VOICES
Old Spaces, New Faces
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Being at home is weird, and so is living like your old self did BY JEMMA KELEHER If you’re anything like me, you, too, have returned to living in your hometown in the wake of the current global crisis. We’ve gone from our beloved campus homes— alive with fun, people, and the screeching of the green line—to the quiet, controlled life we lived not so long ago. For me, this move has brought into focus how much has changed since I moved to campus and subsequently stopped being my sixteenyear-old self (finally). Things aren’t as serious as I once thought they were, and that realization has propelled me into a different headspace altogether. Being back within a space that was once my entire reality has felt simultaneously like a walk down memory lane and a car crash with a history bus. It hit me in different stages, as all meaningful movie moments do. Walking into my bedroom that I designed in high school—and afterward cried in far too often—felt like getting thrown into a time vacuum. Opening Tinder only to realize that I knew every person I swiped on felt like a cruel joke. Looking through my closet when I ran out of clothes was like shopping in a time capsule—and not in a cute way. Moving home for this temporary period and living in the patterns of your younger self is jarring. Even so, it’s an opportunity to reflect on how you have evolved since leaving the person you once were. You’ve changed, and now you can realize just how much that was necessary. And sure, things have changed since this was your permanent home—maybe your entire personality—but in this place, the old you still exists and inhabits your walls. Reconnecting with your past self and understanding that they are part of you despite your differences is an important step towards accepting who you are.
Memories of a COVID-free Life Absence makes the heart grow fonder BY DAVID MA COVID-19 is sweeping across the U.S., leaving unprecedented precautionary measures in its wake, including the closure of our very own University. With the nation being fundamentally transformed, only now do I realize how many things I’ve taken for granted. Although I’m still on campus, it feels like a shell of its former self. I miss the Recwell. I miss the simple act of walking to and from campus. I used to listen to music or podcasts on my walks between classes, giving myself ten minute pockets of time where I could just focus on the present. But nowadays the news is almost exclusively about COVID-19, and that gets tiring after a while. I miss the libraries (even if Biomed supposedly has rats). Believe it or not, I almost miss my 8 a.m. discussions. We were tired, but at least we were unified by sleepiness. I miss going to Burger King at 2 a.m. and getting two bacon cheeseburgers, a small fry, and a drink for just $3.99 plus tax. And no, I wasn’t paid to write this. I miss being able to walk outside without wondering if others see me as a danger. Above all, I miss the human connection in its purest form. It’s simply not the same to talk to others with their voices distorted by fluctuating wifi, when their faces are pixelated facsimiles. I miss running into acquaintances between classes or dapping up a friend as they pass me by. At the end of the day, the University of Minnesota is defined by its community, and I miss the days before we were forcibly fragmented. The simple act of human interaction is something that almost everyone takes for granted, and only now do I truly understand that it is important beyond measure.
THE WAKE
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