Fish and Fries
Monday brought sunshine and warm weather, something that had been lacking during the harsh, North Country winter. Students littered campus: sunbathing, passing the frisbee on the quad, and eating lunch on the grass. But then Tuesday brought rain, slow and steady for hours, and in hindsight I should have seen how foreshadowing it all was: rumors of the pandemic spread as quickly as the virus itself, and it was quick to catch up to SLU students, despite their optimism.
On the morning of Tuesday, March 10, the mood of mother nature had dramatically shifted. Raindrops slid down my window, leaving a narrow trail of water in its wake. I propped myself up in my bed, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain and looking into the gray air as students in their dull raincoats and rain boots trudged by, lacking the pep in their step that they so willingly modeled the day before.
The day was as average as every other. Classes seemed to last a third longer than they actually did and whispers of coronavirus were all anyone wanted to talk about. The way that people talked about the virus was strange. It wasn’t happening to us, and it didn’t seem as though it would reach the bricks of our campus. We were merely just onlookers of a worsening pandemic that was beginning to prohibit our upcoming adventures.
The University had begun cancelling school-sponsored trips and abroad programs during the few preceding days, but the chaos still had yet to hit our campus. Rumors had been spreading all day on Tuesday that the board of trustees was meeting to discuss shutting down campus for either the semester, or an extended time after spring break, following suit to several New England schools and a sparse few New York institutions. However feasible these rumors were, they were rumors and I took them with a grain of salt, as did the rest of my peers.
Talking about the coronavirus had become the new normal. The whispers and the rumors followed you everywhere – from dorm hallways to the classroom to the dining hall to the gym, the word “coronavirus” was inescapable.
Tuesday evening after dinner I had decided to isolate myself on the top floor of the student center, away from my usual group of friends. I called my parents, letting them know that there are rumors of a potential campus shutdown looming. As I spoke to them about the virus, I kept receiving notifications on my phone, which was odd. After saying goodbye and hanging up the phone, my notifications showed chaos, confusion, and sadness:
“Holy shit guys,” texted John.
“No fucking way,” exclaimed Jenny.
“Fuck,” added resigned Jack.
“So we need to leave by Saturday,” reiterated Jenny.
“Wow,” cried John in disbelief.
The email notification that preceded the group messages, read: “St. Lawrence University will move to remote learning after spring break, beginning Monday, March 23, so students can complete coursework as much as possible from off campus.”
The student center was much quieter than just a few minutes before. I stood up from my chair and looked around. Every student was somber. I walked to the down to the first floor to get myself a snack and the usual, bustling eating area was much different. Students were seated, quietly talking on the phone with their parents, presumably, some crying, some still reading the email, and some packing up their work to go to their room and sulk, because there’s not much of a point to academics when your spring semester has essentially just been cancelled.
“Hey, did you get the email?”
I turned around to see my friend sitting at a table with mozzarella sticks and what looked to be math homework.
“Yeah, I just read it. I can’t believe it actually happened,” I replied.
“This is going to absolutely suck the life out of me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live at home for that long.”
“Yeah, I’m really not sure how I’m going to do work at home. It’s going to be impossible to focus.”
“I just don’t think I can maintain my sanity without seeing my friends every day.”
“Yeah, I have no idea what’s going to happen next.”
“We’re not coming back, are we?”
“Unlikely, in my opinion. It’s all just going to get worse.”
“Fuck,” she paused, “okay. I’m going to my room and drinking. I’ll see you tomorrow once I crawl out from my pit of despair.”
“Uh okay,” I said with a nervous chuckle, “have fun.”
I walked back up to my table, but doing homework that night was pointless. My mind was impaired by the reality of the coronavirus hitting our quaint campus in a place believed to be untouchable by outside forces. Sleep evaded me as well. My mind wouldn’t lay quiet, clouded by the questions of what remote learning would look like, wondering how I would pack all of my things into my car, and feeling so sorrowful at the reality of being separated from my friends far sooner than expected.
