During the initial months of the pandemic, I volunteered to work at a hospital in Brooklyn, responding to the governor’s call for healthcare workers. Admittedly, I was not the most experienced, having only worked as an EMT for 12 hours. However, the hospital HR administrator recognized my lack of experience and suggested I work in the morgue, where they needed the most assistance. Though I had anticipated treating the living, I agreed to work in the morgue since it seemed more suitable for my level of expertise.
My primary struggle during this work was with fogged-up goggles. We were advised not to touch our goggles to avoid transferring the virus to our faces. As a result, I found it challenging to see while wearing the goggles, and I had to bring my face closer to read names written on tags and bags, which was the last thing I desired.
My colleagues faced similar issues with their flimsy face shields falling off or becoming skewed. Stripped of eye protection, we felt a sense of urgency to complete our tasks quickly, fearing the possibility of contracting the virus that had claimed the lives of those we were handling. In our haste, a body may have been misplaced or incorrectly labeled. However, by the time we realized the error, we had been in the morgue for a significant amount of time. One bag had even ripped, resulting in potentially hazardous fluids pooling on the floor. We exchanged glances, but decided it was best to leave at that moment.
Originally, I intended to gather these experiences and write a memoir about life in the hospital. However, after my fourth shift, I realized that to accurately convey the essence of the hospital community and its predominantly Black and Latino population, I would need to work there for years and fully integrate myself. As an outsider of a different race and economic class, I questioned my ability to write effectively or respectfully about this community. Thus, I found myself in the position of a professional outsider.
For over a decade, I had reported on the experiences of Iraqis and Afghans impacted by the American wars. Yet, I had reached a point where I no longer felt qualified to tell their stories. I grappled with the idea that I should engage in intrinsically useful work, like being an EMT, and allow those who experienced injustice to tell their own stories. As a volunteer at the hospital, I didn’t dwell on this realization. However, as a writer, it became more complex. Was I merely a tourist or, worse, a profiteer by utilizing my experiences at the hospital for my writing?
As the pandemic began to subside in New York, a summer of protests against racial and economic injustice ignited. I participated in the protests, but I questioned whether I had truly confronted my own identity and the community that shaped me, one far removed from the hospital and the protests. It seemed like an opportune moment to reflect on my origins. I made the decision to step away from the hospital work and focus solely on writing. However, instead of writing about the injustice experienced by those directly affected, I decided to explore my own privileged background and write about the one percent I was raised among.
New York City’s opulence is well-known, with countless references in articles, novels, films, and social media accounts dedicated to showcasing the markers of American wealth. Works like The Great Gatsby have become fixtures in education. The extreme wealth and its accompanying decadence are no secret. I recall a fellow student bragging about leaving a mess in his bed so the maid would clean it up.
I attended Buckley, a school renowned for its rigor, conservatism, traditional wealth, and athletic dominance over other top-tier private schools in the city. These schools existed within a highly stratified hierarchy. Yet, they had more similarities than differences, and attending any one of them would prepare a student to not only maintain but potentially exceed their parents’ social standing. This preparation, however, often involved what was left untaught rather than what was taught.
For example, at Buckley, we had an infamous rule known as Quiet Street. It originated from an incident where a student had hurled a racial epithet at a passerby, leading them to retaliate by throwing something back at the school bus. While I wasn’t aware of the full details, as speaking about Quiet Street was forbidden, I do remember the rule being strictly followed throughout my time at the school. It possessed a mysterious power over us.
Recently, I reached out to some of my former classmates about Quiet Street. They all remembered it to some degree, vaguely recalling the origin story and acknowledging the potential racial implications. It seemed silly and, in retrospect, possibly racist, as it enforced a sense of fear toward the residents of the street. Quiet Street was a manifestation of a culture that preferred silence rather than engaging in discussions about race and class. These topics were deemed too uncomfortable and might have challenged the school’s motto of “Honor et Veritas” (Honor and Truth). However, the glaring inequalities and injustices in society couldn’t be ignored. Quiet Street served as a memorial silence, acknowledging but also eliding the violence within society.
In the midst of the pandemic, Buckley’s headmaster sent out an email emphasizing the importance of diversity and outlining steps taken following George Floyd’s murder. In my eighth-grade class, three out of thirty students were people of color, representing Chinese, Filipino, and Guyanese descent. Today, the school reports that 34% of families have at least one nonwhite parent. Other changes have occurred as well, such as the rotation of prayers from various religions during assembly and the school closing for Jewish holidays. Female faculty members have been allowed to wear pants since 2001. And although the exact end date is unclear, Quiet Street is said to no longer exist.
Officially, it was never acknowledged, but the power of such unwritten rules was undeniable. These rules served as a poignant reminder of the school’s avoidance of discussions on race and class, and their removal represents a step towards progress.
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