know why I refused it all—how could I subscribe to it when the media helped incite such hate and violence—I’m most appalled by why I was able to take it so lightly. I, from Jersey suburbia, had the privilege of picking and choosing what I wanted to hear, to take seriously, because that wasn’t happening here.
Truly, I’m ashamed; I’m no better than the other side.
At the tail-end of January, my parents feared for my safety every time I needed to go into the city. Don’t take Uber if you don’t have to, they asked. Do you have to go? Alone? They begged. I dismissed it as just their typical overreactive, overprotective nature as parents who care and as immigrant parents. It wouldn’t happen to me, I thought—and nothing did happen, thankfully—but I saw the videos and read the hate spewing online for anyone who looked like me, my family, other. It’s as if all that was hidden inside everyone else now had permission to come out.
March 3 marked my last commute into New York. COVID-19 was becoming more serious in the states, and on my train ride back into Jersey, I coughed into my elbow. (A sip of water went down the wrong pipe.) You’re lucky you’re hot, said a guy in front of me, as if it would soften the knee-jerk aggression. The woman beside me eyed me, then wiggled away; at least she was trying to be inconspicuous (and to be fair: I would have done the same). Everyone looked up from their phones to see the culprit—me, very Chinese—and some shook their heads. And for the rest of my ride home, I wish I had said: Or what?
I’m sharing this not to provoke or to solicit sympathy, but simply to document this reality we live in—or mine, at least—as I remember it. And so far, I am so lucky that this has been my only brush with what corona has brought thus far. Too many people have been hurt, sick, spread thin, left bereft, and this is only the first chapter of an eerie, dystopian storyline. Who am I to complain?
The least I can do is stay inside. My partner and I have put our dance team, team performances, and events on hiatus. I’m on a self-imposed quarantine, and while I work, read, eat, sleep, repeat in the same 680 square footage of space, I feel as though I’m able to think again. There’s some semblance of clarity in the smog: a disruption as grave as this one as forced perspective and allowed for introspection. Clear the noise, unhitch from the bandwagon of normalcy and complacency. Second only to awareness and making flattening the curve, being present is the best I can do. Which means: listening to intuition, allowing my body to rest, and returning back to my roots.
To anyone who still reads this space (besides my aunt): I’m surprised, firstly. But more importantly: take care, be well, and stay safe.
. . .
xx
Your turn. Thoughts?