To the loyal readers who are still keeping up with me even as we enter the depths of quarantine: hello! I hope you and yours are doing well during this, well, global crisis. I’ve procrastinated writing this article for some time now, partially because I’ve been procrastinating almost everything, but also because I’m sad—sad about the state of the world, sad about my final semester at Furman being cut short by half. I feel certain that no one was ready to call the semester a wrap, least of all myself and all of the other seniors, most of whom have no idea what we’ll be doing once May rolls around. The economy is tanking, the job market is dwindling, and people are still stockpiling toilet paper like the greedy little rodents they are. Truthfully, things are looking bleak.
I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on this pandemic. I wish I could offer some pearl of wisdom that would make this situation seem more bearable than it is, but the truth is that this sucks. Supremely. I’ve been feeling particularly sad for myself and all the other members of Furman’s graduating class. We won’t get to take part in all the spring-semester-senior festivities that we’ve all looked forward to since freshman year. There will be no LDOC, no jumping in the fountains, no exciting commencement ceremony in the spring. But I’ve also been dwelling on the people around the world whose lives have been seriously disrupted by this virus, disrupted far beyond the superficial concerns of graduation ceremonies and nights downtown at Connolly’s. Health, job security, livelihood—many have everything on the line.
From the senior perspective, I think the hardest thing about this pandemic is the simultaneous anticlimax and overwhelm. We all packed up our cars and moved out of North Village—plenty of us alone—with no graduation ceremonies, no parties, no celebrations to mark the milestone of moving off-campus and entering the world. The situation we find ourselves in now is scary, over-stimulating, and ever-changing. Not to mention that most students, seniors, and underclassmen alike are having to reacquaint themselves with the horror that is living at home with one’s parents. (Luckily, I managed to escape this fate by dipping into my savings and finding an apartment in Greenville. I had planned to move to New York after graduating in May, but given—you know, the global crisis—it seemed like the wrong time to move to a sprawling metropolis, especially one that happens to be the epicenter of the United States’ outbreak. Plus, I didn’t feel quite ready to leave the Southeast. So in Greenville, I will stay.)
I saw a New Yorker cartoon the other day about the “new normal.” In it, one character asks another: “Are you talking about the new normal of an hour ago, or is there a new new normal right now?” This is probably the most succinct summary of my feelings that I’ve yet found. For the most part, each day feels more surreal than the last. Every morning, I wake up and inhabit a slightly altered version of yesterday’s world. This is always true, but it becomes that much more pronounced during times of crisis. I’m not sure what will happen to me or anyone else in the coming year, but we’ll all have to figure it out together. In the meantime, I’m looking for quarantine pen pals, so drop me a line at maddie.depree@furman.edu and I’ll send you my mailing address. (Or we can be email pen pals...whatever.)
Well, I guess this is me signing off. If this were the final episode of a radio show, I would play a cool song right now, but it isn’t, so I can’t. For posterity’s sake, envision this: the sound of some old 45, the vinyl warped and crackling with age, playing a tune you can only dance to alone.