{ COLLEGE LIFE}
Graduation Blues Coming to terms with a global pandemic, graduation, and growing up. by ABIGAIL STERLING
W
hen I packed my duffel bag for spring break, I thought I was going back home for a week. I brought one Syracuse crewneck and a pair of gray joggers, mindful that I always overpack. My wardrobe has been supplemented with high-school relics — ill-fitting marching band sweatpants and a t-shirt I wore in gym class. I struggle to complete the last few assignments to earn my college degree in my childhood bedroom. Middle-school sports trophies stand on a shelf, and old stuffed animals huddle in my closet next to a box of Sweet 16 birthday cards. Facing an uncertain ‘adult’ world from the confines of the room that housed me as a child, the irony sometimes feels overwhelming. My worn and well-loved Harry Potter books sit next to crisp college textbooks, and at night my head rests on sheets I picked out from a magazine when I was 12, while I wonder what will happen if the virus lasts forever.
I began cycling through all the things I would miss: Mayfest, going to the bars one last time, and saying goodbye to the professors who have guided me throughout the years. There would be no group project meetings in Bird Library, no more coffee from People’s Place on the steps of Hendricks Chapel, and no commencement ceremony in May, marking the end of my four-year collegiate career. I let the grief overwhelm me as my mom hugged me, my tears darkening the bright orange of her Syracuse sweatshirt. Since mid-March, schools, restaurants, and shopping malls have been closed. Masks hide our faces, toilet paper is the most precious and rationed commodity, and interacting
contagious smile. We shared many Thanksgivings with his family at their house, and my siblings and I would fight for a chance to play on the old pinball game in their living room, amazed by the bright lights and cartoon sounds. Until his passing, I viewed the pandemic as an inconvenient interruption. Though I hadn’t seen Bob in years, suddenly, everything felt very real and immediate. If a healthy man who had wrestled for Columbia University could die from this, then anyone was at risk. Now when I speak to my grandparents, I wonder if it could be the last time. I anticipated this spring and summer as my last few months of being a young adult, with a clear plan ahead of me. I would spend the summer job hunting, and hopefully land a position in New York City. I had pictured my first shoebox apartment, filled with flea market finds and warm yellow light from the city streets. Now my plans have been put on hold indefinitely, and I begin to dial back on my dreams. It feels like the real world has been forced upon me, covering my future with the dark ink of uncertainty. I feel prematurely old, like the last of my youth has already been spent.
“During the last week of April, I sat cross-legged on my bed, watching my final college class over Zoom. When the meeting ended, I wondered if I should have felt something.”
At some point during my extended spring break, I sat on the sand-colored couch in my parents’ living room and mindlessly cycled through the social media apps on my phone. The news blared in the background, and I could hear my mom and sister talking in the kitchen. And when my phone lit up with an email from Syracuse University, I snapped to attention. I hoped for another reassuring message that in-person classes would resume. Instead, the email announced the thing I was dreading. In-person classes were suspended for the remainder of the semester, and my education would shift online. My senior year had effectively ended.
20 UGirl CollegeLife
with strangers incite fear. Anxious that the people we pass may spread an invisible illness that will ravage our lungs. A global pandemic has torn through every aspect of our lives, and we have lost a sense of normalcy. Trips to the grocery feel apocalyptic. We scour every shelf for the last loaf of sourdough as if our survival depends on it and I’m reminded of all the things I forgot to savor—my last meal at a restaurant and an aimless browse through the aisles of TJMaxx. A few weeks ago, one of my dad’s friends died from COVID-19. Bob was a powerful man with a
At the same time, I recognize my luck. Not all students have a home to go back to or live in a place that is healthy and conducive to learning. My parents both have their jobs and can work safely from home while others are exposed to the virus daily. I am privileged to be able to social distance from my home, and acknowledging this is
