This wasnât how I expected to spend my 21st birthday. But it was October, and given the lockdowns, pickings for a venue were slim. Iâve never been good at making decisions, and I certainly wasnât going to start now â so I searched ârestaurants near meâ on Google and chose the closest one.
My friends and I loaded into the car and drove off into the night. We got on I-195 and pulled up to our destination.
âI didnât even know this place still existed,â I told my friends as we got out of the car. âAll the ones near me have closed.â
I was scrambling to complete homework when my phone began to buzz, facedown on the desk.
The night before, Iâd stayed up late reporting a story and scrambling to finish my application for an editor position at The Crimson. I answered the phone with a curt hello, planning to ask if my mother could talk later â I was busy.
But the call didnât go as expected. I am struggling to find the words to describe such an intimate moment. My family is intensely private: Thereâs a running joke that we wonât even tell our doctors the full truth. Describing how she sounded when she told me her father was passing away â thatâs a line I wonât cross.
Iowa City, Iowa â Nina B. Elkadi
Itâs six a.m., and the elementary school gymnasium has come to life.
The hum isnât from school children. Classes, held in person in Iowa City this fall despite the pandemic, have been canceled for election day; instead, the murmur resonates from my fellow precinct election officials, all of whom sport thin, white hair.
The average age of the poll workers, including me, is 83.
When I introduce myself to my precinct chair, he reaches for a handshake. I offer up an elbow bump instead.
âAh, right! Elbow bump.â He smiles, maskless. âGot it,â he says.