We’ve all heard about the “Walk of Shame.” This euphemism aptly describes the journey back to one’s abode from a long night out. The suspected culprit is usually in last night’s outfit, chaotic hair, and eye bags deeper than the Grand Canyon. They can be spotted from miles away, but nods are usually exchanged between fellow students in unity as one makes their plight home to their dorm. Yet, our generation faces a new kind of shame: the golf-cart ride from hell.
When an undergraduate student is contact-traced for COVID-19, positive for COVID-19, or shows symptoms of COVID-19, they must be moved to isolation housing. Vanderbilt uses its army of golf-carts to transport students from their dorms to the prison of isolation. The said student must pack their bags and await their chariot for all passersby to see. The tell-tale signs usually include a backpack busting at the seams, a pillow tucked firmly under the armpit, and a misshapen duffel bag full of quickly packed clothes.
Full disclosure, I have been one of those poor souls who must bear the modern-day Scarlet Letter, or what I call the “Red C.” I was sent to isolation housing at Blakemore for my sore throat, which turns out was my allergies and not the dreaded COVID-19. Nonetheless, I was deemed a potential biohazard and had to be shipped off to eerily quiet Blakemore residential hall.
I remember the looks and stares as I stepped into the elevator with my Vera Bradly duffel bag and backpack. I could feel people holding their breath and inching away from me in the elevator. I wanted to scream, “It’s my allergies! I promise!” But, I know I would have done the same thing. I passed through the lobby of Brandscomb Quad and luckily didn’t run into anyone I knew. I saw my chariot await me with its transparent plastic covers, maybe to protect from the rain or contain the COVID-19 within its rickety metal walls.
The community service officer driving the golf-cart asked, “Zoe?”, and I was thrown into a third-dimension in my mind where this was the COVID-19 equivalent of “Uber for Zoe?” I nervously answered, “Yes,” and hopped into the back. The golf-cart is actually quite “boujee” in my opinion. The seats were comfy and padded with memory foam, so my butt enjoyed the short five-minute ride. What I didn’t enjoy where the stares of the cars that trailed behind us. I was sitting in the very back (in order to be the farthest from the driver), and I was facing towards the street. So, when we stopped, I had to stare into the souls of the drivers behind us.
I could feel their thoughts permeating the plastic barrier around the golf-cart. “Oh, look, another Vandy girl catches Ms. Rona. I bet she was out partying at Lonnie’s” or “I hope she doesn’t contaminate my Toyota Prius with her COVID-19.” Thankfully, we arrived and I stumbled into Blakemore to begin my short 24-hour isolation period as I awaited my test result.
I had to make the same embarrassing ride back to Branscomb once I was released from isolation. It was only a 10-minute “Ride of COVID Shame” in total, but I think this was a good experience for me and all Vandy students. This experience unifies us all in the embarrassing feeling of being contagious, because no one wants to have to send the text, “Hey, I think I’m positive.” For our generation, it’s the embarrassment of being positive for COVID, not even sexually transmitted diseases (STDs). Most of us can’t do the real “Walk of Shame” right now, but this is pretty darn close. So, don’t forget to salute your fellow comrades as they make the daunting journey in their gold-and-black chariot.