I can’t really say if we are going where we are going, or not – I’d say, sometimes –

She tapped me again, two thirds through a dance remix of You Will Never Know by Imany – a French pop-soul singer big in Russia but not known in America – playing in my headphones, and asked if I wanted to see something funny. When she tapped me the second time, she had to reach around an older gentleman who sat down in between us, which prompted him to get up and move to a different seat. Pausing my iPod, I said yes, like in improv class. The lady pulled out her phone and started looking for a video she wanted to share – a parked car with an alarm going off next to a restaurant with outdoor seating in Tribeca.

“I’m coming from a dinner party, and this was my dinner party,” she explained.

The video went on to show other restaurant patrons dealing with the noise, like real New Yorkers – with annoyance and a sense of humor. A few were laughing and looking at the car and then back at each other, others simply ignored it. I told her about the car alarm I sometimes hear at night, when a contractor from Pennsylvania finds a parking spot on my street and sleeps enough blocks away not to hear it. I have a pic of his license plate in my phone because one night I was so angry at the noise I wanted to vandalize his car, but using common sense kept my “Black Horse” at bay.

The tipsy lady then told me how before her dinner party she went to John Jay to get her transcript. She was thinking of going back to school. I told her that I, too, recently went to my high school to get my transcript, and that I wasn’t just thinking, I was going back to school. “Oh good,” she said, not overly impressed, as if she didn’t believe me, but I thought it was an interesting coincidence.

The tipsy jumped the subject and said, “I don’t talk to stupid people, tell me what books you’ve read.” As I thought of what I’d read most recently, she changed topics and said she used to live in my neighborhood, but that she didn’t like it as much anymore because “all these Russians moved in everywhere.”

“I’m on my way to visit my parents,” she said.

I didn’t tell her I was Russian, and I guess she was too tipsy and busy listening to herself to hear my slight accent. I did manage to mention that I had just taken an online course in Philosophy, and how much I enjoyed all the reading I had to do for it. She said she’s taken Philosophy herself. Turned out we both liked Plato’s Euthyphro dialogue.

Euthyphro is the name of a young guy who gets trolled by Socrates for wanting his father to be tried for the murder of a servant, a servant whom Euthyphro’s father put in a ditch for murdering someone else, and who died in that ditch waiting for authorities, for days without a drink of water. Euthyphro prides himself for not giving his own father any special treatment, charging his father’s guilt, but Socrates points out flaws in what Euthyphro considers to be his virtue – a desire to please the Gods.

            What if judging strangers and judging your own family is not different? What if the definition of nepotism is changed to include everyone?

It is from Plato’s Republic that I learned about Parts of the Soul, and how we all have a “Black Horse” and a “White Horse” within us.

Two hours later I was jonesing Chinese food, pork Lo Mein to be specific, so I biked a couple of blocks to Coney Island Avenue to my nearest takeout place. As I ordered, a younger white girl waiting for her order asked me what kind of pancakes did she hear me order. I said “scallion,” and the girl went into disorder, in her mind that is.

“I’ve never heard of scallion pancakes! Never!! I only know the American pancakes that my parents make, but I’ve never heard of scallion pancakes. What is that?”

“It’s like a piece of toast… but with more fat… It’s like fried dough,” I tried to explain and succeeded.

“So, it’s like a potato pancake?”

“Yes!”

“I’m Jess,” said the girl smiling.
 Jess was missing the left half of her top front teeth. That didn’t diminish her friendly smile. I’m missing a couple of side teeth myself, it just doesn’t show when I smile. I told her my Russian name, and said it was nice to meet her, shaking her hand.

“Is that Russian?” she asked and I confirmed. “You see my bike?”

Jess eyed her bike outside the Chinese takeout. I took a few steps out to see, realizing I did notice it on my way in. There it was – a medium sized vintage bike with some fun night lights, that seemed more like party lights, front and back, and a kind of comfy-looking throne- like gadget covering the seat.

“Wow, your bike is awesome!” I said, and meant it.

“It’s old and too small for me, but I found it on the street – it was just missing a seat and a wheel,” explained Jess with humble pride.

“My Schwinn is over there, it’s like thirty years old, too,” I said eyeing my bike a little further away.

“What’s a shwin?” giggled Jess.

“Oh, Schwinn is a brand name – I just mean that my bike is over there.”

“Oh okay. I see – it’s a nice bike. Hey, do you want these checkers?” asked Jess retrieving from her backpack an aged checkers box that looked like a prop from The Mummy franchise.

“No, thank you. I do have checkers at home, and I don’t really play.”

“I don’t know what to do – I want to get rid of it.”

“Leave it in this payphone booth, someone will take it by the morning,” I suggested pointing at the relic of the past in front of the Chinese takeout.

            Payphone like museum.

“I was at the game today. The Mets lost… to the Yanks. It sucks!!”

I nodded in agreement. “Better luck next time,” was the only thing I could find to say, but Jess liked the idea. She said she was part Irish and part something other, and two parts something else. Then her order was ready, she got on her awesome party bike, and we said our goodnights and nice to meet you’s in an orderly fashion.

