De-confined

As of May 11th, France has been slowly lifting its lockdown measures. When we were first confined, it was easy to imagine the end as a dancing-in-the-street situation, but, of course, this isn’t possible. Instead, we’re tip-toeing outside like kids leaving their first sex education class. We’re excited, afraid to touch, and getting to know a disconcerting reality.

My first shaky steps out of lockdown took me back to work. The French government decided that education was of the highest priority in the return to “normal,” so my three primary schools were doing their best to sputter back to life. Middle and high schools would be opening a couple weeks later, if at all, and universities are closed until September. This would be the first and probably only time that I had a twinge of regret for choosing not to be a middle school teacher.

The atmosphere at work was equal parts warm welcome and simmering stress, as the joy of basic human interaction was soon overshadowed by the logistical burden we faced. Sanitary restrictions mandate that no more than 15 students be in class at a time, those classes cannot mix, the students cannot come within a meter of each other, and teachers must wear masks.

In practice, this means marking one-meter distances on the floor and reorganizing the flow of students in the halls, stairwells, and bathrooms so that they never cross paths, while allowing them to wash their hands every couple hours. Teachers divided their classes in groups that would come on alternate days, careful to keep siblings in other classes united, all while continuing instruction for students that opt to stay home indefinitely. As for the kids, their recess now consists of standing or sitting in a chalk-marked grid while teachers do their best to keep them moving and entertained in one place. 

My English lessons, as with everybody else’s, are strange. Helping the kids pronunciate properly is a challenge through a mask. I re-evaluate every gesture, wondering, did I get too close? Should I have wiped down that marker? Am I allowed to pass out worksheets? Meanwhile, I see a fraction of my 700-ish students, as my schedule across the three schools limits me to one visit per class per week. With the classes spread across two days and many students staying at home, I can only do my best with the few students I do see and hope my colleagues and emails suffice for those I won’t see until September, maybe. If we’re not re-confined by then.

It’s a strange world we’re living in, but you don’t need me to tell you that.

Now, actually getting to work is a whole ‘nother thing. I have to take the métro again. On May 11th, I got on the line 9 for the first time since midnight two months prior, when I rolled home a little damp from the champagne a bartender had sprayed across the crowd before his and all other non-essential businesses were closed indefinitely.

This time, the post-lockdown métro was not as crowded as I’d feared, but eerie nonetheless. There was a silence in the car that went deeper than 7 AM sleepiness. People found their socially distant spots and stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact even more now that it’s the only part of each other’s faces that we can see. The lonely-in-a-crowd feeling of public transport is amplified now that we are not just uncomfortable with brushing up against each other, but actively afraid of it. 

The invisible incubation period of this virus infects everyone with increased mutual distrust. You can’t help but look around and question the heath of every passing human, including your own: Does he have it? Do they have it? Do I? Is the call coming from inside the house?

Piping “Life on Mars?” through my headphones is what sealed the deal. It provided a soundtrack to the post-apocalyptic Paris that I was discovering upon emerging from my bunker. It worked, bringing on the near-tears, as open weeping on the métro would have been terribly unsanitary.

It’s the freakiest show, indeed. So this is what life would be, now.

Finally, the somewhat-return of a social life. I was lucky during confinement to be living with someone I love while my introverted tendencies kept me from yearning for anything more. I wasn’t lonely, then. I am now.

There are no roller derby practices yet, and my smattering of other friends live across town, which means I can’t see them without piling on menacing métro rides. My first de-confined evenings were identical to the confined ones, except that I knew other people were reuniting with their friends and loved ones while I could not.

Contrary to the unsanitary métro, my mostly-clean kitchen is an ideal spot for open weeping. One weekend, while my boyfriend was at a small reunion that I felt too afraid to join, I took advantage of that fact. A satisfying, face-crumpling cry came on as I was cleaning up some CAP Cuisine prep. The downside was that my hands were too sudsy to switch from a plucky podcast to Damien Rice for the occasion. It’s harder to wallow in self-pity while listening to the joyful voice of Samin Nosrat waxing philosophic about beans.

It’s been a week since I wrote the first draft of this post, my face still puffy from that cleansing kitchen cry. Surprise! Things are a bit better. I’ve attended two small hang-outs, repainted a kitchen, and might buy a plant soon. Who’d’a thunk.

Of course, it’ll take time to get used to this “new normal,” just as it took time to get used to confinement, and as it will take time to get used to life as usual once there’s a vaccine, a treatment, or divine intervention. Every day brings new information, which may erase old worries, bring on new ones, or both. So, collectively, we deal.

Some good news? Well. I have noticed that, when you’re up to it, it’s possible to smile through a mask. That’s nice.

Thanks y’all,