City of plague:A new Yorker’s pandemic chronicl

On March 1, the first confirmed case of COVID-19 in New York City was announced. The patient was a middle-aged lawyer working in a Midtown Manhattan law firm. His condition was already severe when he was diagnosed, and he was immediately hospitalized and placed in isolation.

A few days later, the second case appeared—a student at a university in the Bronx. The student was the lawyer’s child.

The virus had crossed from public space into private life. It had entered the home.

The university closed its campus at once.

Within a week, three more students at different universities in Manhattan tested positive. The news spread faster than the virus itself, carried through television broadcasts, phone notifications, and anxious conversations in grocery stores and subway cars.

Two weeks later, infections began appearing across Manhattan like scattered sparks in dry grass.

New Yorkers, famous for their toughness, began to speak in lowered voices.

Fear had arrived.

Then the numbers surged.

The virus did not move like a cautious enemy. It moved like a wild horse that had broken free, charging forward without restraint.

As a parent, I understood immediately what this meant. Schools were among the most crowded places in the city. Hundreds of students shared classrooms, hallways, cafeterias. Teachers spoke all day in enclosed spaces. Staff cleaned surfaces touched by thousands of hands.

If even one person were infected, the consequences could be disastrous.

Students. Teachers. Staff.

All vulnerable.

All exposed.

On March 4, the first Chinese patient in New York was confirmed. He was a physician assistant working at a medical center in Chinatown. He lived in New Jersey and commuted to Manhattan every weekday by subway.

He was only thirty-two years old.

Healthy. No underlying conditions. A non-smoker.

Yet from his hospital bed, he posted messages online describing his condition.

“My illness is getting worse every day,” he wrote. “I never imagined this would happen to me.”

Within days, the virus had spread into his lungs. He struggled to breathe. Doctors warned he might soon need to be intubated.

He described his symptoms in detail:

Runny nose. Watery eyes. Shortness of breath. Chest pain. High fever.

There was no cure.

At that time, there were no proven antiviral treatments. Doctors around the world were experimenting, trying different combinations, hoping for results. Some patients responded. Others did not.

He wrote again:

“The hospital is only giving me basic cold medicine. I requested other drugs, but I’ve been waiting over a week.”

Eventually, with help from doctors in China who consulted with his American physicians, he was given remdesivir, an experimental antiviral drug recognized by the World Health Organization. Combined with other treatments, it saved his life.

But survival came at a cost.

Even after leaving the hospital, he needed oxygen at home. His strength was gone. Recovery would take months.

If a young medical professional could suffer like this, what chance did ordinary people have?

I did not want to find out.

The only defense available to us was prevention.

My daughter Rainbow’s school was located near my workplace. For two years, we had left home together each morning, riding the subway in the same direction before separating at our respective stops.

It had become our ritual.

But now, every morning felt dangerous.

One day, unable to contain my anxiety, I went to her school and found the parent coordinator, Ms. Zhang.

“Ms. Zhang,” I asked urgently, “the virus is spreading everywhere. Universities are already closing. Is the school planning to close?”

She shook her head.

“The situation isn’t considered serious enough yet. There are no plans to close.”

Her answer shocked me.

“Not serious?” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “Manhattan is already heavily affected. If you wait until someone here is infected, it will be too late.”

I heard the desperation in my own voice.

“If you can’t decide,” I added, “I want to speak to the principal.”

Ms. Zhang looked at me calmly.

“It wouldn’t matter. The school doesn’t have that authority. Only the Department of Education can make that decision.”

Her words stopped me.

She was right.

The school itself had no power.

Still, I asked one more question.

“Can you at least report parents’ concerns?”

She nodded.

“Of course. And you’re not the only one. Many parents feel the same way.”

Her answer gave me some comfort.

I was not alone.

That evening, Rainbow spoke excitedly as soon as I came home.

“Dad, many parents and teachers are asking the city to close schools,” she said. “They’re worried about safety.”

I smiled.

“I spoke to Ms. Zhang today. She said she would report our concerns.”

Rainbow’s eyes brightened.

Then she added, “The mayor said he plans to close public schools soon.”

Hope returned.

But it didn’t last long.

Soon afterward, the governor announced that the mayor did not have the authority to close schools. Only the state could make that decision.

I told Rainbow the news.

She fell silent.

Disappointed.

In a democracy, people have the right to speak.

Someone organized an online petition. Others planned a protest in front of City Hall, demanding immediate school closures.

I had the weekend off.

Time, I realized, was no longer abstract.

Time was survival.

I decided I would go.

But before the protest could happen, the decision came.

On Friday, the news broke: beginning March 16, all public schools in New York City would close.

Elementary schools. Middle schools. High schools. All of them.

Students would stay home.

I felt overwhelming relief.

Rainbow would be safe.

I would not have to risk infection at a protest.

For the first time in weeks, I slept peacefully.

On March 23, something unprecedented happened.

Students began attending school from home.

Remote learning.

It had never been done before on this scale in New York City.

On that same day, all non-essential businesses across New York State were ordered to close.

The city entered lockdown.

The subway still ran.

But the city had stopped moving.

I worked in an essential industry.

I had no choice but to continue commuting.

My wife asked me to meet her in Chinatown after work one evening so we could ride the subway home together.

I agreed immediately.

Not because she was weak.

Because she was vulnerable.

The subway stations had grown emptier each day. And emptiness brought its own dangers.

When crowds disappeared, uncertainty took their place.

When we met, Chinatown looked like a photograph of itself.

Stores were closed. Streets were quiet.

The only groups visible were homeless men gathered near storefronts, sitting, standing, lying on flattened cardboard.

They watched us.

As we approached the subway entrance, several of them leaned against the railing, laughing loudly, their eyes fixed on us.

We quickened our pace.

Suddenly, one of them stepped forward and grabbed my shopping cart.

“Why are you wearing masks?” he demanded.

My wife froze.

I felt fear—but also anger.

“This is my freedom,” I said firmly.

He stared at us.

“Are you Chinese?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He shouted, “Go back to China!”

The words hit harder than I expected.

I pulled out my phone.

“If you don’t let go,” I said, “I’m calling 911.”

He hesitated.

Then slowly, he released his grip.

But as we walked away, he shouted again:

“Go!”

Behind us, the others laughed.

Their laughter followed us down the subway stairs.

We said nothing.

We didn’t need to.

The city we loved had changed.

Fear was everywhere.

The virus had infected more than bodies.

It had infected trust.

And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the silence, life continued.

We kept moving forward.

Because that was the only direction left.