Is This It?
It almost feels normal. But I know it isn’t.
It’s April 2nd, and it’s a sunny spring day. In fact, it’s one of the first warm days of spring, and our windows are all open. The Weather Channel says it’s 58 degrees, and a light, warm breeze is coming in, tickling the curtains and brushing against my face.
Two boys in a driveway across the street are dribbling a basketball, and in the distance, I can faintly make out the drub-drub-drub of the ball and the shuffling of feet. From our neighbors, I hear a delicate piano tune as someone plays various melodies (stopping and restarting a few times), and I realize that this is the first time I’ve heard their piano since last fall. It’s been too cold to open the windows, after all. A couple across the street comes out of their house, walking their dog, and waves to the basketball-playing boys in the driveway. Every once in a while, the backboard reverberates and the boys erupt in cheers and shouts. Birds chirp and squawk and flutter around outside.
It’s my last spring in Michigan, at least for the foreseeable future. It’s my last time living here and experiencing the transition from winter to spring: those hopeful, warm, and sunny days that first appear, promising an escape from the long and dreary winter. It’s the first warm day in a long time, and yet, the sun’s rays feel like a spiteful tease rather than a glimpse of a new vitality.
The couple walking their dog crosses to the other side of the street before waving to the basketball boys, carefully keeping a physical distance. The notes of the piano drifting from our neighbors come with a reminder that we’re all stuck at home. And as I sit here typing, I realize that Thursday, March 12th was the last real day of my K-12 education, and I didn’t even know it.
Governor Whitmer signed an executive order this morning ending in-person instruction for Michigan schools for the rest of the school year. It’s merely the formalization of news that’s trickled out over the past few days through media outlets that the governor was mulling such an order. But the official announcement makes it all the more real. When before we were staring down the barrel of a three-week-long closure, we now have to grapple with the sobering reality that the school year has, in effect, ended.
Yes, there will be online learning plans. Yes, there will be attempts to finish the curriculum, or cover as much remaining ground as possible. But every senior knows now in their heart that when they walked out of school on March 12th, they weren’t heading home for the night, they were saying goodbye.
Do I wish there was more closure to the school year, and to my K-12 education as a whole? Yes, definitely. But was the governor’s order necessary to preserve public health? Of course.
I feel selfish for writing this. I feel like the enormous sacrifices being made around the country and throughout the world dwarf the pain of a few months of missed school. I don’t feel like I should be sitting here eulogizing my high school career when so many unprecedented and heart-wrenching events are unfolding around the world, events that will surely be immortalized in the pages of history.
But this is my experience. And I want to use my voice to tell the story of how one 17-year-old from Michigan felt as he lived through this time.
I’m happy about all the memories I made. I’m grateful for my health and for the fact that my family is financially secure, at least for the time being. But there’s a hole in my heart that won’t be filled. My senior year will be different than any other class’s senior year, and we won’t have those senior traditions and events to reminisce about, at least not in a recognizable form. So many goodbyes left unsaid, and so many thoughts left unspoken. I feel numb, and I’m still a little in disbelief.
There’s still a long road ahead of us. In addition to the governor’s order, today was also the day that I made my final decision on which college to attend. As I ruminate about my future, I know that there’s still so much more left. But sitting at home, it’s hard not to think about what would've been happening at school if all this had never happened.
I walk over to the window and watch two squirrels chase each other in my backyard. The breeze has weakened, but the sun shines brighter than ever. I take a deep breath and inhale the warm spring air. It smells earthy and fresh.