“I am a Mets fan,” I thought to myself watching her ride off.

Even if I might never fully understand America’s favorite sport – I’ve been interested in trying and I do get the gist of baseball. A friend who’s an expert explained that the Mets are now what the Dodgers were before moving to LA, that Dodgers fans hated the Yanks, and once the Mets arrived most started rooting for them. Reading Brooklyn history, I fell for the Dodgers and what they meant to the community –

And here it is –

Ironically, even we debate club members have not been invited to join our school administration’s conversation about whether to reopen in the fall. In fact, as adults argue on and on about whether schools should reopen, the voices of the students directly impacted by this decision are not generally sought and are all too often ignored.

I’m a junior at an all-girls boarding school and one voice among the 57 million K-12 students who have had their education disrupted by COVID-19. When summer drew to a close, my memories were not of back-to-school shopping nor of enjoying summer days with friends. Instead, they were replaced by languishing and loneliness—hallmarks of 2020.

Yet the decision has already been made for us by the board. Even my school, a boarding school with only 320 students—conditions that make containment easier and contact rates lower–announced our doors would remain closed, completely scrapping the reopening plans that the administration has been working on for what seemed to be the whole summer.

I can still hear my mom’s anguished wails; she had just booked my flight the night before the announcement. When I first heard the news, my initial reaction wasn’t one of surprise, misery, or even frustration. It was apathetic acceptance, the result of every cancelation from summer school to SATs chipping away at me until I was numb—a disheartening feeling of wasted efforts, unreachable goals, and a clouding future.

I’m tired of being confined to a name in a rectangle, lighting up yellow once in a while, then disappearing again like a broken circuit. Our wifi isn’t the only thing that’s disconnecting – we are. I have seen too many cases where students view online school as a joke: thousands of TikToks, the unmoving student on the zoom call, or where not even one student out of 30 shows up when the meeting is announced to be “optional.”

A survey of 20,000 students in grades 5 through 12 reveals that only 51 percent of students said their teachers give them assignments that help them learn, while only 39 percent said they learn a lot every day. While I’m grateful that more tests are now open book, it’s no longer the same when I can glance at my notes and take my time. In exchange for a boost in grades we have sacrificed our own learning.

The continued shutdown of schools is to protect our physical health but it comes at the cost of deteriorating mental health. Social connections fade as students continue to lack the sense of belonging they felt in school. Although many adults think the hours we spend on Instagram or Snapchat with our friends are excessive, social media has become the last thread of connection for teens in our unraveling world. Even then, it’s not enough to prevent loneliness. Except for a few close friends, it’s as if the rest of the lunch table has disappeared. By isolating ourselves physically, we have also unintentionally isolated ourselves socially and emotionally.

Cases rise uncontrolled in schools where there’s resistance to mask wearing, but in situations where teens and teachers take precautions—such as at a boarding school strictly enforcing mask-wearing and temperature policies—the educational and social benefits outweigh not going to school at all.

It appears my school has recognized that. Upon reassessment, a reopening has recently been announced. A curtain will be drawn between my roommate’s and my side of the room. Outside, students will be wearing masks as they sit on Adirondack chairs placed 6 feet apart. Classes will be divided into two classrooms, and temperature checks will take place every morning and every night. A new schedule is made, and new rules followed.

I could see the effort and the commitment from my school. Yet once again it was a decision made behind the curtains, with the board operating much like the Wizard of Oz. In a debate on our future and OUR education, most adults don’t ask us about our opinions, leaving us as passive bystanders as one decision is made after another. If we were given a chance to speak, perhaps education policies would be different today.

Instead, I’m tossed like a ragdoll, dizzily spinning through the air, wishing for it all to stop. But of course, it doesn’t. Because I’m only a toy, a pawn. From Washington to Virginia, from virtual to in person, I land wherever they decide to aim.

I pack my belongings for school with a bitter smile. In some ways, my wish was granted, but other parts of it were shattered. A boarding life without three of my closest friends. Classes where instruction time may be shortened to 20 minutes. A restrictive campus where arrows and stickers dictate where we can and cannot be.

In the meantime, I will wait with longing for the education and interactions I no longer have. I miss the presence of a physical classroom and learning without the concern of technical difficulties. I miss chatting in the noisy dining hall and walking in the silent campus past dark. I miss the weekly Target runs where too many snacks are bought and deep/insane (I can’t tell) late-night conversations at 2 a.m with my best friend.

I wait for the day I can stop by an office hour by knocking on an oak door instead of entering a call, then interact with a teacher no longer framed by a rectangle. I wait for the day where my friends and I can kick back on lawn chairs after the week’s end and raise our freshly delivered bobas to the sky in triumph–even if we still have to be six feet apart.

