Marquette University Intimations Project

Tim Korolev

As many philosophers, anthropologists, historians, and whateverelseians love to note, humans are social creatures. We more often than not define our existence by the society that surrounds us. Whether someone is trying to fit in or to stand out, both actions are defined by how society sees them. Even individualism is the idea of being unique within a society, not apart from one. I’d venture to guess that’s why most of society found the social restrictions this pandemic imposed on us so terrifying. Those who tried to fit in suddenly had nothing to adhere to. Those who tried to stand out suddenly had nothing to separate from. And those who just wanted to be themselves – I’d hazard most of us – found the significance of being oneself disturbed by the lack of what normally provided that significance. But honestly, when the quarantine began, I felt almost no different than how I’d always felt.

I’ve never actually “gone out” to a party. As a rising senior in college, this may seem like a sad admission, but I don’t really think of it that way – I’ve never had a desire to go out to a party. In fact, I’ve refused the occasional invitations I’ve received. Part of it, I think, is just due to my introverted personality. I was never big on talking with strangers, or on getting together with a lot of friends, for that matter. Noisy crowds and social gatherings always scared me as a kid. Another part of it, however, are the ways in which my preferences and identity have forced me to experience being an outcast throughout my life. 

When the gossip spread in highschool that I was dating another guy, I didn’t think on it too much. I was already the shy, nerdy kid that no one hated but not many were close to. I was never bullied in school, before or after the knowledge of my sexuality was public. My close friend group, aside from a couple friends, distanced themselves from me, and for most of my highschool life I was left feeling quite alone. It wasn’t the type of loneliness that’s utterly silent and depressing – I could have friendly chats with most of my classmates in most of my classes. It was the type of loneliness that one might feel in a crowd, except if the crowd was sparse. It’s a bit difficult to describe. More of a struggle was the loneliness I felt at home, as my parents never accepted my sexuality. To this day, I don’t even know exactly how they comprehend it aside from not acknowledging it, or if my father even knows about it – and that’s after I’ve attempted to come out to my mother about it three times over the past five years. I do have an older sister, who’s always supported me in everything, but by the time I was old enough to retain memories she was away in college, so I was raised as an only child. Friends distant and parents disconnected, I got used to living my life in a certain form of mild solitude. Something that helped me a lot with this was definitely the internet, but that’s an entire subject in itself, especially in relation to the coronavirus. 

The quarantine began in the middle of Marquette University’s spring break, when I was home with my parents, and the rest of the year was remote. I spent the rest of that year exactly as I would have otherwise – having the occasional interaction with my parents, working on my hobbies & remote job, and spending time with my online communities. I feel terrible admitting to this, considering how difficult the pandemic was for many and how many lives it took, but at times it was almost a relief that my parents pressured me less to go do things – I felt like it was actually easier for me to live life the way I was comfortable living it. This strange, inverse experience of a self-proclaimed outcast in the pandemic only continued as the next school year started. I was a rising junior in college by then, and I’d already signed a lease to live in an apartment with some friends I’d made. These friends were amazing and supportive and pretty much everything I could have asked for – except they weren’t as invested in the online world as I was, so even while living with them I’d sometimes spend weeks only leaving my room for food and water (but that’s for the internet essay, not this one). Being apart from my parents was a gift, and the pandemic making it less practical for them to visit me across state lines – which also feels bad to say – especially felt like a gift. My friends that I was cooped up with were even more of a gift. They were fully supportive of my sexuality and gender expression. The first time I bought myself cute clothes and wore a skirt, it was with them. The first time I watched drag queens on TV in person with someone, it was with them. And we all enjoyed our time together, but I felt like I could always see that one strange difference: that they longed to go out, to do more, while I was always – at least, as far as social interaction is concerned – completely happy.

Since then, more good things have happened. I’ve met an amazing guy and we’re happily together, going on half a year. I’ve decided to pursue a master’s in English and try to do something I enjoy – reading and/or writing – for a living. I’ve taken up the hobby of live streaming videogames and podcasty discussion sessions about literature and creative writing. 

However, thinking about all of these good things that have happened to me sometimes feels quite bad. It’s difficult to acknowledge one’s own happiness when it seems to partially result from something that caused so many people so much pain and hardship. And the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that this inverse experience of the pandemic was only possible for me due to my past experience of life as an outcast.