Wednesday everything changed. Students were no longer whispering rumors, but instead openly sharing their disapproval to anyone who would listen. Professors were just as unprepared for the announcement as students, creating a collective classroom uncertainty for what the rest of the semester would look like from a computer screen.
The most shocking change was made in dining facilities. Pencils at the pub were now separated into two different categories: “Clean” and “Dirty”. The employees now wore gloves to slide students’ cards at the register and the shelves of food began looking meager.
St. Lawrence has always fostered an inclusive community atmosphere, and while these changes to promote cleanliness were likely good, it made it feel as though campus was becoming disconnected.
Classes throughout the day were rather unproductive. Professors spent a lot of time creating a plan for the rest of the semester and easing student fears. Students spent nearly all of their time talking with friends, soaking up their last few days together and making plans for spring break and meet-ups.
Dinner time in the dining hall was stoic. Students lingered far longer than usual, making themselves comfortable in the too familiar light wooden chairs and matching table sets, more prepared to be dragged out than to willingly leave.
Thursday night students went crazy. The purge was upon St. Lawrence from the hours of 7 p.m. to 4 a.m. Toilet paper covered the trees and houses of the townhouse quad, large sheets of plywood read “We aren’t fucking leaving,” nearly every townhouse/suite/theme house was hosting a party, and students were on a whole new level of intoxication. A happy, partying student could go from joyful dancing to mournful tears in a matter of seconds. Campus was littered in beer cans, stray strands of toilet paper covered the grass, and curious stains appeared all over dorm hallway carpets.
Screams of discontent echoed across the quad as drunk students made their way from their respective parties to the bar.
“I’m not fucking leaving,” a drunk student yelled with vigor.
“YEAH,” another replied excitedly.
After a night of wild partying, Friday was when reality settled in. Cars and parents littered campus and it felt like the last week of school, and it was, but no one really knew that yet. The pub was empty of nearly all snacks except for one lone box of Newman’s Own ranch dressing packets sitting atop a shelf that used to supply bags of candy.
The sun shined like it had a few days prior, before we had all made plans to leave campus. The wind blew like crazy, blowing people’s belongings all around campus as they tried to pack them into their cars. I made my way to the student center, the unspoken checkpoint for goodbyes. I sat in the rickety high-top chairs by the mail center with friends, basking in some of the last moments we may have together. We took pictures, silly and serious ones, everyone a bit disheveled from their night out hours before.
I decided to stay until Saturday so I could soak up the Canton weather for as long as possible, which is something I never really imagined I would want to do. I had three goodbyes that day, and they were all painful.
Friday night was far less chaotic than the previous. Instead of pushing the limits of what their livers could do, the remaining student body cherished the time left. Campus seemed somber as students casually made their way between dorms. It didn’t feel like the last week anymore. The last night of the last week was celebratory; this night was not a celebration, but rather the night before the plug was pulled on a huge chunk of our college experiences.
Saturday morning brunch was the real reality check. The dining hall was a completely different experience than what I had come to know during my three years, not allowing students to touch food, plates, utensils, cups, and anything else that could spread germs. Drinks were either in cans or plastic bottles and were the only things students could grab by themselves.
“Fish?” the food services worker asked me from the kitchen. She held the tongs in her hand in anticipation and repeated the same one-word line to every student.
“Yes, two, please,” I responded blankly.
The woman picked up a plate from the stack beside her and placed two pieces of fish on it.
“Fries?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Asparagus?”
“No thank you.”
She hands me my plate from above the partition and I take it. She then hands me my utensils wrapped in a napkin. I take those too and head over to choose my drink – a carton of milk to remind me of my grade school days. The interaction was quite disconnected, lacking the usual warmth and traditional human contact that is typically expected. It’s understandable that you had to ask for everything, but it took away any sense of freedom and choice that anyone on campus still had left.
After brunch and my final goodbyes, I packed up my car with nearly all of my belongings and drove away. I thought there would be more to it, but there wasn’t. Leaving was so anticlimactic. It was just over and there is absolutely nothing I could do, and there still isn’t.