As the Hip Hop President of Dillard University, Mr. Walter M. Kimbrough, put it, we are most definitely living in a different world. Of course, he was referring to the 1987 American Sitcom spinoff of “The Cosby Show”, “A Different World”, which followed Denise Huxtable (Lisa Bonet) and her misadventures at an HBCU. Despite the era of its release, the show remains a staple in black media, and in my own experience, heavily contributed to the idyllic expectations I had for college. The naivete of buying into a perfectly progressive, bombtastic, academically breezy, and party filled fantasy isn’t lost on me, but I couldn’t help it. The billion dollar industry of higher education has an illustrious reputation that  precedes it, even in knowing I’ll probably be in debt when I graduate. Especially in America, university is heavily romanticized as a way to discover yourself and jet set your career, even though job security after college is no longer definite. Regardless, everything I could have ever predicted or hoped for wouldn’t have prepared me for going to school during a pandemic.

I had a specific move-in appointment time, where I was only allowed the assistance of two family members, and of course, wearing a mask is absolutely mandatory. My schedule consists of a hybrid of socially distanced in person classes, and classes that are online. Some teachers have even opted to have their classes outside to mitigate the risks even further. There are no classes on Fridays to allow the campus to be thoroughly cleaned, and we have staggered meal times, designed to help avoid high traffic in the cafeteria. Amidst an already difficult transition, the social aspect of university has also been adapted.

What would’ve been a week of close knit events called SOAR Week (which stands for Scholarships, Opportunity, Accountability, and Responsibility) has been transformed into a schedule of socially distanced events- The Welcome Bash to learn new chants, The Trap Spelling Bee featuring Louisiana slang, and my personal favorite: Arts and Crafts night. The events took place across the entire campus, and if possible, outside so that there was plenty of room to socially-distance ourselves and get a grip on navigating our new home.

Additionally, the more informational aspect of SOAR Week was almost entirely virtual. We were given a group number based on our majors (mine is Film if you’re wondering), then presented with lectures via Zoom regarding varying topics. These topics included not only Covid safety precautions but dove into the culture of being at an HBCU, managing our diets, mental health, the proper way to regard LGBTQ+ students, and networking advice from upperclassmen.

These changes were quite successful, having now already seen how much it’s helped me in my first week alone, but I was still quite nervous to officially dive into my adulthood. Well, as I’m not one to usually look for signs, mother nature (or maybe God herself) still found a way to tell me everything was going to be okay: I was taking a morning stroll in The Avenue of the Oaks, summer sun still piercing through the mist of rain sprinkling over the campus. The sidewalk reflected the most beautiful golden light, filtering through the translucency of my umbrella like a painting. As I continued to walk, grateful for the solace, I knew that this new normal was just that: a new normal. And the navigation of my future will be an experience that is uniquely my own.

Define catharsis. A flood, the expelling of everything and watching it crash into anything we touch. It breaks all the furniture, takes down all the paintings, and everything we thought we owned is immediately gone.

We walk around the wreckage, look down, pick up all the things we thought were salvageable, hold onto them for dear life and get out of there as fast as possible.

God, didn’t you see me run?

Didn’t you see me thrown off a cliff so fast that by the time I hit the ground, a billion lives slammed into my pupils, summoning an explosion of dust, a billion particles of dust, a billion stories, a billion tales with the center of a sun, my son, my dearest love.

Do you remember the first time I felt a rush of devotion? You made me thrust my arms open in reverence.

Oh, how, how much I loved to try new things.

Feel the rush of a prick, like my nerve receptors dancing fruitfully amongst men that I wanted to own, to store in my cupboard. No one can know about them like no one can know about it. About the bottle in the dresser or the bag in the shoe box, or the lighter under my pillow.

How the fire cracks in crinkles into the sky. If you listen, you can hear my feet get higher, my heart palpitate into your veins, your cells, your oxygen. I give unto you everything I call body, everything I call drug.

Put me in a plane. Turn the engine on. Grab the stick. Press the pedal. Roll it out. Roll it out. Roll it out. Roll the paper. Light the fuse. Wait for an explosion of dust.

Nirvana.

I grew up writing poetry to fill my holes, made my trauma into entertainment for men who needed to feel it, whose lawns got greener on every corner, and man, what a green. You could see the fibers of grass from airplanes, the trees that emerged from dirt, the sun and all its moisture running down the embers of the sky and onto the yard. The garter snake creeping through the weeds.

He’s old. He’s no longer in touch with himself. If he was tight in his own home.

He has secrets like the bottle in his dresser or the bag in his shoe box or the lighter under his pillow, his skin is yellow, like the jungle, like my teeth, like my homeland, like Vietnam set on fire, the same fire that fills my lungs, the same yellow sun blisters his skin until he can’t move. So he breaks himself, cracks open his epidermis into a shell and slithers out.

Nirvana, my dearest love, my bottle of euphoria. My fuse of dust particles, the higher you rise, the harder you fall.

Catharsis. Define addiction. Define reincarnation. Define shedding your soul, not for satisfaction, but for the abundance of it. The need for trauma as a scapegoat.

My love. Please don’t let the snake get too comfortable.

My name is Aeris. I’m waiting till my past does not define me, and I’m learning to be satisfied with my own.