We Cannot Survive Without Community Love

I recently contracted COVID-19. To this day, I still don’t know how.

There was a definite sense of shame that came with the diagnosis. Since the pandemic has started, I’ve gotten tested 16 times. I’ve been in five quarantine periods due to traveling precautions or potential exposures. I avoided dining in restaurants. To protect myself from my housemates and vice versa, I wore a mask in common room areas, and I sanitized fridge handles, microwaves, and couches.

Most of these practices (particularly the quarantining and avoiding restaurants) were simply following CDC regulations and being a decent human. But because I had a very specific housing situation (that was unfortunately confirmed before the pandemic even started), I had to take extra precautions. I was working twice as hard to keep my quarantine bubble separate from the people on the floor below me.

So it upset me to see people on social media proudly breaking basic regulations that were much, much easier to follow. I saw acquaintances going out to bars. Partying on boats. Not wearing masks next to a large group of friends.

One person (yes, a man) broke social distancing restrictions and refused to get a test unless my friend or I went with him.

Sometimes I spoke up. Most times, I’m ashamed to admit, I fumed in silence. (And that’s going to change.) When it comes to the coronavirus, it felt like a select fraction of my friends and I were alone in minimal human decency.

Naturally, cases started rising on my college campus. My friends groaned at the quarantined athletes, knowing full well that the sports teams had been throwing parties. When a particularly reckless relative contracted COVID, I thought, “Of course.” It seemed as though karma was working its magic; only people who were being unsafe were catching the virus.

So when I finally caught it, I was floored. I followed every regulation — as well as a few extra ones. I was working overtime to protect everyone and myself. Why me? Why not my friends in LA, who shamelessly went on vacations and out to restaurants with seemingly no care for the immunocompromised?

It felt like a joke from the universe. Out of all my tests, I had never been more sure that the 16th would be negative. Throughout the semester, there were so many random scares where I psyched myself into thinking I had symptoms. I would worry all night waiting for the results, give myself a sore throat, and know with dreading certainty that I was positive. And every time, it returned negative.

Then I started quarantining so I could enter another circle. On the seventh day of quarantine, I tested negative.

On the tenth, I tested positive.

The question wasn’t only “why me”; it was also “why now?” How did I manage to get it while quarantining? How is it possible that I isolated on a floor with my own room and bathroom (only to emerge for DoorDash meals and getting tested), and I still caught it?

The answer was frustratingly simple. I thought controlling my own actions was enough. And it wasn’t.

I’m not used to relying on other people. I’m also not used to asking people to follow rules. And unfortunately, when I mustered up the courage to do so, I found myself pleading and begging for a simple action (please, please just get a test) — only to get shut down.

It was so, so exhausting and so difficult to get other people to be just a little extra cautious. I thought that if I did all the heavy lifting, I didn’t have to ask anyone of anything.

And I can’t think like that in the pandemic.

We need other people to step up. It’s not only you. It’s not only me. Every single action determines if someone else gets sick. We all need to demand things from others to protect our collective health.

On a negative note, failure to hold our community accountable has some devastating effects. In Los Angeles, hospitals are currently unable to contain all the necessary patients, which the LA County health services director called the “brink of catastrophe.” As of December 31, 2020, the county has experienced over 10,000 deaths.

However, if we rely on our community, the exact opposite effect occurs. During my quarantine, I had moved into a spare room in my friends’ house (without interacting with anyone) and isolated there while waiting for my results. When I received the positive diagnosis, I couldn’t breathe. Even though I had completely avoided everyone in the house and sanitized everything I touched, I felt like I endangered them and let them down. I was certain they’d be furious.

Instead, they offered to cook me food, distracted me with conversations about Taylor Swift, and researched medical practices for me to follow. They brought me meals, watched movies with me over Zoom, and consistently checked in on me. And above all, they reassured me that I did nothing wrong.

I can’t describe the enormity of the support I received, and I also can’t convey the depths of my gratitude. My community was absolutely essential for my emotional, physical, and mental survival. Community love dug me out of my shame spiral and gave me the strength to ask for help. I was provided extensions for finals (did I mention it was finals week?), mental wellness resources, quarantine housing, and meals. And I needed all of that desperately.

Individualism will not save us. I was privileged enough to have the basic human rights of shelter, food, water, and medical care during my isolation, and it was only because I had community resources to get me there. Not everyone has this access, and it is absolutely the difference between life and death.

We need community love for our survival. We need to care about each other. And we need to make sacrifices to keep each other safe.

If my friends are reading this, thank you for everything. Thank you for keeping me and our community safe. Thank you for your love, kindness, and generosity. Thank you for your work and sacrifices. I will prove to you that I can more than return the favor.

Choose to think outside of individualism. Be a part of your community. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, and in turn, think twice before you dine in a restaurant.

We can turn this devastation into love.