When California opened up vaccinations to everybody 16 years and older in mid-April, you could feel the budding optimism in the air. After a year of being too disappointed to hope, I then finally allowed myself to ask my kids what they wanted to do after the lockdown is over.
“Swimming, watching a movie while eating in a dine-in theatre, traveling,” they quickly rattled off from their list of wishes. (My poor kids — like so many others — have been locked down at home for more than a year, but they’re now at last attending school on-site starting in early April.)
Though things finally seem to be turning a corner and returning to quasi-normal, it sure has been a long slog to get to this point.
Now that 40% of the California adults are fully or partially vaccinated, the air seems lighter, the sun shines brighter, and neighbors smile more at each other.
When the pandemic first hit in March 2020, there was so much adrenaline and heroism. The vibe in the tech companies known for innovation was: We got this; we would beat it. Overnight, companies re-imagined onsite work to remote work and digital engagements — and off we dashed into the cloud era of hyperconnectivity for a better future, compressing years of digital transformation.
When summer came — the virus showed no sign of abating— a new reality sunk in. Slowly but surely, some of my acquaintances left the Bay Area with their families, fleeing to other states (or even other countries), away from the strict lockdown. They were in pursuit of what I was yearning for: a more normal life.
As the exodus continued, adrenaline gave way to envy for those of us who chose to stick this out and stay behind. I lived vicariously through the pictures of those co-workers surfing in Hawaii; some hopping from one national park to another; others enjoying their fabulous beach vacations in Europe. I wished that I was somewhere else — especially when I saw pictures of my friends that had temporarily moved to Taiwan, which has become known for its exemplary pandemic responses. (Their kids’ beamed at the camera, with cheeks flushed from playing with their friends in the sun.)
Meanwhile back at home, fully cemented in my reality, I could barely get my kids out of the bed each morning in time for the start of their distance learning. Many times, I would call it a good day if I could get them to do anything as banal as brushing their teeth, let alone finish their homework. At night, I sighed as I stared at their work desks filled with fruit peels, dirty dishes, and food remnants, sad reminders of them glued to computers the majority of the day with only occasional breaks.
Days began to blur into weeks and into months, each day an exact replica of the day before and after. Our exhaustion reflected not only our moods but clothes.
My kids stayed in their PJs while doing their distance learning; I wore my lounge pants in video conferences most of the time. Our washer and dryer were plagued by the same monotony, swallowing and spitting out the same clothes every weekend. There was no point in doing anything different. We were not going to interact physically with anybody else but each other for the foreseeable future.
In January, during my telehealth check-up session with my physician, I asked her about my prospect of getting vaccinated. By then, I had already scheduled time off in April, wishfully thinking I might be fully vaccinated by then. (After all, if California were a country, it would rank as the world’s fifth-largest economy.)
The mood in our neighborhood has also started to brighten.
Our hub of innovation got to mean that we had the most advanced infrastructure at our disposal to deliver jabs to our arms. My physician laughed at my foolish optimism and recounted tales of inefficiencies and frustration. As we floundered, Israel and the United Kingdom already bolted out of the gate in their vaccination efforts. I read the news of their speedy vaccination rollout and languished in disappointment for our situation.
Again: I wished that I lived somewhere else.
Around that time, I told myself that I would stop wishing, after a year of bad news. Things would not get better and a better day would not come anytime soon. Just as I resigned to despair, somehow, things started to turn around. I started to see pictures of the elderly and friends in healthcare in our community getting vaccinated. Then, my kids’ teachers took time off for vaccination and had the class watch pre-recorded videos instead. I did not mind any of it. In fact, their getting vaccinated only meant that we were inching closer to reopening.
California at the moment has the lowest infection rate in the US and is planning to reopen fully in June.
Then in late March, news dropped that all Californians 16 and older would be eligible to receive vaccination in mid-April. There was a celebration in our online work chat room. People started to trade tips on how to snatch appointments: diligence of refreshing computer screens and fast fingers were key. Gradually, people around me started to share the good news of getting appointments or getting their first shots. To top off the good news, kids in our school district are finally returning to school, after a year of isolation. At the end of their first day in school, my kids happily shared details.
“This teacher commented that I was taller than expected,” they said to me, glowing with newfound happiness. “A lot of people grew taller in the past year.”
Though life is not back to normal yet, it does feel like we are finally moving forward rather than stuck in this horror movie in which we all became unwilling participants. My 10-year-old has resumed her pre-pandemic night routine of planning what outfit to wear for on-site school the next day: colorful knee-high socks, shorts over leggings, creative color combinations. Her choices echo her eager anticipation for school and playtime with her friends. There are still no hugs or kisses yet among friends, but changing school from staring at boxed faces on the screen to seeing real faces is itself a huge milestone.
The mood in our neighborhood has also started to brighten.
For most of the past year, we treated each other like the plague. When we passed each other, we spread apart, one on one edge of the sidewalk, the other on the other edge, or even onto the street. We looked down to avoid eye contact while quickening our pace to minimize sharing the same air. If we could all live in our own sterile bubbles as in the “Bubble Boy” movie, I am sure a lot of us would do so.
Now that 40% of the California adults are fully or partially vaccinated, the air seems lighter, the sun shines brighter, and neighbors smile more at each other. We no longer give each other the stink eye, if someone does not wear a mask outdoors, as long as we are a few feet apart. We no longer recoil in fear, if someone so much as coughs… potentially from allergies. We might even smile at each other behind our masks, given away by our eye crinkles, letting out a sigh of relief for overcoming one of the darkest periods of our collective existence.
As we celebrate this mounding progress, a sense of pride has washed over me, something I haven’t felt for a very long time. Europe is now in its third Covid wave and lockdown. Taiwan is lagging in its vaccination progress and won’t open up its borders anytime soon. But in contrast, the United States is in the front of the pack in terms of vaccination.
(California at the moment has the lowest infection rate in the US and is planning to reopen fully in June; tech companies in the Bay Area are starting to open their doors to their workers to return to the office.)
After a year of wishing I was somewhere else, I am finally where I want to be. Welcome back, the Bay Area.
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