Radio Chthulucene 87.9 FM

Two middle-aged Korean women chat, sipping coffee that they both just ordered at the counter. One decaf Americano and one hot latte. The smell of hot espresso that has just been brewed reminds me of summer for some reason. Or maybe it’s hearing the sweet sound of Korean words which reminds me of when I visit home after school is over. I can only recognize some of what they are saying. But the sounds and intonations are comforting. Softer and kinder than the harsh, enunciated words I hear on a daily basis. Empathetic mmmm’s and nods mean “I understand” but in a way that extends deeper than “I understand” could ever convey. I inhale the smell of the roasted coffee beans and listen to the gentle jazz music that accompanies their conversation, grateful that such comfort is at my disposal. Sweet gratitude bittered by a sense of guilt knowing that not everyone is so fortunate. 

This morning, my phone vibrated against my palm. A series of buzzes prompted me to open my notifications. In seconds, I learn that my peers have been arrested. Classes have been moved online. I thought I would feel deja vu. 

Last Thursday, my friends studied at the library in the evening. Everyone received an email that the annual Sun God Festival was cancelled – a decision made for “security” reasons. Yet the decision felt more like an ominous foreshadowing of what would soon unfold. My friend asked me whether or not I thought that the encampment on campus would be raided by the police. She asked me whether or not I thought school would shut down.

I recall March of 2020 (I don’t remember the exact date anymore). My high school friends and I ate lunch together inside the multipurpose room. It was raining that day. Our drenched hoodies, which were not made for rainy weather, smeared water onto the backrests of the old leather folding chairs that they draped over. We had just received news: the Coronavirus reached the US. We previously watched the virus wreak havoc from afar. The physical distance from it limited our fear of its ability to impact our own lives. That rainy day in March, my friends and I predicted whether or not we thought school would shut down. I predicted no. Later that same day, our school district announced a 2-week shutdown. 2 weeks became 2 years. 

In March of 2020, my prediction was wrong. In May of 2024, I hoped that my prediction would be wrong again. Because as I continued to see videos of students my age, who were exercising their constitutional right to protest, being demoralized by cops suited in riot gear, I wished, prayed, hoped that this would not be our school’s fate. But deep down I knew it would. And it was. This morning, however, I did not feel a sense of deja vu. Only fear – for my peers, for the victims in Gaza who have nowhere to flee, and for what follows after forced indignity.