Friday, March 27, 2020 // The Statement
6B
I
tug my sweatshirt
sleeve
over
my
fingers
to
avoid
direct contact with the
door handle as I walk into
the Michigan Union. Sam
walks up with me, saying
“Well, let’s go downstairs
to the bookstore to buy
our graduation caps and
gowns.” Only minutes ago,
we received the University-
wide
email,
amid
the
COVID-19
pandemic,
announcing that classes
would be transitioned to
online platforms for the
rest of the semester.
A few months prior, I
had been pondering the
thoughts
of
T.S.
Eliot
— Do I dare? — as we
read “The Love Song of
J.
Alfred
Prufrock”
in
my poetry course. I felt
invincible entering my last
semester at the University
of Michigan: so liberated,
so empowered, so restless
over
the
endless
opportunities
to be explored post-graduation. Eliot
ponders, Disturb the universe? I felt as if I
could possess the world if I dared.
Back in the Union with Sam, the
employees at the bookstore partake in
the frenzied dialogues occurring on
campus: Whether or not their store
would be open tomorrow, whether or
not commencement would even happen,
whether or not students will start to
leave. “Reece, should I get the block
‘M’ stole for my gown?” Sam and I
distracted ourselves with the faint hope
of a remaining commencement; after all,
at that point, classes were technically
canceled in-person only until April 21.
Earlier in the semester, I told myself that
graduation would come so quickly, but
I now found that I was lying to myself
about the proximity of May 2. Surely, the
chaos of the pandemic would subside by
then, right? One day at a time.
A few days later, along with the
cancellation of March Madness, Broadway
shows and the closure of Disneyland, I
walk into my kitchen to place my newly
purchased package of Clorox wipes on the
counter, only to find my roommate Nicole
tearing up. My heart skips a beat as she
tells me that all commencement activities
are canceled until further notice: the
unfathomable actually happening.
In a minute there is time / For decisions
and revisions for which a minute will
reverse.
The universe had disturbed me. I
couldn’t understand the meaning behind
all of this. When I had joked I never want
to graduate from college, this was not
what I was referring to. That is not what
I meant at all; That is not it, at all — Eliot’s
words echo in my mind.
I tap skip as “Landslide” randomly
plays from my shuffled Spotify songs,
and by this point, I had left Nicole and
retreated to the succulent-filled, coffee
cup-cluttered desk in my room. No Stevie
Nicks, I can’t sail through the changing
ocean tides. My world of the Michigan
maize and blue had faded to a solemn
gray. My family overwhelms me with text
messages: Grandma Fran assures me that
we will celebrate eventually, my mom
tells me that a delayed ceremony will be
all the more rewarding and Aunt Trish
says we can set up a faux-mencement with
chairs in the backyard.
Doesn’t that then make graduation
some meaningless social construct? What
I thought had been feelings of sadness,
devastation, bitterness and anger, were
actually emotions of anxiety and fears of
missing out: I can’t get these meaningful
last two months of my life back, they won’t
be postponed to a later date. It’s a loss of
closure, traditions and promises I made to
myself as a freshman — all of which are
now broken. Of course, my time at the
University wasn’t exactly picture-perfect,
but I thought taking that last photo of my
friends and I in caps and gowns, blissfully
spraying bottles of champagne in front
of the Big House on an April afternoon
would filter out the insecurities of the
past.
Others encourage me to “phone it in”
with my classwork as a second-semester
senior, and though I quite literally phone
into Google Hangout, my classes are
what keep me energized. I thought I was
hitting my stride as I finally found my
voice as a writer and a passion for my
English major. Now was supposed to be
the pinnacle of my academic experience.
I wanted to soak up every late night in the
library, every sentence of that court case
reading, the rush of turning that essay
in two minutes before the deadline, the
moment of nearly making it to class on
time, the class discussions, the capstone
assignments.
So how should I presume? Eliot asks.
Harking back to my freshman year history
class, I recall the ancient Incan construct
of time. The Incans understand time as a
past in front of them and a future behind
them. In a spatial sense, their backs are
turned against the future and they are
faced toward the past. Time, therefore,
flows forward and into the past. I’m
left to confront the past in order to find
clarity in my present, and eventually my
future. Even Shakespeare reminds me
that the “past is prologue” — there is an
unraveling of beginnings as well as an
unraveling of endings.
My email inbox becomes deluged
by messages from professors. There’s
a
connected
disconnect
between
me,
my
professors
and
peers
in
these
unprecedented
times. I expected to be
overwhelmed
with
new
assignments and deadlines,
yet
they’re
trying
to
get
their
bearings
no
differently than we are.
It’s inspiring to see how
they’re not trying to mask
the
challenges
of
this
transition.
My
political
science
professor
now
signs every email with
“this too shall pass”; one
of my English professors
inspires us to “lean into”
the moment and that, from
a
writer’s
perspective,
it’s almost better when
things don’t go as planned.
He
brings
up
novels
including
Thucydides’
“Peloponnesian War,” “The
Decameron” and William
Maxwell’s
“They
Came
Like Swallows” to remind
us that this confrontation of
unknown
circumstances
isn’t as unprecedented as
it seems. He also asks us
to think about how today’s circumstances
will matter in five days. Five months. Five
years.
My other English professor passes
along articles from The New Yorker, in
which teachers sympathize with the
sorrows of students during the disrupted
narrative of our undergraduate careers.
She stresses to us that staying connected
is what matters most in these stressful
times, and remarks that hopefully, the
readings can provide a good distraction
for us. Through it all, the literature
persists. As we discuss the confusion of
pronouns in Anne Carson’s poetry during
our Google Hangout class, my mind
wanders and I rearrange the pronouns
in my own circumstances. Why does
the pronoun “my” have to come before
canceled commencement and not the
pronoun
“your”?
This
cancellation
doesn’t coincide with the class of 2021 or
the class of 2019. I have to take possession
of the chaos and remember it’s actually
“ours” to dare. I turn the page of my Eliot
poem, And indeed, there will be a time. At
this moment those words feel hollow to
me, rather — It is impossible to say just
what I mean!
Reece Meyhoefer is a senior in LSA
studying English and Political Science and
is a Deputy Statement Editor. She can be
reached at reecemey@umich.edu.
Pomp and circumstance
BY REECE MEYHOEFER, DEPUTY STATEMENT EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY DORY TUNG