Life in a pandemic is far from typical. Typically, a six-foot gap isn’t between family members during a visit. Typically, a restaurant isn’t dark and empty on a Friday night. Typically, the latest fashion “trend” isn’t an N95 face covering. 

Like all these pandemic quirks, an AmeriCorps VISTA typically isn’t serving a community in a predominantly virtual setting. But this has been the reality for thousands of AmeriCorps members during the times of COVID-19. People’s health just isn’t worth risking if contact can be avoided, and this is especially true when one serves communities that might lack access to medical services due to factors like poverty. 

One of my service sites, the Missoula Writing Collaborative (MWC), is an example of this shift to the virtual realm. They focus on creative writing education in K-12 schools around western Montana, typically conducting this service in-person through weekly writing classes taught by a professional writer. Like any year, students have still been able to draft great poetry even with the pandemic, but they’ve done so using Zoom rooms rather than classrooms. 

Despite these protocols, some VISTAs have had some opportunities to engage with in-person service. I am among these lucky ones, and the fall months provided me with one of those prized chances.

From late September until early December, MWC put on free, extracurricular classes for students. Some of these classes were held on Zoom—much like the K-12 lessons—but a select few were held in-person—masked and socially distanced—at Greenough Park, a strip of woods along Rattlesnake Creek on Missoula’s north end. Led by some of MWC’s writers and staff, students had the chance to write about the outdoors, draft their own short stories, and sing and dance with others. 

During these classes, my service could easily be confused with the important work of a custodian. I’d often find myself wiping down surfaces with citrusy cloths or bathing pens and pencils in a glob of hand sanitizer. Occasionally, as cleaning chemicals tickled their way down my arm, I’d remind the energetic bunches of kids to disperse into energetic patches, each newly formed patch consisting of one kid to maintain social distancing. 

The classes were a joy, and these youngsters were never shy about sharing their knowledge and wisdom with me, the big kid in the class. With their words muffled by masks, I listened closely so not to miss their tales. They wrote and shared their work about bears and cheetahs, wildfires, being late for a flight, and frustration that they couldn’t hug their friends because of COVID.  

One of the most enjoyable activities from these classes didn’t even include writing at all. Instead, it involved the teacher playing her banjo while the 3rd-5th grade students mimicked a movement chosen by one of their classmates. These were far from generic gyrations. One had the group pretend as though they were trudging through a floor of slime, while another had everyone move like they were trying to stay stable in a vicious wind. This meeting of motion and imagination was quite the site to see as would I stand on and watch, a bottle of sanitizer in my hand. 

One afternoon, the class opened with this activity. It was a perfect warm-up for the day as the first chill of the season had nestled itself into the valleys overnight. As the banjo music was strum alongside the rush of Rattlesnake Creek, a few of the kids shed their layers, growing too hot from their wild moves. They spun through each breeze and ignored droplets teased by the rainclouds above them. A few would even tumble to the grass from their dizziness, laughing as they attempted to get up. Rays of sun poked through the sky from time to time forming the spotlight to their stage, myself, the magpies, and the flickers looking onward as an audience.   

As I stood beneath the first golden aspens of autumn, I recall feeling a few tickles throughout my face. My eyes were also this gray sky filled with water, the lump in my throat was also the stones in the creek. A year of hardship seemed to be lost with each movement, the steps of these dancers decorating the moment in splendor, a masterpiece made from boots stomping in mud. 

Although an early spot in my service, this event danced into—and remains in—first place of my VISTA memories. Even with so many things being atypical from COVID, I’m grateful that I was able to experience this brief, in-person service during my tenure. I’m even more grateful for the youngsters I met during that time, the positive energy they unknowingly shared with me through their enthusiasm for the arts. 

I think that might be what’s typical about this pandemic service year, that there’s a lot of good to be found in the world.