Stage 1:
Denial
Avoidance / Confusion / Elation / Shock / Fear
We whipped along Route Nine with the windows down, on the last day before the world’s lockdown. We had no idea that freedom ride would be our last for over a year. Our excitement for spring break transformed into nervous confusion. Some of us refused to relinquish our anticipated vacations to Florida or Cabo. Some of us hesitantly shifted our plans to accommodate for the coronavirus. Little did we know, we’d soon be cancelling all plans for the foreseeable future. We saw our campus in its last days of normality: we threw last-minute house parties, hugged our friends goodbye and saidwe’d see each other in aweek—all the while trying to ignore the persistent feeling that we might not be returning to Marist anytime soon. That final Friday night, Darby’s and Mahoney’s were packed: We were shoulder to shoulder as “God’s Plan” blared, covered in eachother’s sweat and completely clueless as to what the universe had in store for us. Some of us stayed as long as we could. Some of us simply packed a bag and left. None of us were able to stomach the thought that later we’d be lugging everything we owned out of our dorms. One by one, we shut our doors on campus as the world attempted to shut its doors against the invasion of an invisible virus.
Stage 2:
Anger
Frustration / Irritation / Anxiety
Our college experience was cancelled in an email. In seconds, our extra week off for spring break became a semester at home. We thought we had so much more time at Marist, but the virus brought our campus—and the world—to an abrupt close. It felt so unnatural going from conversations in the classroom to raising our digital “hand” on Zoom. We tried to retain information from our professors’ voices projecting out of our laptop speakers, but the chaos occurring outside of our bedrooms was a constant, nagging distraction. How could we focus on lectures and essays, when our lives (and our minds) felt like they’d been set on fire? Our mental load got heavier every time we opened our laptops. Monday, we discussed a reading while people were screaming in the streets for Black Lives Matter; Thursday, we took a midterm exam while the entire country was arguing about who would serve the next Presidential term. We watched the coronavirus claim over 200,000 American lives, and we couldn’t do anything about it. Our lagging screens echoed the feeling that we were in limbo—our future hanging in a terrifying and uncertain balance.
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