I
’ve been settling recently. I’ve settled
into a new home. I’ve settled into a
new ro vcutine. I’ve settled into a
global pandemic. I watch as my friends and
family seem to do the same. The mention
of “COVID-19” sounds like the name of an
estranged relative my family likes to gossip
about. While I get annoyed when my mother
brings it up at the dinner table, I can’t help
but listen to every word, waiting for the next
update in the soapbox drama that is the hav-
oc of our lives.
But we should be on the brink of panic.
There have been more than 188,000 deaths
in the United States due to COVID-19. Yet,
here we are. We’ve settled. Perhaps it’s a tes-
tament to the persistence of the human con-
dition — we have to adapt or else we’ll fall
behind.
Though we’ve only begun to settle now,
early March seems like a childhood fever
dream — hazy, intense and difficult to deci-
pher what’s real and what’s not. But it was
at that moment that I was still settling into
a city I had been in for
only two months, away
in London on a study
abroad program. I miss
the feeling of being un-
settled.
“Drinks
are
so
much cheaper here,”
said Abbey, another
study abroad student
from New Jersey, as
she tossed the conve-
nience store cashier
five pounds. We drank
Strongbow Dark Fruit
on the tube to a punk
show in Shoreditch
in an effort to not buy
the expensive drinks
the venue sold. We
were
both
scholar-
ship students, and we
couldn’t afford expen-
sive nights out like our
cohorts. Yet, we were
also both huge fans of
punk rock music, and
we
were
absolutely
thrilled at the prospect
of going to a show in
Britain — the birth-
place of punk music,
which later became
politicized in places like Latin America and
Australia. Though today, the genre has shift-
ed greatly from the punk rock of the 70s, we
were drawn to the outspoken anti-establish-
mentarian politics it still possesses.
We finagled our way into spending as lit-
tle as possible while enjoying the evening as
much as we could. Abbey was wearing black
lipstick to match her black eyeliner and hair.
I was wearing something not as fashionable,
I’m sure. Abbey was cooler than she thought
she was, which made her even cooler. She
was the one that introduced me to the ven-
ue, and I was just happy she’d asked me to
go with her.
I borrowed cigarettes from strangers all
night, exhaling the smoke from the burnt to-
bacco into the foggy London air. The smoke
traveled into my own lungs and the lungs of
the punk rockers on the streets. We shared
stories with one another, we shared our
cigarettes and we shared our drinks, too. It
seemed like we were sharing just about ev-
erything. I feel unsettled by the idea of this
now, but then, sharing a drink wasn’t some-
thing to be afraid of.
One of the smokers had graduated from
the university I was attending in the United
Kingdom. He studied drama, just as I did, but
he told me he regretted his decision, lament-
ing his past mistakes and failed job pros-
pects. He finished off his drunken ramble by
scuffing his cigarette butt into the cement
and saying, “There’s no way you can control
anything. Anything at all!” I agreed with him
then, but I’d soon realize even more just how
right he was.
Inside the venue, I pressed my body
against the hordes of people at the foot of the
stage, bumping and thumping to the heavy
drums of the band before me. We crashed
into one another, letting out screams and em-
bracing each other’s sweat. I view the mosh
pit of a punk show as the epicenter of what
punk stands for: a collective of people, typi-
cally lower class, coming together to release
their pent-up anger toward a system that has
failed them. Historically, punk music has
been a symbol for anarchy; in fact, as is stat-
ed in an article by CrimethInc., a decentral-
ized collective website, “A large proportion
of those who participated in the anarchist
movement between 1978 and 2010 were part
of the punk counterculture at some point, in-
deed, many were first exposed to anarchist
ideas via punk. This may have been merely
circumstantial: perhaps the same traits that
made people seek out anarchism also pre-
disposed them to enjoy aggressive, indepen-
dently produced music.”
The lyrics we were moshing to were full
of angry words directed at demolishing a
flawed government. Being in the mosh pit
becomes synonymous with an overwhelm-
ing sense of belonging. As odd as it seems,
crashing my body into hordes of sweaty
strangers brought me a feeling of comfort as
I partook in a collective rage toward a fail-
ing government system. If only I had known
then that in the months to come, the U.S.
would fail to protect the lives of hundreds of
thousands of people.
Clutching the empty can of Strongbow
we’d snuck into the venue, Abbey said, “I’ve
got to pee.” We headed to the bathroom.
Rows of people were sloshing around, fall-
ing into and over each other. As we passed a
couple making out in the corner and a man
yelling at his friend under the TV, I saw a
familiar pair of eyes peering at me. It was
Thomas, a student in my study abroad pro-
gram from Michigan State University.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I
laughed. I couldn’t believe I saw someone
I recognized in a city so big — the anonym-
ity of London was one of the most unsettling
things about it. Running into a familiar face
felt like I was back at a party in Ann Arbor.
“Hey,” he replied, his response colder
than I expected. I was surprised; we’d had
a few classes together abroad, and we’d de-
veloped some type of comradery over being
from rival schools in the U.S. His response
was more stoic than usual, so I asked him
what was going on.
“Have you seen your email?” he asked. I
hadn’t — my phone was deep in the pocket
of my winter coat, buried under piles of oth-
ers by the front door. He showed me his. The
words of the drunken drama student earlier
in the night — you can’t control anything! —
echoed in my head. The email had to do with
a newly discovered coronavirus that was in-
fecting thousands and threatening the lives
of millions. The email was clear: Our home
universities were calling us back to the U.S.
