I never knew that life could change so quickly until our town was hit by the coronavirus. School was canceled for deep cleaning on Tuesday, and my daughter came back from college in California on Wednesday. Thursday evening, I went to the nearby supermarket for eggs, and heard that there had been a fist fight at another store over the last package of bottled water.
People around me were shopping as if it was the night before Thanksgiving and they had just learned that more guests than expected were going to show up. Some of the shelves were half empty. I was caught up in the atmosphere and bought some canned soup. One of the shoppers had many bottles of ketchup and mustard in his shopping cart. Does he put those condiments on everything he eats? Or does he eat hotdogs every day? Or is he going to donate hot dogs somewhere? In any case, what constitutes “essential” is clearly different from person to person.
Friday morning, I arrived at a larger supermarket by 10:30 am. As I expected, it was replenished with food. But everyone else had the same idea. It was so packed that we sometimes needed to wait in line to go down an aisle. Overall it still went rather smoothly, until I lined up for a cashier. A gentleman in front of me said “you’re lucky. The line was way longer when I got here,” and added pointing at a lady in front of him, “she’s lucky she got some milk.” I responded, “I feel lucky now.” He nodded, “I was young when I got here.” He had a cart full of stuff, because he was shopping for his mother, pregnant wife and toddler. On top of his cart were toys and candies for Easter. I thought about parents like him who were trying to keep their kids’ life as normal as possible. It wouldn’t be an easy task.
That Friday afternoon and the following Monday, school was off so that teachers could prepare for online classes. My husband’s and my work went online on Monday and then school did so on Tuesday. This meant that all family members almost always stayed home and had three meals together. The first online week went relatively painless, probably because it was still new to us.
Over the weekend, however, my son started to get bored. He learned on YouTube how to make a pull-up bar with a bath towel over his closet door. That was good. But he also made Oreo cookie cakes in mugs. Then he made fried Oreos. The fried Oreos were a killer in a literal sense. It was loaded with cholesterol and calories. He learned it in his Top Chef class at middle school. “Chef” seems to have a different meaning in the U.S. As I write this on Sunday evening, he’s frying Oreos with his homemade dough for dessert. I won’t mind if he can’t go back to that class any more. Fried Oreos pose as big a danger to my health as the coronavirus.
At 9 pm on Saturday, the “stay at home” order was put into effect in New Jersey. And it definitely reinforced that we’re in a different world now.
My highlight from this past week was my encounter with a Chinese lady. While my son was in online classes, I snuck out of the house and went to a nearby park. They said all the parks were closed, but the concrete backboard was free of yellow tape. As I parked, I saw a Chinese lady hitting a tennis ball against the backboard. As I got off my car, though, she stopped playing. As she left the park, I said a few words to her, and she said “I’m Chinese. I don’t speak English.”
On Friday, it was all foggy when I woke up. I doubted that the backboard area would be dry, but I couldn’t give up until I saw it with my own eyes. The coated ground in front of the backboard was still wet. I saw the same Chinese lady under a gazebo in a distance, fiddling with something. Then, she started playing a Chinese musical instrument. I could see that it was a woodwind instrument, but I’d never seen that type of instrument before.
I listened to her music for a while and then decided to stay. I hit a tennis ball, and listened to her music when I took breaks. The fog went away, but it was still somewhat misty. Oak trees were still and calm. And her mystic music floated through the oak trees and misty air.
I went to her later, and asked what kind of music instrument she was playing. She moved backwards. She said that she was not Indonesian. I, in beginner’s Chinese, said that I’m Japanese, and asked the name of the instrument. She said it’s hu lu si. Hu means gourd. It looked like a gourd and three flutes combined together. As I wrote down the sound of the instrument’s name on a piece of scrap paper, she backed away again. She was clearly afraid of me. Was it because I was a stranger? Or had I invaded her personal space? Or had I violated the recommended social distancing of 6 feet?
I had wanted to be friendly, but I ended up scaring her away. I was pretty relaxed about the social distancing, especially after the supermarket experiences. But I should’ve given her enough distance to show my friendly intentions. We’re going to live in paradoxical times for a while. Let’s hope that this gentle distance will prepare me and others to overcome the hardship we’re having and continue to face in the coming months.