Lindsey, May 2020
It is currently 2:41am on Saturday, May 30th, 2020. It’s very difficult for me to comprehend the fact that I haven’t been to school in nearly 3 months. Normal life seems like a distant memory. I still remember the last day I was in school.
It was Thursday, March 12th, 2020. Coronavirus was becoming more and more prevalent as the days went on. I vividly remember the chaotic energy that filled the hallways. The worried theories shared. The anxious glances exchanged. At around 1:00pm, an email was sent to the entire student body, advising us to make sure we leave nothing behind just in case we didn’t return to school. About an hour later, an announcement was made over the PA, once again reminding us to take home any instruments, sports equipment, books, and computers. At the end of the day, as I made my way through the crowded stairwell, Ms. Haghdoust, a Spanish teacher, stood at the top of the staircase. Over students’ nervous chatter, she shouted out yet another reminder to bring all supplies home, and told us to be prepared to leave school for an extended period of time. The administration hadn’t yet announced that school would be closed to students and families, so the multiple reminders to bring things home were very eerie. As soon as I hopped into my mom’s SUV, she, a teacher at another school in the district, informed me that school would be closed for two weeks. Although teachers and administrative staff had been preparing us for this news all day, it still came as a shock to me. Not because it was surprising, but because it just simply didn’t feel real. I put my AirPods into my ears, leaned the passenger seat back, and stared out the sunroof, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wouldn’t see my fellow students, friends, and teachers for two weeks. Soon, those two weeks turned into one month, then two, then three. It’s been three months since I’ve seen most of my friends. Three months since I’ve raised my hand in class. Three months since I’ve eaten in the commons. Three months since I’ve mindlessly doodled in my notebook. Three months since a teacher has scolded me for not paying attention. I miss it. I miss it all. The positives and the negatives. I miss laughing in class and I miss stressing about history essays. I miss bonding with my teachers and I miss getting unreasonably upset over physics homework. I would do almost anything to make life normal again. But, even if quarantine hasn’t been enjoyable, it’s taught to never take anything for granted, to live in the moment, and to cherish those around you. And for that, I’m thankful.
It is currently 2:41am on Saturday, May 30th, 2020. It’s very difficult for me to comprehend the fact that I haven’t been to school in nearly 3 months. Normal life seems like a distant memory. I still remember the last day I was in school.
It was Thursday, March 12th, 2020. Coronavirus was becoming more and more prevalent as the days went on. I vividly remember the chaotic energy that filled the hallways. The worried theories shared. The anxious glances exchanged. At around 1:00pm, an email was sent to the entire student body, advising us to make sure we leave nothing behind just in case we didn’t return to school. About an hour later, an announcement was made over the PA, once again reminding us to take home any instruments, sports equipment, books, and computers. At the end of the day, as I made my way through the crowded stairwell, Ms. Haghdoust, a Spanish teacher, stood at the top of the staircase. Over students’ nervous chatter, she shouted out yet another reminder to bring all supplies home, and told us to be prepared to leave school for an extended period of time. The administration hadn’t yet announced that school would be closed to students and families, so the multiple reminders to bring things home were very eerie. As soon as I hopped into my mom’s SUV, she, a teacher at another school in the district, informed me that school would be closed for two weeks. Although teachers and administrative staff had been preparing us for this news all day, it still came as a shock to me. Not because it was surprising, but because it just simply didn’t feel real. I put my AirPods into my ears, leaned the passenger seat back, and stared out the sunroof, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wouldn’t see my fellow students, friends, and teachers for two weeks. Soon, those two weeks turned into one month, then two, then three. It’s been three months since I’ve seen most of my friends. Three months since I’ve raised my hand in class. Three months since I’ve eaten in the commons. Three months since I’ve mindlessly doodled in my notebook. Three months since a teacher has scolded me for not paying attention. I miss it. I miss it all. The positives and the negatives. I miss laughing in class and I miss stressing about history essays. I miss bonding with my teachers and I miss getting unreasonably upset over physics homework. I would do almost anything to make life normal again. But, even if quarantine hasn’t been enjoyable, it’s taught to never take anything for granted, to live in the moment, and to cherish those around you. And for that, I’m thankful.