Over the next few days, the city of Lon-
don began to shut down. The tube was scar-
ily empty, and on the off chance you’d sit in
the same row as someone else, they’d pierce
you with a look of panic. Hand sanitizer, toi-
let paper and Cadbury chocolate bars were
among the many goods that were missing
from the grocery store shelves. Companies
were offering discounts on major tourist at-
tractions because there were no tourists to
attract.
I had about a week until my flight back to
Ann Arbor, where I’d remain for the foresee-
able future. I wanted to embrace the last mo-
ments of what the city had to offer: West End
shows, double-decker bus rides and curry
from the East End. Yet, it seemed as though
there was no city left. I watched what hap-
pened in the U.S., and the next day, the U.K.
would follow suit. When Broadway in the
U.S. shut down, so did the shows in London’s
West End. When the University of Michi-
gan went online, the universities in England
did the same. I watched as a country I was
so familiar with changed completely, and a
country I was just starting to fall in love with
morphed into something I could’ve never
predicted. I was grappling with the pain of
change two times over.
Like in the mosh pit, I was again expe-
riencing a collective feeling; though this
time it was fear instead of rage. We weren’t
alone in this. Browsing the headlines out of
both countries and talking with my friends
abroad, it was clear the same thing happen-
ing there was happening here, and we were
connected in our struggle.
During my flight’s layover, the enormity
of this crisis finally hit me, and grief ensued
as I walked through the Dallas Fort Worth
Airport. During my time abroad, I had no-
ticed many similarities between the U.K.
and the U.S. Though I didn’t know it while
I was sitting at the airport, our two coun-
tries would grow even more similar. Both
the Centers for Disease Control and Preven-
tion and the National Health Service would
call on their citizens to wear masks so as
to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Social
distancing would be enforced in both coun-
tries. U.K. citizens would be asked to stand
two meters apart; equivalent to the six feet
in the U.S.
As the quarantine days dragged on and
spring turned into summer, I kept in contact
with my friends and family in London. Shar-
ing our collective fear, though we were miles
apart, made me feel less alone. The other day,
I spoke with my friend Ollie from the U.K.
via FaceTime, and we mourned over those
last few days of normalcy before the world
turned inside out. He commented with a sad
laugh, “I realized it was bad when the pubs
started to close because the pubs are never
closed here … like ever.”
When I FaceTime my friends across the
pond, I am met with strange relief. We are
oceans apart and time zones away, but in a
way, we still were in the punk show mosh pit
— now as a combined force battling against
the threat of the virus, begging our leaders to
prioritize our lives in their decision-making.
Yet, it seemed as though our leaders were
more focused on the economy than us. In the
U.S., much of the COVID-19 relief ended in
the midst of the ongoing pandemic. The
Republican Senate rejected extending the
$600 enhanced unemployment benefits that
expired for almost 30 million Americans on
July 25.
“If you are making $50,000 a year, it is
more advantageous to be on unemployment
insurance than it is to go back to work. That’s
an example in this legislation of something
that’s going to hurt, not help the economy,”
Sen. Rob Portman, R-Ohio, told CNBC. Yet,
going back to work means more exposure
to the virus, and for
many Americans, that
could lead to some se-
rious health issues. It
brings me immense sor-
row to think of my fellow
Americans returning to
a deadly work environ-
ment just so they can pay
their rent for the month.
In the U.K., changes
to benefits have left dis-
abled people facing pov-
erty. According to the
Guardian, “The Disabil-
ity Benefits Consortium
(DBC) said in an open let-
ter to the work and pen-
sions secretary, Thérèse
Coffey, that changes in-
troduced last week to
raise the weekly rate of
universal credit by £20
would not apply to those
on legacy benefits. Many
claimants will not re-
ceive the increase, worth
more than £1,000 a year,
because they receive em-
ployment and support
allowance (ESA), a dis-
ability
unemployment
benefit that pre-dates
universal credit.”
This will lead many disabled citizens to
face an unforeseen loss of income and fed-
eral support. Many of my friends and family
members that live in London are feeling the
same kind of immense sorrow for their fel-
low citizens that I do for those in the U.S.
In our phone conversation a few days ago,
Ollie said that London looks entirely differ-
ent than it did in May. “It’s super busy. The
streets are packing up again, the tubes are
getting busier. There is a strange sense of
normality now.” This may be due to the fact
that, in an effort to resurge the economy,
many U.K. businesses have opened up. This
is not unlike the businesses reopening in the
U.S. in an effort to continue collecting sales
tax. This reopening does not come without a
price, as the U.K. has contended with a sec-
ond wave of COVID-19, while the U.S. is still
grappling with more than 40,000 new cases
daily. After my conversation with Ollie, I was
again amazed at the similarities between the
U.K. and the U.S. I told him that it seemed as
though both of our governments valued sav-
ing the economy over saving the lives of their
citizens.
“It seems like people are dropping dead
left, right and center over there,” he said. I
nodded my head to agree, and we were silent
for a moment. “I’m scared,” I admitted. “I am
too,” he agreed.
I felt comforted to know I wasn’t alone in
my fear. These past few months have been
filled with self-quarantining and social dis-
tancing, both of which only bring a sense of
unsettling isolation. But similar to the punk
rockers bobbing about in the mosh pit, I’ve
realized it is our collective feelings that al-
low us to feel some sense of belonging, even
during these frighteningly isolating times.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
15 — Wednesday, September 9, 2020
statement
A mosh pit, an email and COVID-19
BY ALIX CURNOW, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
ILLUSTRATION BY ?????
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE