I have always bought those coming-of-age movies that sell university as some kind of reset point, where the character can abandon the limitations of their previous life and forge a new-and-improved identity, complete with new-and-improved friends. Gone are the days of friendships that revolve around the simple convenience of sharing a class together, of familiarity forcefully acquired through occupying the same two-story building eight hours a day, five days a week. These new and improved friendships are ones that are made to last, the movies said, and I believed them.
Nearly half a year later, I am writing this in my bedroom at home, which I will continue to occupy for the entirety of my first year at university. At this current moment, the number of friends I have made through university is a solid zero. But that’s not to say that the pandemic has ‘robbed’ me of the privilege of having strong, good friendships; in fact, it’s done the exact opposite. After all, the point of friendship isn’t its novelty, or its place of origin, or even its execution. The point of friendship is having that real, tangible connection between two people, regardless of the circumstances. And at a point in time where the circumstances have been rendered woefully constant and uninteresting, the one thing that has kept life vibrant is the connections that were already there in the first place.
But how does one maintain these connections while in quarantine? There’s nothing particularly entertaining or interesting about spending every day in the same bedroom I’ve lived in for the past ten years, staring at my laptop. There aren’t any funny stories from work, I can’t gossip about classmates that I’ve never met, and I definitely can’t talk about how my week has passed, because I’m not even sure if there’s anything to say. So I have to resort to the mundane things – I baked a pie yesterday. I went on a walk and looked at some birds. I watched a Barbie movie for the nostalgia. And then these mundane things become distinct points in time, replacing a shift at work or an in-person class or a social outing. And they take on importance because I talk about them, and because someone I care about knows that they happened. Mundanity, triviality – these all become exciting because the competition for ‘exciting things that happened’ has become so pitiful.
Maybe this shift in focus towards the simpler parts of a person’s day is for the best. After all, it’s these simple tasks, that are done without any planning or thought beforehand , that reveal the most fundamental things about a person. Whether they make their bed in the morning, whether they open their blinds, whether they like to go outside and enjoy the fresh air or stay in the relative comfort of their home. And once these details run out of content to offer, the conversation begins focusing on deeper thoughts, realizations and feelings that can only arise because there is so much time spent simply thinking. These are the things that are often overlooked in daily conversation, that the pandemic places in the limelight. There are things that I’ve learned about friends that I’ve had for a long time, that I never would’ve given a second thought, had it not been for their newfound importance.
Before the quarantine, when there were places to be and to get to, friendships could be forged and strengthened through coincidence alone. I run into someone between classes, or somewhere on campus, and make small talk for a few minutes before the rest of life gets in the way. In this way, friendships aren’t even much of a choice – the two of us happen to be in the same place at the same time, so we do what we can to take advantage of the opportunity. When I stay in the same place day in and day out, these coincidental opportunities no longer exist. The choice is now completely, almost overwhelmingly mine – do I start a conversation by messaging them? Do I just let the friendship go stale, hoping that when this pandemic is over, we can go back to making small-talk in between classes? This is the burden of choice: all conversations are now consciously, willingly started, and so I pay more attention to what is said in these conversations, in order to make the effort worth it.
Do I wish that I could’ve had the first-year university experience that was marketed so heavily to me in high school? On a smaller scale, do I wish I could see a movie or eat at a restaurant with my friends? Of course I do. But I no longer need to experience these things to have satisfying relationships with the people in my life. When every other aspect of daily life has been stripped away, the thing that remains is the raw, genuine connection between people. It’s a comforting thought, to know that such a connection can persist in a time of social distancing.
