It had been a long two weeks, to say the least.
My day at work on that first Monday was bizarre, from the eerie tension on the subway ride, to the general staff meeting we held on the sidewalk outside the nearby church, to the renewed tension on the ride back home. I spent the rest of the week “working from home,” while also trying to entertain two children who suddenly weren’t able to attend school in person. T was still at work, preparing with the other New York City teachers to spend the next months teaching remotely. We were all home together for that second week. We navigated work and school schedules, limited living space and the circumstances that the pandemic thrusted upon us.
When Friday evening finally arrived, we ate Shabbat dinner together. We sang Shalom Aleichem and chanted the blessings that welcomed in the sorely needed weekly Day of Rest. The kids talked about their online class sessions and asked if school would look the same way next week. T and I did our best to reassure them – and ourselves, honestly – of the most important things: that everything was going to be fine and that we were safe. Whatever happened next, we would figure it out together.
When we had finished eating, the four of us went up to the roof of our apartment building. It was a warm evening, though not unseasonably so, considering it was late March. We admired the blend of watercolors that had begun spreading across the sky and the pleasant start to the weekend.
That was when I heard it.
The source was impossible to pinpoint. The sound seemed to originate from our own building, while simultaneously engulfing our entire neighborhood from every direction. The relaxing moments of a quiet sunset were drowned out by a din louder than a stadium of rowdy fans.
It sounded like the start of a rainstorm at first, the pitter-patter of wet drops hitting the pavement with authority. If I hadn’t seen the cloudless sky myself, I might have figured that was all it was. But even the harshest thunder would have paled before the sheer volume of clapping that had erupted. People’s voices joined in, cheering and shouting, with the occasional whistle thrown in for good measure. We heard the beeps of car horns and the clangs of wooden spoons on metal saucepans from nearby buildings. An ambulance drove past and the already deafening roar managed to find an even higher level of intensity.
I looked around, marveling at the spectacle. Every person I saw seemed to be clapping and laughing. Each face wore a genuine smile, as happy to see the display unfolding in front of them as to be taking part in it. Our kids jumped up and down as they contributed to the commotion, hammering on their own pans. Happiness radiated from all around us, as though a nuclear bomb of joy had detonated over our street.
Everyone realized in just one week how much they missed being around each other. We had all begun isolating ourselves to defend against an invisible and – at that point, at least – unknowable threat. We shut our doors against the world in the hopes that doing so would keep our families protected. Doing so meant losing the daily personal connections which we had taken for granted; but we did what was necessary. Even awkward moments with strangers would have been a welcome diversion from the measures we had taken to stay safe.
The activity began as a show of support for essential workers. The nurses, doctors, first responders and other professionals who worked tirelessly to keep us safe deserved to hear that their efforts had not gone unnoticed. But, no matter how it started, it became about more than just those critical personnel. It was a chance for us to connect again. It was an opportunity for us to break free from the burdens of solitude and reestablish our collective humanity. Each night brought a new moment for reinforcing those bonds we all shared.
I took T’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. We obviously had no idea that the stress of the past two weeks would continue for over a full year. We didn’t know about the roller coasters of emotion that were still to come; the pressures that would push our emotions, our sanity and our relationship to their breaking points. There was no way to grasp that we would lose loved ones, watch our children suffer emotionally and, a year later, still somehow be faced with people who denied that the virus existed.
We didn’t know what was in store over the coming year; but we knew we had each other.
And that would be enough.
