A Return to Norm (of Sorts)

Then be an advocate, tell your homies especially/ To come back home

Kendrick Lamar- Momma

Things have changed incredibly quickly within the last seven days. For starters, I am no longer in the beautiful Cali, Valle del Cauca, Colombia. The COVID-19 outbreak has spread its claws all around the world, and though Colombia was late to catch the wave it was no different. My home institution, Howard University, switched over to online classes, Colombia closed her borders, and soon a shelter in place order would be sent out. Tuesday March 17, we learned our program would cancel, and classes would continue in an online format from our homes. Not at all how I imagined my study abroad experience going, but I have learned so much despite my experience being cut short.

I, along with many other study abroad students effected by the pandemic have joined our stateside peers from our home universities, and have been sent home. Home, however, is very different from how I remember. After spending Friday and Saturday March 20 and 21 travelling, sleeping, and travelling again, I thought somehow that America would feel like home again. What I have found instead is something much more hollow.

The United States has a heavier air than Colombia. The tone is more serious in ways, and the panic has definitely seeped in. Colombia, and Cali specifically, had not nearly reached the level of fear I was seeing in the States. I could see why my mother was worried. Colombia seemed distant and safe, as it was. The risk was lower, and there weren’t news outlets giving so much airtime to fearful statistics. There was still a sense of preparedness and urgency, especially towards my final days in Cali. In the US, however, the threat is treated as a reactionary measure, rather than proactively. This was no more clear than on my journey from Cali to Charlotte.

My Avianca flight from Cali to Bogota was relatively normal. There were few empty seats, there were crying babies, and of course like a modern fashion statement, there were few passengers wearing masks. El Dorado Airport in Bogota was nearly dead. There was a disturbing stillness, an emptiness that seemed unreal. What grounded me and brought me back to reality, however, was the woman who took my temperature shortly after landing. Before entering the transfer terminal, everyone was subjected to a quick temperature scan, and were questioned about any symptoms. This would signal the shift from a local exclusion I felt from the virus into a global panic. Though I was supposed to, I didn’t feel more safe.

This pattern continued the more places I went. From Bogota, I flew to Houston, and from Houston to Dallas, and from Dallas to Charlotte. Each step closer to home felt like a step further into the belly of the beast. Announcements in the airport PA systems, the emptiness of restaurants and the increase in masked wearing strangers further distanced me from any sense of reality or security. I once again felt a sentiment that I explained to my Colombian peers, a feeling of constriction.

Arriving at my house was still warm, still cozy, still homey. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling, however, that the world around the bubble of my home had changed, and not necessarily for the better.