Moved out and deserted
Photo Courtesy of Creative Commons
When I moved out of my dorm, it wasn’t an emotional pack-up-the-bags scene like you’d see in a Hallmarkmovie. I traveled from my dad’s house in the Philadelphia suburbs to Long Island in a rush of empty highways. We quickly packed everything we could in my bulky gray suitcase and evacuated.
The dorm complex was a ghost town. It was hot and still, like a corny scene from a zombie movie. Everything was coated in an orangish sepia filter from the midday sun overhead. I remembered something peculiar two weeks prior: About to make the trip back home, I had seen my friend picnicking on the grass patch outside of Groningen Hall. Thinking we would only be separated temporarily, I said a quick goodbye and leaned in for a hug. She dodged it, and apologized for the awkwardness of the situation:
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to get sick.”
Little did I know that this concern would soon evolve into social distancing practices and mass hysteria. It causes one to think and reflect on the built-up commodified society to which we all contribute. Self-reflection is a powerful tool of psychological revision, and I have practiced this during the time I have spent in quarantine.
I was born in Dallas, Texas, in April 2001. Nine years later, my parents separated and I moved with my mom to the small town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Later my dad would also move to the outskirts of Philadelphia. In the midst of this big and prolonged move, I spent the summers of 2010–2014 in Ada, Oklahoma, a very small town located near the Texas border. Overall, my life has always felt spread out across the country, stretched along the basin of the Appalachian to the Great Plains. It was a hard childhood in that I never had that many friends and my family was always at a distance, but here I am, attending a private university in the most unaffordable metro of the country. I’m an extremely lucky person to have such a spoonful of opportunity.
High school was rough. I was nervous every single minute of every day. The anxiety emerged out of a crippling fear of rejection. Because I tended to disassociate during class, I only made honor roll once, but my parents were still proud of me. I tried my best and pushed my hardest, but there was always an empty apathy at my core. Like any queer kid, I felt people staring at me in the hallway and heard the rumors spread. This subversive dread was what killed the wonder and ambition that I had in my early childhood. I could no longer be seen in front of people without a crippling interior voice telling me I should quit life.
In the midst of the long and hazy maturation of adolescence, I had small yet bright instances of joy, especially whenever I came close to finding something I really, genuinely liked. I remember when I first bought Converse shoes. They weren’t even the Chuck Taylors – some weird all-black edition. This seemingly minor purchase is something that I often reminisce on and laugh about. Those shoes were a way to compensate for the bullying and the emptiness. Looking back on that day when I walked out of the shoe store, I remember the shelled-out version of Daniel I was. In a sense, despite their abhorrent appearance, the shoes I had were my own way out of the small town I lived in: They were symbolic of my conception of the counterculture, something I would later adopt as an aesthetic.
When I was in 10th grade, my grandfather bought me a $3,000 trumpet. I was shocked at the hefty price. The gift was unexpected, but he bought it because he loved to listen when I played. I had performed “Amazing Grace”at our church in Oklahoma, and it was the buzz of the town. My family was enamored with my musical abilities. They had me play at family gatherings and events, which I believe was very beneficial to my mental health. Playing music was the first time I broke through that internal apathetic torment. I practiced the trumpet for hours on end. For a long time, trumpet – and in turn, music – was the one thing about me that was intangible to the outside world. It was what I wanted it to be: beautiful and fulfilling.
To this day, distant relatives ask me, “Do you still play that trumpet?”
At college, I felt a sense of liberation. It was no longer just music, writing and daydreams that let me escape into the world I wanted, but the lack of restraint I felt. I wasn’t in the South or Appalachia anymore. I didn’t have to code-switch or worry that angry eyes were on me. Long Island and Hofstra, although suburban, were my own. My periodic solo trips to New York City kept me fascinated, as though my internal batteries were charged by the constant stimulation. The pulsating island of Manhattan and the brick streets of Queens (the best borough) were my rock.
I want to shape the world in a way that allows people to approach others regardless of context or emotion. A communal humanity that celebrates happiness and kind behavior. My golden rule in life is do nothing but empathize. When I broke from my shell, I found myself able to cry at movies and laugh from the gut. I became dramatic, and while that may not be the best aspect of myself, I appreciate those emotions more than ever.
Now, as I quarantine in my hometown of Carlisle, I am becoming reacquainted with the Daniel that once was, and I am contrasting him with the Daniel I am today. I feel inundated by constant media and television, and I am depressed from lack of socialization, but overall, I feel proud of myself. I found my passions and outlets. I cry at horrible TV shows and I eat healthily.
As goes with anything in life, the COVID-19 outbreak just sort of happened. All I know is that it sucks for a lot of people. Our preconceptions of progress and technology have been false, or at least inhibited by our dumpster fire of a social and political system. Containment is psychologically traumatic and returning home from college is one of its worst aspects. During this trying time, people are alone and suffering. Extend kindness and empathy to your friends and neighbors while social distancing. Attempt to create support systems and maybe, just maybe, we can all make it out of this a little less scarred.
