A Return to Not-So-Normal

By Leah Danielson

I was on top of the world. Nothing could possibly break the grin that was plastered on my face. I had just been on the journey of a lifetime, traveling outside of the country with an incredible group of peers learning about a new culture and ways to adapt and change our own culture. After a week and a half in Cuba without internet access or cell service, my team and I could hardly wait to turn our phones on again to reach out to family and friends. I texted my parents and roommates immediately. “Landed!” I said, unconcerned with anything other than describing to them the life-changing adventure I had just been on. I scrolled Instagram as I awaited their responses, but was not expecting what I found.

As our ragtag group of 12 stood in the customs line in Canada on March 9th, 2020, we scrolled through our social media feeds and texts, shocked at how quickly this “coronavirus” thing has progressed in the seemingly short time we’d been gone. While we were anticipating the culture shock of traveling to Cuba and learning about the way that Cubans live, we could not have guessed that we would be shocked back into our own culture. But now, it was a culture of fear, uncertainty, and dread.

I remember the knot that formed in my stomach when I looked up at the TV mounted on the airport wall. The image of that newscaster is forever burned in my mind. He looked at me and solemnly informed me that COVID-19 had reached the United States. I looked over at my professor, who had just gotten off FaceTime with her daughter and husband. Her face conveyed the confusion and surprise that I felt.

We all began speculating what this would mean for us going forward. Would we make it out of Canada? Would we start classes again when we got back to school? Questions swirled in my mind as my vision blurred and I became shockingly aware of all of the people surrounding me. I tried to sort out fact versus fiction, but all I knew was that I needed to get out of this damn line.

We slowly made our way to the front of the line and made it to baggage claim. I called my mom and dad. They told me that there was talk of schools closing down for the rest of the semester. I remember being disoriented, not understanding how a virus that had seemingly been restricted to China was now closing down society. As I listened to my mother’s voice, I understood that there was only one thing I could do. The next thing. So I picked up my bags, followed my friends to our cars, and started driving home.

We continued talking about the memories we had made over the past two weeks, as it was the only thing we could do to keep from panicking. All I wanted was to get back to my apartment in Marquette and sleep. I did not want to have to face the truth of what this virus might mean for our school. When I finally returned home to my roommates, fear seeped into the excitement of the moment of reunion. As much as I wanted to spend thoughtless and simple time with them, we all were wondering how COVID would affect us.

The next day, we heard that Michigan Tech University had closed down and was converting to online classes. Because they are one of two other schools in the U.P., we knew that this meant it was only a matter of time before Northern did the same. I went to a single class between coming home from Cuba and learning that our school had closed and classes would be fully online. My roommates and I all decided to go home. I was sad to be losing the last semester of my junior year. Lucky enough to have gotten college credit in high school, I would only attend Northern for three years. More than anything, I mourned the loss of this time with my friends. Six semesters with them had quickly turned to five.

While packing, driving home, and sitting in my childhood bedroom, my mind would wander back to that news anchor on the wall of the airport. My whole life had shifted in the few days since he told me that coronavirus was a threat to the United States. I hadn’t had time to process anything. I did not want my time in Cuba to become obsolete, but reflecting on the trip was not exactly the top priority.

Soon enough, it was time for our Cuba team to meet over Zoom to present our final projects to each other. As the call started, we all looked at each other with knowing in our eyes. Each of us understood what the others had been through the past few months. We were all together when the whirlwind began. So we decided to move past it. To focus on what brought us together in the first place, rather than what tore our semester apart. As each of my peers presented, I remembered the passion and drive that each of them carried. It’s what I wanted to hold on to.

Rather than remember the newscaster on the wall, I would remember my professor that led our team out of the airport with courage. Rather than remember the email that sent us all away from Marquette, I would remember the email that confirmed that we would be taking the trip of a lifetime. Rather than remember my lonely drive home, I would remember the road trip across Canada, screaming lyrics and laughing. Rather than remember the heartache of leaving my friends, I would remember the restorative trip that I was lucky enough to take.

Throughout quarantine, I would look back at pictures of me and my friends on our greatest adventure. While it seemed like a lifetime had passed since my time in Cuba, it was the lifeline that I held onto. The moment in the customs line slowly faded as I became accustomed to my new normal. I held onto the hope and resilience that I had learned from the Cuban people, my peers, and my professors. Like them, I would find a way to adapt and move forward. I have, and I will again.

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Read my research from the trip to Cuba here