Pandemic Scraps: Fear, Joy, and Grief in a Changing World
Conquering a fear begins with the smallest of steps: first, a row of teeth scraping against a metal spoon. Out my bedroom window, from which I have watched the pandemic unfold, dusk covers Meknes in deep-ocean blue. Outlines of mountain ridges peer through the shroud like half-submerged glaciers. I swallow my last bite of mushroom soup with only a slight pause as I raise the spoon to my open lips. For years, I had a long-standing fear of mushrooms—I would carefully remove each chopped bit from sauce or stew. Then one night, when I discover morsels in my stir-fry, I eat them anyway. In the distance, the mountains disappear into the blackening sky.
This year has felt like watching a fire from afar—a funnel of smoke rises and I don’t know where it’s coming from but that something, somewhere is burning. I occasionally leave the house without a mask and then run back in a panic to grab one, straps secured around my ears. People ask me in three different languages what I think will happen in the election. In a world where every day ends with a question mark, I don’t know how to answer. One bowl of mushroom soup, then another. A new inhabitant of my body, it forges a home in my stomach, hearty and warm.
Joy in the middle of a crisis goes something like this: I see the strawberry cart on my walk home and think about how a single bite releases a cacophony of flavors. Their redness beckons me, so I buy a kilo, swing the bag at my side as I cross the bridge. I save them for tomorrow. I don’t know if I will know tomorrow. The strawberries bulge against the edges of the plastic bag, juicy droplets falling from their surface. They are both ready to be eaten and asking to be preserved; I wait too long, and a few days later, they turn brown and mushy. I scrape off the parts where mold has gathered and eat what remains, but they don’t taste as they should.
At the bank, I watch two women show evident surprise at running into each other. They move to embrace, then one woman sticks out her elbow. The other follows suit. I can’t remember the last person I touched—maybe the shopkeeper’s hand as he dropped coins into mine. When I get home, I scrub my hands, usually twice. I grieve lines at train stations where people crowded up against each other in their wait for a rapidly-approaching train. I grieve bustling restaurants and traffic and claustrophobia. I grieve days without fear; I grieve the loss of uneventfulness.
The mountains reappear during the day—on a hike through them, it’s easy to forget. Our fingers remove wild berries from tree branches and they explode with color into our mouths. We begin our descent back to town as the sun sets, gold swatches shining on the fields of green. Each hike feels like a full-body reset, felt in the aches of my calves and half-shut eyes on the drive home.
I go on a walk on the evening of the U.S. elections in hopes that the beats of my footfalls will slow those of my heart. Pastel-colored buildings curl up the hillside—a sprawling city, a visiting friend once said. As I pass a park, I see a man begin to chase after a woman wearing a djellaba as green as the overhead trees. Fear lodges in my windpipe and I wonder if I should scream—then I realize the woman is laughing and they are racing. It is a game. Later, I head back home with a bag of dirt-crusted sweet potatoes and unripe avocados. The ground underneath me feels unsteady, like the buildings will collapse, like the sidewalks’ edges are razor blades.
I dream someone tells me I will hike better without my shoes because they are unnatural and constricting. In the dream, I follow their advice and hike barefoot, with nothing on my body, facing the sun. From the back, the balls of my heels, pale and firm, leave half-moon imprints in the dirt like hope to cling onto, like something unfinished.
The reflections posted on this blog are always first-person and only speak for my own individual experiences. While the COVID-19 pandemic hasn’t been easy for most people, it has been especially difficult for Asian-American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) communities who have faced a severe increase in hate crimes and attacks over the past year. If you have the means, please consider donating to an organization or fund that supports AAPI communities, such as: AAPI Journalists Therapy Relief Fund, Asian Mental Health Collective, Asian American LEAD, or the National Queer Asian Pacific Islander Alliance.
