By Thao Votang
My daily morning espresso always pulls short. My body not quite awake enough to apply the recommended amount of pressure to tamp the grounds firmly into the portafilter. Or maybe I’m not applying the right flick of the wrist. Either way, the water moves through too quickly, and my espresso has insufficient crema—that top layer of foamy, flavorful depth. And this from a former barista.
If I focus on my imperfect shots of espresso and the softness of morning, I can believe not much has changed. My morning state is still one of nonverbal wandering. I don’t like to talk before 10 a.m. I can’t grasp objects firmly. If you ask me questions, I may regard you as if you’ve insulted me.
If I zoom in (how strange it is to use zoom with a lowercase z), even my work has altered only ever so slightly. I still sit in front of a computer for most of the day. I sip coffee while checking emails. But if I zoom out just a little, everything has changed. My colleagues are tiny rectangles, reduced to shoulders and heads. I’m no longer on campus five days a week.
In the decade that I’ve been at the university, students have been killed or injured by guns and knives on that parcel of land. Still, my coworkers talk about shooting off emails and taking a stab at projects. I cringe every time, but no one notices. When I mention it, someone usually tells me not to worry.
I too am probably the only one who notices how the bright light from my window makes me look lighter-skinned on Zoom calls. Maybe it helps me blend in with my colleagues? I feel shame for having the thought. I feel deeper shame for thinking blending in could be possible. I feel shame in my desire to fit in, as if it would mean erasing myself. The familiar feeling of alienation settles over me. I’d like to believe these feelings are only because of virtual meetings. But I know they’re not.
There are positives to remote work, though. I can avoid that uncomfortable restroom dance. No one can drop into my office with their learned helplessness. I don’t have to pretend to be cheery for nine hours straight.
I don’t have to zoom in much to see what’s most obvious: I’m not where I used to be.
Last October, my partner and I decided to leave Texas. Texas is where I was born and grew up, yet I could (or would) never say I am Texan. That only prompts more emphatic questions. Maybe that’s what made it easier to leave. But it wasn’t easy. My closest friends are all still in Texas. My family is there. And yet, we left.
We left in time to watch the infrastructure in Texas fail during the winter storm but from afar. I lurked on Instagram as a way to check on friends without being a nuisance. Did the lack of posting mean they were in trouble? Was there anything I could do to help from 900 miles away? And if there’s nothing I can do, you might say, I shouldn’t worry about it.
We’d already been so carefully trained to act like big things were small.
Maybe that’s why small things feel so big now. How as I drink a cup of coffee, I notice how the sun moves along the horizon as the seasons change. I wonder what about the Arizona sky makes this so noticeable. How could the sky seem even bigger when I’m surrouned by mountains? Or was I simply too caught up in life to take note before?
We recently got a burr grinder, and I appreciate the difference. Our old blade grinder apparently heated and burned the coffee grounds. After the last year, I know the feeling. I remember how a friend once said her form of protest was not giving into the fear. That we couldn’t let them win by living scared inside our homes.
I am in awe of this friend and wish I could channel her bravery. But I can’t muster it. I’ve watched domestic terrorism against Asian Americans rise over the last year and noticed how long it took before it was deemed important enough for a hashtag. I wonder what other scars I’d find if I looked any closer.
This is where someone tells me not to worry. Again. And again. And again.
There are small things I do. I write letters like casting lifelines. I notice how the mountains reflect reddish light at a certain time of the sunset, alpenglow I learn. But in the mornings, I don’t worry. I don’t have the energy.
I drink my coffee while my muscles are still weak from sleep and my mind still distinguishing dreams from reality. I drink my coffee and wait for the caffeine to wake me up. I started purchasing Nguyen Coffee, and maybe it’s silly, but it assures me to see the name in all caps on my kitchen counter. Something so normal.
Bio: Thao Votang is a writer. Votang is an assistant editor at American Short Fiction, co-edited Conflict of Interest, and co-founded Tiny Park.
Check out the rest of the 2021 essay series:
A Life of Leisure by Mike Ingram
Zoom Face by Marcelle Heath
Exuviae by Paul Hile
Normal Between April and May of My Ninth Year by Bridget Brewer
Introduction from our 2021 Curator