Uncomfortable Silences

I lie on our bed, trying not to notice that I seem to naturally X my arms across my chest like Tutankhamun. I try to tune out the passing cars and construction work outside my window. I squeeze my eyelids shut as hard as I can to block out the light.

I usually try to avoid silence. I listen to music while reading my books; watch T.V. while fixing my braids; fall asleep to a  hair-dyeing tutorial.  For so long, we’ve had to stay at home, limit our activities and interactions—I’ve struggled. I’ve looked for new ways to drown out the silence. And now, in this silence that I’ve decided not to shut out, I see myself as a little girl at Sunday school. There’s a boy sobbing uncontrollably. Another boy had informed him of the inevitability of death.

“We all die,” he says. “Duh.”

When the other kids in class heard what he was crying about, they all burst into tears—except me. I just rolled the concept around in my mind. What do you mean “we all die”? What happens after that? Does the world forget you after a while? Are you allowed to come back?

Sometimes I still ask these questions and wonder how everyone just accepts it. But with the number of COVID-related deaths steadily increasing in the United States, it feels like things are starting to change. Yes, there are still some people who claim they don’t need to wear masks or keep six feet apart—people who insist on the inevitability of death as a reason to abandon precaution. But I see more people doing the right thing, staying inside to spare themselves and others from infection. I wonder if social distancing has, ironically, brought everyone a little closer to understanding the difference between simply accepting death and accepting social responsibility. Choosing to acknowledge the consequences of our actions, and making the right decision to stay inside and spare others the heartache of the loss of family, friends, co-workers, lovers—anyone. I wonder this as I continue to lie on my bed in the apartment to which I’ve been confined to for the past two months.

I do jumping jacks to guide myself out of panic attacks. It’s the uncertainty of death, and death’s aftermath, that makes my heart race. I want control. I want to know whether or not I will walk onstage at my commencement ceremony in August. I want to know if there will be a job for someone like me when all of this is done. I want to make travel plans. I want to visit my family.

I wish I could be like that little boy. The one with the “Duh” attitude toward death. I wish I could be comfortable with silence. I want to find comfort in the anxiety that silence brings. I’d like to be able to hold on to that feeling and let it wash over me—let that confrontation with anxiety bring me some peace. But with each passing day, silence becomes a more prominent element of life, even as the world reopens, and we have to figure out how to navigate it without putting ourselves or others at risk. But right now, I can’t tell whether this silence will be a source of comfort, or if it will just consume me.  

Chapelle Johnson is a writer living in New Orleans. She is a recent graduate of Loyola University New Orleans and earned a B.A. in creative writing. She enjoys writing ominous short stories and has an unhealthy love for true-crime podcasts.