One year ago today, everything changed. I needn’t be the historian that I usually am, telling the tale piece by piece, reconstructing the crucial elements. If you’re reading this in 2021, you already know. You’ve lived it.
In fact, the final moments of the pre-COVID world seem so banal to me now that I can’t quite decide at what point normality stopped and the world we’ve lived in for a year began to take shape. All I know is that it reminded me of that moment just before you touch down after a long flight. The slow descent. The feeling of hovering above the ground, not quite sure when you’ll make contact. You see the distant airport through a small window – you can sense what’s next, but you’re insulated. You’re suspended. Everything could go well or go completely wrong in a matter of seconds.
The night before, the 11th, I shared dinner with a dear friend and professor at UVA after watching his cats and his home while he was away with his wife. The home, enshrouded by the woods and nestled beneath an often clear, starry sky, had become a familiar retreat from my humble apartment whenever they were away. They came back, smiling and refreshed as I had always seen them after trips like these. Only then did I realize they hadn’t seen the email the UVA community had received just before 1 p.m. earlier that day.
I pulled out my phone and nestled myself into the corner of their moss green couch. I put on my gold-rimmed glasses. Stabilizing the phone in my hands, I read: “We will be moving our classes online. We will not be holding classes on Grounds for the foreseeable future, quite possibly through the end of the semester. We will reassess after April 5th at the earliest and periodically after that date. Online classes will begin Thursday, March 19.”
I looked up. Empty stares. I continued:
“If you are currently away on Spring Break, we strongly encourage you to stay home or return to your home.” I put the phone down and looked up again.
Before they could even touch their luggage, the flicker of joy in their eyes began to dim and fade. This was serious. This was different. This would likely be our last meeting for a while.
They moved to the kitchen, more silent than they normally were. Their silence was replaced with excitement as they discovered I had prepared a tarte tatin to share as dessert.
Over dinner, we shared our concerns and tried to pivot the conversation to other topics. But the attempt at normality was dotted with new concern over the news, and we bid farewell, knowing that the goodbye would separate us for an indefinite amount of time. Even now, that was the last time I saw them face-to-face.
The next day – exactly one year ago from today – I received new glasses in the mail; sharp Ferragamos – the ones I’m wearing as I compose this text. I put on my floral green shirt and a pair of cream trousers. It was a nice enough day outside. My now-ex and I decided to walk the Charlottesville Downtown Mall. It was the last day it felt like it did – filled with dog-walkers, friends greeting one another over lunch, a group of men dressed in Brooks Brothers and Vineyard Vines leaning over leather portfolios filled with important-looking papers.
We went to Mudhouse Coffee, and I bought a matcha latte. It matched my shirt, though it was a couple of shades lighter. I spent the afternoon people watching, writing, and thinking. My thoughts collided with concern. Was this the precipice? We were about to take the fall into a world of contagion. What could that look like? The distant threat that had been looming in the second- and third-tier of headlines now climbed ever to the top.
My first COVID experience happened just after we left the café for the grocery store. “I heard they’re starting to empty shelves,” said my ex in his reserved speaking style as we drove to Giant. It was almost jarring to hear that sentence sound so calm, so flat. In my brain, sirens and alarms and all the bells and whistles were going off.
The paper products were gone. There were shoppers hoarding detergent, cleaning products, and every other thing that seemed important to them. I needed a bag of coffee and bought a couple of dried goods. I knew that would only be the beginning. I wasn’t worried about running out of things. I was concerned about running out of experiences – like seeing people I care about, going places, doing things, seeing sights, being with students.
We lost those experiences. We’ve lost loved ones. We’ve lost (insert anything you’d like here), and it fits. That loss unfolded for me in a slow, burning, painful progression that has only recently begun to heal but whose wounds are deep.
Many of you don’t know that I was a frontline worker through the entire pandemic. I’m not a frontline hero who worked in healthcare during this crisis, and I don’t view myself as having done anything heroic by my actions. I just did what I thought was right and what was needed. Frankly, I needed it too. It allowed me to leave my apartment and set a schedule while contributing to the community.
I voluntarily delivered supplies and groceries to the immunosuppressed. I took risks in order to make sure my community had access to what they needed. I joined a Mutual Aid group. I worked from time to time behind a cash register. I made ends meet after losing my summer employment and regained a sense of humility – one of the positive things to come out of a very dark time. I saw Charlottesville suffer but remain hopeful. I saw society slowly shift into mask-wearing, where for months no mandates had been concretized until the approach of summer and travel-related concerns.
I saw my hopes challenged in it all; my emotions fluctuate, my happiness vanish and make a comeback. I adopted a cat, Lili, who has brought endless joy and peace in the storm. I lived in complete solitude after I fell out of love, but being on my own helped me develop a renewed sense of self-worth and dignity. I cried a lot. I learned to laugh again. I rebuilt the pieces of a fractured existence, stood tall, and saw myself rise out of the ashes. I transformed the challenges into resilience.
That isn’t to say it’s been easy. It hasn’t. It still isn’t. I haven’t been back home nor seen my parents out of an abundance of caution. The last time I held them was in January 2020. I look forward to the day where we can see each other, screens aside, no dropped calls, no connection between us except our arms around one another. I have saved my tears in my heart and know they will flow when that moment ultimately comes.
I still haven’t been back to the cities that have forged me into the person I am today – Detroit, Dearborn, Montréal, Québec – they’re all on my mind. I’ll be there in the future, in a time when we look back on this moment and exhale, realizing we’ve made it together through the storm.
One year ago, everything changed. Tomorrow, I get dose two of the Pfizer vaccine.
We’re no longer at the precipice – we’re fighting. And in my heart, I know we’ll win.
Claire-Marie Brisson
12 March 2021
la rêveuse solitaire 