I stare in confusion at my computer screen as Zoom attempts to load. It has been over 2 weeks since we heard news of quarantine, and today marks the first day back in class,
well, virtually that is.As my screen loads, a pop-up appears, and I gaze at my own face. The pop-up shows a preview of what I will look like over Zoom, and I must say I look awful. My hair is a mess, with strands of it sticking out on each side from waking up just 30 minutes before class began, and not a single stroke of makeup covers my face. Although never in a million years would I look like this in-person, there’s just something about the aspect of being online that makes me not care.
I take one last look at my surroundings through the pop-up, making sure that nothing embarrassing is poking behind me on camera, and I check the box to turn on my camera upon entering the Zoom room. The problem with being home is I do not have my own space to do work. My bedroom does not have a desk and my dad needs his office to do his own work. Therefore, I am sitting at the kitchen counter. Yep, I I’m doing my homework and classes while my mom cooks dinner.
What a great place to focus, right?After texting my dad to turn down his music as he works out right below me in the basement, I take a deep breath and click the button to proceed.
The first thing I notice is my Zoom square quickly shrinking in size as more and more black squares begin to accumulate on the screen. I hardly recognize the names because I barely knew anyone in this class to begin with.
I grow anxious as I begin to notice less than a third of the black squares becoming faces.Why doesn’t everyone turn on their camera? Should I turn on mine off? Or will that be awkward now that mine is already on?
We sit in silence for a good 5 minutes until I notice my professor’s lips moving. Those of us with our cameras turned on just sit awkwardly while staring at our screens, possibly staring at one another, waiting for someone to tell our professor that she has been talking on mute this entire time. Still, we sit there for another 2 minutes until a student with a black box types in the chat.
“I am so sorry everyone!” my professor exclaims. I jump at the sudden sound, quickly turning down my computer’s volume.
My professor fumbles with her camera while speaking, “as you all know, things are going to be very different for the remainder of the semester,” her audio crinkles, and now just half of her head is showing in her Zoom box, “and I ask that we all remain patient with one another through this weird t–,” a sharp scratching noise from her camera adjustment interrupts her speaking.
My second-hand embarrassment comes as quick as this pandemic did.
“Now does everyone understand?” my professor asks, now perfectly centered in her little box.
My eyes move across each and every student’s box. One student is lying in bed while another is clearly talking to someone off camera. My gaze reaches a few black boxes, and I can’t help but wonder what everyone else is doing or thinking at this very moment. Are they even listening? I look back to my professor as she waits for our response. Unsure of whether or not I should unmute myself,
I simply nod my head at my computer as I sit alone in my kitchen.