Before The Fall

Before the email could make an appearance in my inbox, its popularity had spread all over the black mizzou group chat. We read that MU journalism students were exposed to the coronavirus at a conference, and now classes were dropping like flies. My only two classes for the day in Lee Hills Hall resumed until the second email arrived. We read that Classes were cancelled for the rest of the week, and online classes would commence the following week. As soon as that email landed in my inbox, class was dismissed early. We could all feel the awkward tension walking out of the room whilst our feet trudged unprecedented territory.

On one hand, I was ecstatic. Open book midterms, extended spring break and a loving family awaited me as I packed my things to do my work from home in Tulsa, Oklahoma. On the other hand, I imagined my grandchildren asking me how I felt during the coronavirus outbreak when they read about in their history books. My reality began to tackle cinematic elements as the news resembled zombie apocalypse thrillers. Nonetheless, I was happy, at least at first.

“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” (Proverbs 16:18).

In the beginning, pride plagued our lands, our youth and our safety in a cloak of false narratives. I recall when I read the first Daily Mail story about the coronavirus. There was false assurance that it was contained, and clips going viral of people in China eating bat soup amongst other rare creatures. My pride surrounding what a great country the U.S. is blocked any possibility of America being exposed. That same kind of pride ruined our defenses as our government knew about the virus since November and did nothing. Millennials everywhere labeled the pandemic as “not that serious” due to its low death rate amongst young people. Now, I am sitting at home reading about the first St. Louis City death due to the virus killing a 31-year-old girl.

When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I felt like I had reached home base and the umpire cleared me as safe. The scent of fresh lysol burned my nose, and I almost slipped across the wooden floor while taking my bags to the stairs. The next day, my mother and I went to Target. I asked her if I could stay inside the car so she left the keys in the ignition. I sat quietly and watched as customers left the store empty handed shaking their heads. This is the first time I witnessed no one rolling a shopping cart along. Once my mother returned, she had two bags of cleaning supplies.

“The way it looks inside there you would think we lived in a third world country,” She said.

“I know,” I replied. “That’s why I didn’t want to go inside.”

My pride of obtaining a 4.0 this semester due to classes being online, and my assurance of being safe in my two story disinfected castle with plenty of toilet paper has descended into a spiral of fear and guilt. I won’t visit my granny for the fear of being a carrier. I clock into my remote internship online while people delay paying their bills with no source of income. I fear having children in the future, knowing this is not a world I would want to force on someone so small.

I feel a sense of being unaffected, untouchable. In reality, I have morphed into a hermit crab that has the privilege of seclusion in a crystal shell watching the virus harm others livelihoods just waiting for it to knock on my enclosure.