Are you from a rural community or the American South? Share your story with us to be published in an upcoming newsletter!
Hi Folks,
This morning, the headline of The New York Times’ daily newsletter read “1 in 5,000”. The following briefing served to soothe the “exaggerated fears” over breakthrough Covid infections, claiming that the risk for the average vaccinated American of contracting the Delta variant is about 1 in 5,000, or even 1 in 10,000 in some areas. Of course, they write, for the Southeast that risk is likely much larger, though there is no number given. Both the Southeast— where Covid currently rages— and the unvaccinated are mentioned only as throwaways, as though the bulk of readers have no reason to think about these places at all, or to worry about what is happening there. The crisis currently occurring across both the Southeast and the unvaccinated population is distant, far-off, something for someone else to worry about.
Last fall, I began my first year teaching in North Carolina public schools right as Covid continued to cinch its grip tighter around America. For over a year now, I have been working full-time, in-person in rural schools. We were never virtual. I was never quarantined. For most of the year, I was unvaccinated, though my school did require both students and staff to wear masks. In early March, I took an afternoon off work to get my first dose of the Pfizer vaccine. The local hospital was administering shots to the elderly, hospital workers, and school staff by appointment. They had rented out a barn that was typically used for weddings, and around the open room, individual stations had been set up for doses to be given and participants to be observed. Strings of Christmas lights hung in criss-crosses across the wooden rafters and faint music played. In the waiting area where everyone congregated, I ran into a friend of mine, also getting her shot, and we sat there for nearly an hour, talking and laughing, feeling hope again. It felt like a celebration in that barn, as family members hugged one another again after receiving their second dose and everyone seemed to take a deep, collective sigh of relief.
Two weeks ago, I began teaching in a new county, just above the one I was previously working in. This county is smaller than before, about a third of the size, and with less than fifteen schools in total. We went back to school in full-capacity, almost all students who had been learning virtually returning to the classroom. Within a week, we had over one hundred student cases across the county, and clusters of staff cases at a handful of schools. Four days into the school year, I quarantined myself in my apartment, hoping that I was just exhausted from the first week and being paranoid. Last Wednesday, I tested positive for Covid-19, one of the so-called rare breakthrough cases everyone seems to be talking about lately.
The Saturday before, I woke up with a gut feeling that something was wrong, and attempted to go get tested. I assumed that this far into the pandemic, testing would be easy and accessible, especially now that I live in a more urban area and am surrounded by some of the best hospitals in the country. What I experienced instead was a massive wake up call, and today I want to talk about the Southeast, the pandemic, and what I am experiencing in my lived reality versus what I am hearing and reading about on the news.
I can summarize this story: first, I did what anyone does when they fear a medical diagnosis. I turned to Google and searched “covid testing near me”. I got plenty of links to get vaccinated, as well as the numbers for a variety of urgent cares. I had gotten Covid tested once before, for a visit out of town, at CVS and thought I could try there first. But there were no appointments for another three days, and nothing at all for rapid tests. I called the urgent care and the local pharmacy that came up. Neither answered. I called CVS and Walgreens again and got sent to a Covid helpline, which did not in fact help at all. I looked up if hospitals were offering Covid tests and found that, if I was willing to drive almost an hour and wait in a two-hour plus emergency room waiting line, I might have a shot at a test. I drove to two urgent cares, both within a mile from my apartment. One was closed. The other had a line of college students at the door and the receptionist informed me that unless you had an appointment, you had no chance of getting tested for at least two more days. The pharmacies had sold out of at-home test kits and didn’t have any restock coming for nearly a week. The university testing centers were either closed on weekends or required a fee, and without being affiliated with any of the universities, there was no way I was getting a test. Scared and sick, I sat in my car and cried because I was alone and wanted an answer and didn’t know what else to do. I ended up going home, resigning myself to the fact that I would be answerless until Monday at the earliest, and called out of work for the next few days. By the time I was able to get tested at the CVS drive through on Monday, I felt back to normal, the best I had felt in days. And by the time I actually got my results, mid-day on Wednesday, I was halfway through the ten-day quarantine recommended to vaccinated individuals who manage to still contract Covid.
This isn’t a unique story, and that’s kind of my point: in the last few days alone, I have talked to so many other people who are currently experiencing the same thing. Numbers in my school district have nearly doubled in the week I was out, and already a new cluster has popped up. Everyone I talk to is afraid. At lunch, I have to tell my students to face the wall so that they can remove their masks to eat without directly breathing on one another. They aren’t allowed to talk to each other. I haven’t seen my coworkers’ bare faces since I started.
I don’t have any answers for all of this. I just know that it almost infuriates me to see the way that major media outlets are currently referring to the pandemic, acting as though the risk is mostly allocated to a certain part of the country, and therefore it’s not something that the rest of us have to worry about. I’m worried. I thought teaching this year would automatically be better than it was last year, but it is already so much worse, and if I hadn’t already recovered from Covid, I know my anxiety would be spiking to new levels as I watch the numbers rise while restrictions continue to ease. And I am one of the lucky ones; I had a mild case in a district that prioritizes student safety and heavily enforces mask wearing. So many other school districts across the Southeast are so much worse.
All this is to say that the situation is dire here, and I don’t want emails in my inbox telling me not to worry about the risk of something I— and everyone else I know here— face down everyday. Workers are afraid. Students are afraid. Things are the worst they have ever been, and yet it feels like the world is moving on. I understand that there is a point where we collectively will have to decide that we are going to live with this forever and accept the risks. At times, I think most of us have already moved past that point. Sometimes I pause too long to think about life, and it amazes me how we have all been forced to reconcile living in collective, ongoing, endless trauma. That this is just what it means to be alive in the world right now. And it never seems to get any better.
Today I went back to work after completing my ten days in complete isolation. All those days I sat in front of my window and watched my neighbors loop their dogs around the park behind us, listened to the sound of the geese flying through the low-hanging clouds. The leaves on the trees began to turn from green to yellow and hang like ripe fruits off the branches. The world went on. When I walked through the door this morning, my students’ voices rose in a chorus as they welcomed me back. I could see their smiles, wide and hopeful, even through their masks.
No prompt this week other than to take care of yourself. Thanks for bearing with me and the strange posting schedule for the last week. I keep saying things will be back to normal soon, but I’m still not sure if I really believe that or am just clinging to some kind of hope.
— Spencer
This week’s song is Alabama by Current Joys. I love this band, and I love this song. I actually just love this entire album, but wow, these lyrics: I fell in love in the rain, but I forget about it / I gave up all of my pain / Well I guess I don't really need it / Beyond the seas and highways / None of the stars know my name…
this is so beautifully written- so thankful you are feeling better!