Opinion | Since you’ve been gone: campus as a quiet, steady pulse
Tryphena Yeboah, Staff writer
A global crisis. An unprecedented time. A painful season of loss and the graceful relief of recovery. It’s a strange feeling to call this moment only one thing, because it will always be more than we can ever fathom it to be. Between my urge to pray it all away and to be overwhelmed by the impact of a pandemic are the daily reminders of existence – phone calls with family, reading Toni Morrison and especially, taking walks.
As much as I wish this new habit of walking has anything to do with keeping healthy, it doesn’t. I’ve been taking walks to draw in the view of campus and the breadth of its landscape when it isn’t teeming with students.
I’ve been deeply moved by how much I miss this; the very fullness of human capacity. That months ago so many of us experienced moments of walking by each other, alone and in groups – talking, laughing, reading or eating a bowl from Qdoba. That in classrooms, we progressed toward understanding with immense talent and curiosity, sharing ideas in collaborative spaces with brilliant faculty. At a time when most of us are hunkered down, this vibrant and intricate human connection breathes quietly in a present emptiness that is almost splitting, as if pierced by the sharpness of absence.
To walk the path between the Argyros Forum and the Leatherby Libraries is an open journey, lush and inviting. In the past, I remember passing through both doors while I rushed past people on skateboards to return a borrowed book. I remember the face of Anna brightening up at the library reception, giving me more pieces of candy than I needed on Halloween. Now, the waterfalls at the Attallah Piazza shine more spectacular than ever in their flow, shooting up in a rush over its boulders – the most soothing sound against the deafening silence of the world as it is now. It’s a song that circles in my head, long after I’m away from it.
In the lone year I’ve been here, I’ve been to Starbucks twice. Each time, I ordered a mocha frappuccino. I’d sit in the warm cafe as the smell of several blends of coffee drifted about me. I watched the queue slowly edge closer: students sporting jeans, dresses with floral patterns. Boots here, sneakers there. Baseball caps over hair. Phones and their brightly lit screens bouncing off faces. A mouth, like a promise, opens up and sips from a cup.
I walk past Wilson Field, its empty bleachers red and rosy; its ground is a breathtaking green. I imagine the training, the games, the utterly thrilling experience of sports. Around the towering buildings, nearly every corner sprouts white garden roses and clusters of African lilies. Blooming, despite the silence. I slow down at the sight of these, and it cultivates in me a new sensitivity to time, to presence. Between Wilkinson and Doti Hall, I walk around the grass while people picnic, spreading themselves free on the lawn. A flagpole just at the edge of the square reaches higher and higher.
How I would like to embody and preserve the beauty of this open atmosphere. How I would like, with my hands, to touch the hum of a place bursting with life and tell it to everyone. There is no language for the stripping away of this gift of human contact. And there certainly isn’t one for the cost of this crisis, for the sacrifice we all are making to ensure our safety.
As a student who’s always speeding past everything and everyone, constantly keeping my head low to stay as inconspicuous as possible, I’m starting to realize how surreal it feels to walk through an almost-empty campus. The familiar cadence of our community. The liveliness of a small world that pulses unbounded and moves through everything, even the smallest of presence. And as I walk away, I feel myself come awake with a sense of gratitude. By seeing just how much is absent, I’m made to realize the abundance of what we have, what we will always have: a safe place to return to after navigating this difficult season.