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Bella

Like most, my experience with COVID began as whispers – word of a flu-like sickness spreading like the common cold, muttered rumours that high school wouldn’t, in fact, resume after the conclusion of March break. In the second semester of my tenth grade year and armed with as much teenage angst as you can imagine, I was not-so-secretly thrilled at the possibility of a break from my classes. Tests and deadlines loomed over my head, so two weeks off would be a great chance for a breather. So the two weeks went by, and then two more, and then suddenly my classes were being held online and we were being told our current grades were going to be maintained through till the end of the semester – score, I guess? 

At home, my mother stopped going into work, and as a social worker, my eldest sister began to be worn thin. She would come home looking more and more haggard, from working with immigrant families at her job – men, women, children, barely speaking the language and just as apprehensive as we were – or distributing supplies at shelters in downtown Toronto. She began sequestering herself into her room so as to not expose us if she caught the virus; as a frontline worker, she knew her work was putting my immunocompromised sibling and our aging mom at risk. My gym closed. We started ordering groceries. A small stockpile of hand sanitizer grew in the foyer. As I heard on the news my mom kept on at all hours of the day, times were truly unprecedented. We had no frame of reference, and so we rolled with the punches as they came. 

The semester passed and so did I – namely, I slept through my Zoom classes and kept up the charade of a school routine, little to no consequence befalling me if I were to slack off on my work. My friends and I kept in contact – group calling almost nightly for co-op video games quickly became a routine as the months grew warmer. Face masks were introduced, and my mother and I spent nights using our sewing machine to craft fabric ones for my sister to take to work and pass out. Morbid as it seemed, I was having a great time in lockdown. I had all the time in the world to partake in any hobby I wanted, and no other responsibilities to worry about beyond those within my home. But the ever-present news and its inflammatory sidekick, social media, pressed at the walls of our bubble. Vitriol dedicated to the ‘Chinese virus’ grew louder, and soon I was hearing stories from Facebook and Instagram, then from friends of friends on the street, the bus, or the subway finding themselves on the receiving end of some anti-Asian stream of hate. Though I and my family are Filipino, we were of course lumped in with the rest as faceless scapegoats for this pandemic. I was made aware firsthand of the human tendency to blame. In retrospect, blame was one of the most insidious parts of the COVID-19 pandemic. Fear and uncertainty was commonplace, but rather than confronting a global crisis with unity, many pointed fingers, particularly at the Asian community. In my own life, hard conversations had to be had – was it worth your safety to go on that walk? We began to discuss how to keep safe not only from the virus, but from people, and what they might say or do if we were unfortunate enough to be Asian in their presence. This experience definitely restructured the way I understand racial identity, both through my own eyes and others’. It was easy to be idealistic as a teenager, focusing on the best traits of humanity and trusting that justice and ___ would prevail, but COVID provided me with a lesson in how quickly people can be ruled by fear, eroding empathy, and how misinformation can turn communities against each other. Additionally, COVID helped me recognize the importance of speaking out – advocacy, education, and protecting those vulnerable to discrimination as much as possible within my own community was more important than ever, and I carry that lesson still today. 

Similarly, many of the cultural shifts that occurred during the COVID-19 pandemic are still relevant to this day. The implementation of remote work, Zoom for virtual meetings, and digital collaboration challenged the traditional 9-to-5 structure of both work and education. It is common to find many workplaces with partially or fully remote employees, and much more flexible work arrangements than pre-pandemic. Even in university, online modules that were filmed during lockdown are still relied upon for disseminating coursework. Deciding whether this change was positive or negative may be a point of contention, but this reimagination of the traditional work format undeniably changed widespread perceptions of work-life balance. I personally think that maintaining a good work-life balance is instrumental in leading a fulfilling life, so I’m glad that things like the four-day work week, mental health days, and working from home have been popularized.

The pandemic was a defining era of my life and shaped not only my understanding of global crises but also my perception of humanity as a whole. It exposed both the resilience and the fragility of society—the ways in which people could come together to support one another, but also how misinformation could divide and instill fear in many. From the rise in anti-Asian sentiments to the cultural shifts, I think it’s safe to say that the impact of COVID, cultural or otherwise, is still unfolding. I’m not sure if I did everything right, if I spent my lockdown growing or just surviving, but it has changed me irreversibly. Like plagues of past, COVID-19 left devastation in its wake, but it has been inspiring to watch the world rebuild and learn from the experience.