Monday, Monday 9, 12:31 p.m.: I receive an email from my university’s president announcing that all in-person classes are suspended until March 27. The university encourages us to return home for the next three weeks. At around 7 p.m., I arrive home from the Beaufort office and pack my bags, joking with my roommates about how we may not ever see each other again. We laugh and they tell me about how students have been relaxing all day, knowing that classes for the next two days are canceled entirely. My dad picks me up and I leave my dorm for what I believe will be an extra-long Spring Break.
Tuesday, March 10, 4:35 p.m.: I receive another email from school. This one demands that all students who are able to leave campus housing immediately, and I wonder if there were too many parties on campus last night or if there is actually something to worry about. Rumors start to swirl about classes being online until after Easter. The idea is frustrating, but not the worst thing that could happen.
Wednesday, March 11, 9:45 p.m.: Another email. All students studying abroad, including those at the university’s London campus, have been called home in light of developing quarantine measures and travel restrictions. All on-campus events are canceled through March 29. I receive a frantic email from a member of an on-campus organization that I lead; she tells me she is not going to be able to meet an assignment deadline because she is packing for her 6 a.m. flight. It is nearly midnight.
Thursday, March 12: No emails are sent out today. My friends and I track the decisions being made by other schools. Some have suspended in-person instruction for two or three weeks. Others have switched to online classes for the rest of the semester. I still believe that we will return to campus, at least for the last few weeks of classes and for final exams.
Friday, March 13, 8:59 p.m.: I receive the email that breaks my heart: the university has decided to finish the semester online. We will not be able to return to campus. All events for the remainder of the year, including our end-of-semester celebrations, are canceled. Decisions about graduation have yet to be made, but no promises are made. Sitting in my childhood bedroom, I cry. My friends call me and we cry together. Hours later, I tell my parents the news and cry again.
In a matter of four days, my college experience was turned upside down. Everything I had grown to love—being on my own, living within walking distance of friends from all over the country, lounging on the lawn on campus, sharing coffee with friends in the library at 2 a.m., having Manhattan a train stop away—was taken away before I could even process it. All of a sudden, I was back at home trying to find a desk to do my work at.
This is not the way I planned to end things. As a senior, this was supposed to be the best part of my college career. I was excited to hand off my positions to underclassmen. I was excited to attend awards ceremonies. I was excited to watch the sunrise from the football field the morning of graduation. I was excited to do everything one last time, knowing that it would be the last time.
Now, as I sit at home wishing I had taken more pictures of campus and of my friends, I can’t help but think about all the things I will not get to do. I have been trying to balance this sadness with the little joys of everyday life, but it is not an easy task. One thing that has helped me is making a daily list of what I am grateful for. These lists often include things like having a safe home, having a healthy and loving family, and having good WiFi and my boyfriend’s Netflix password. While it doesn’t feel like much, I know that it is far more than what others have. For each and every thing on my list, I am truly thankful.
Stay healthy and until next time,
Charlotte Beaurontё
This is a shared blog post for Beaufort Books and Spencer Hill Press.
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