Throughout these past few months, I (like others) have been questioning why I have felt so anxious, overwhelmed and unsettled. I scroll through Instagram and see people seemingly living their lives as though nothing is happening, and I wonder if this pandemic is disproportionately affecting me. After months of questioning my own behavior, I have come to realize that the loss of a center has a really large effect on the individual, and that my reaction is not cause for concern, but an indication that I am human.
For me and other residents of Westchester, NY, the Covid-19 global pandemic hit a little differently. Starting back in early February, there were reports of the novel coronavirus beginning to surface, especially for me living in the tri-state area . Little changes began to interefere with our daily routines. When I went to the doctor, a mask was required for anyone with a cough. At this point, I had no idea that the mask was about to become a staple part of my life in just a few weeks. It was so foreign at that point that I put it on inside out. I work in retail, and customers would wash their hands a bit more, availing themselves of the hand sanitizer on the front desk that was never used prior to the days leading up to the lockdown. However, things took an enormous shift on March 3rd when it was announced that a man from New Rochelle, NY had contracted the virus. Rabbi Binyamin Krauss, principal of the SAR school, where the man’s children recieved their education, told The Wall Street Journal that, “We were a little blindsided, we weren’t expecting it to be ground zero.” But that is what it quickly became. Things instantly hit home, and the virus that my doctor told me not to worry about a week prior was practically in my backyard. The virus spread rapidly in the man’s religious community, and within days, the National Guard had set up a containment bubble within a mile radius of the outbreak location. This bubble included my high school and the strip mall where we spent countless free periods and afternoons. What was once a funny meme on Tik Tok became a reality at a speed too fast for me to wrap my head around.
Very quickly, the cases began to rise in New York City and Westchester, so my entire world went into lockdown, surprisingly at the same time as everyone else, despite the virus being a strong presence just down the street from me for about a week longer. While I have mostly blocked out the early days of the pandemic, my memory is plagued with the sound of sirens when I think of the month of April. More than I have ever heard in my life. With each blaring noise, I would take a moment for myself to send a good vibe to whoever was inside. The only sense of community in those months were the sound of pots and pans clanging at 7pm daily. The chalk drawings on the streets of my neighborhood with reminders of peace and unity. The “thank you healthcare heros” signs that adorned every lawn.
Now it is September, and my world looks a lot different. Though the cases are low and things are generally open, I cannot help but notice the cracks in what used to be my life. A good amount of my neighbors are no longer with us, and these gaps become prominent as I observe the missing figures on front lawns as I walk. I observe people muddling through home repairs as I pass, while carrying this incredibly apparent grief. There are immense losses in the families of my closest friends, and I was not able to provide them with any sort of physical support. When I walk the streets of my village, the same businesses that I used to religiously frequent no longer stand. Everyone that you encounter is grieving some sort of loss, whether it be physical, or just the loss of self after this emotional whirlwind of a few months. While the horrific phase one months have mostly been blurred out of memory (thank you brain) a trip to the Glen Island Covid Testing Site- the first of its kind on the East Coast, brought back staggering images of the worst days of the pandemic. This site stands at the place where I had my senior prom and once innocently danced the night away with my entire senior class. It is now a precise, military run endeavor. The place where we once hosted parties now has doctors fully covered in PPE and large tents for drive up testing and a lot of protocols. It was the first time in my adult life that I physically reached for my mom’s hand, like I was a small child in the backseat while at the carwash. It was a scene from a teen sci-fi novel taking place in the view right above my dashboard, and one that I always expected to stay confined to the silver screen.
For some, I believe that the virus still has not taken on personal meaning. In other areas of the country, things must be more spread out. People must not hear the ambulances. If they did, I doubt that they would be acting in the way that they are. If one thing, from this experience I have truly developed a lack of empathy for reckless behavior. Perhaps it is too intense on my part, but I just do not have the energy to feign sympathy for missing the bar after months of true emotional fatigue in the community that I love. Sometimes I wonder if I am being too sensitive, but mostly, I am confused about how others aren’t. These gaps in humanity feel the most uneasy as I navigate this new world.
For all that these past six months have been, I have truly learned about the resiliency and decency of my community at this time. I see neighbors and friends on walks and everyone genuinely wants to know how I am doing. When we approached graduation season, I saw the most incredible group of educators refuse to not acknowledge the accomplishments of all, and we had beautiful ceremonies from kindergarteners up to the high school seniors where the town came out and cheered for the parade of graduates. We have gotten creative with ways to keep entertained, and friends that I haven’t spoken to in years have checked in. However, interactions are weird. While we have gotten more social, everyone still has a lingering fear, and I am not sure when we will shake it entirely. I have had to learn for myself to shake all expectations, which is a difficult practice for a Type A person. Because home is one’s home base, and the place where things feel right, and mine feels anything but in this fragmented aftermath. However, though the streets are more bare, there are still people that greet me with a wave everytime I go on a walk, and it makes me think that maybe human kindness is enough for right now. Maybe it is all that we ever truly need.