Upon Our Return

It is your first day back at school. You’ve completed your second semester of junior year in the confines of your bedroom on Google Classroom and video calls. With your senior year starting, you know today won’t be like any other first day.

You wake up before 7:00 a.m. to the sound of your alarm, which hasn’t been set that early since March 13. You put on a fresh pair of clothes that you picked the night before in anticipation of finally getting to learn outside your pajamas. You begin the hour-long commute to Tribeca, your first subway ride since the spring. Even with the quarantine lifted, your parents have instructed you to avoid standing particularly close to any other passengers, though it is to no avail, as the subway car is packed. The streets too are bustling, reminiscent of the New York you knew before the crisis struck.

After getting off the subway, you make your way to the breakfast cart, where a long line of students has already formed. You order the usual: a coffee loaded with milk and sugar, complete with a brown paper bag and red plastic straw tucked inside. Coffee in hand, you make your way down Chambers Street and up the creaky wood-planked floors of the Tribeca Bridge.

When you arrive at the steel Stuyvesant door, you instinctively reach into your pocket and pull out your ID card. The sight of Eric Witsotsky reminding students to take off their hats and headphones makes you chuckle, and you make your way to the two-to-three escalator, silently praying that it will be functioning. Out in the hallway, you see old friends and race toward each other, shrieking. As you hug, you wonder, “Should we even be hugging?”

These apprehensive thoughts cloud your mind, making you feel as if you are a mere spectator puppeting through the motions of a normal school day that speaks nothing of normalcy. Perhaps it’s no longer needing to communicate through a blue raised hand. Perhaps it’s the loss of protection that you feel from no longer being able to shield yourself by turning off your camera.

Hidden amongst the buzzing conversations between lively friend groups lies a student, quiet and reserved, who you always saw out of the corner of eyes, but never stopped to acknowledge. What if she lost a loved one? What was her story? Inspired by a newfound sense of kinship, you tilt your head in her direction and smile at her, almost as if to say, “I am here for you. I don’t know your story, but my heart goes out to you.”

All of a sudden, the end bell rings, causing you to snap out of your thoughts. You dart down the escalator and exit out of the bridge for your lunch period, mind set on one place and one place only: Ferry’s. But something stops you just as you are about to open the door: a small white sign taped to the front door stating, “Out of business. Thank you for all these years of service.” Your heart shrivels a little, taken aback by the fact that the one place you thought would restore some much needed regularity to your routine was now stripped away.

After hearing the end bell’s last ring, signifying the conclusion of your school day, you’re overcome with a peculiar sense of accomplishment that you haven’t felt since the beginning of March. Maybe it’s because you managed to get through your classes without yawning, or maybe it’s because you did some cardio today going from the first to the seventh floor. Back when classes were online, all you had to do to get to Spanish was click the Google Meets link you were given, sit back, and maybe doze off a little, all from the comfort of your bed.

In-person teaching is unfamiliar. During quarantine, you barely saw your junior year history teacher’s face because he was one of the many teachers who chose not to do face-to-face digital meetings. Now, you’re overcome with sadness as you wave to him as you pass by in the hallway––you realize you’ve lost three months of face-to-face interaction that you won’t ever get back.

On your way down to the gym for the sports practice of the school year, you see your best friend as she leaves the building. She spots your windbreaker and mockingly expresses her jealousy—her sport was canceled because of the pandemic. She’s joking, but you can’t help but sympathize with her. She is going to have to wait another six months before she can finally play with her teammates again.

You’re both able to continue the conversation as if you hadn’t been separated for months, though the pandemic has undeniably left deep imprints on both your minds. You’re both wondering, how will this impact my future and specifically, college? How will my junior year teachers write good recommendation letters for me if they’ve only really known me for three-quarters of a year? How will I take my SATs and SAT IIs this year?

You take a deep breath before heading into the gym. You know that the pandemic has stretched your circumstance way beyond your control. There isn’t much you can do about the College Board’s SAT policies, or your teacher recommendations, or the fact that senior year is going to be weighed much more heavily. You, and the rest of the student body, can only get through these first months of adjustment and trust that everything will turn out okay.

You walk out into the white lights of the third-floor gym, put your bags down on the bleachers, stretch, and let life start anew as a Stuyvesant senior.