Teens losing rites of passage
Coming-of-age events such as prom, graduation fade away
ST. PETERSBURG, Fla. — On a Friday night in late February, 17year-old Amanda Reynolds raced into a department store on Florida’s Gulf coast. She’d been on a mission for weeks, and after countless hours shopping online and in stores, there it was.
Off the shoulder, blue lace, with crystal accents. Her perfect prom dress.
For decades, the prom has represented a cornerstone of American teenage life. Shopping for the dress, finding a date, posing for photos, dancing awkwardly in a low-lit gym — it’s all enshrined in movies, books, television and the memories of generations of Americans.
Combine prom with graduation and an 18th birthday. It’s a trifecta of milestones. But now, for millions of Class of 2020 teenagers living through the coronavirus outbreak, these coming-of-age moments look and feel vastly different.
And while they’re doing the best they can to reschedule, to wing it, to celebrate virtually with technology, the truth is that this generation never will regain these moments. Amanda Reynolds is like all of these young people — a case study in what is being lost by those who, in spring 2020, are on the cusp of adulthood and losing many of their expected rites of passage.
But that day at Macy’s, Amanda had no idea a pandemic would change everything.
Amanda and her mom knew then, on Feb. 28, that the dress was the one. Her mom had promised Amanda that if she spent no money for homecoming, she could splurge on a prom dress.
“I was in love,” Amanda said. “As soon as I put it on, I resembled Cinderella.”
The next day, the United States reported a coronavirus-related death, a 44-year-old man in Washington. Amanda didn’t pay much attention to the news. A week later, Florida reported its first two coronavirus deaths, but that was barely a blip on the high-school radar.
Instead, the beginning of March was like all the other days of senior year at Pinellas Park High, filled with classes, friends, homework and the anticipation of things to come.
School would be out soon, goodbyes would be said, and it’d be time for college. Amanda planned to attend P-Tech, a local technical school, to take her first classes toward a nursing degree.
By the second week of March, as people nationwide called on Gov. Ron DeSantis to close Florida’s beaches to spring break tourists over fears of spreading the virus, news of the pandemic seeped into conversations online and at school. Amanda wasn’t worried: “It was all the way in China.”
On Friday the 13th, the day before spring break, Amanda sailed through classes.
“I was fully expecting to come back after spring break, and it would completely be like normal,” she said. Prom was two weeks away.
But it turned out to be the last normal day. That afternoon, President Donald Trump declared a national emergency. The governor told Floridians to put mass gatherings on hold.
On Saturday, Amanda’s school sent a text message: Prom was postponed, indefinitely.
But a new date would be set, Amanda figured — probably late April. She carefully wrapped her Cinderella dress in plastic and hung it. She saw it each night before she went to bed and each morning when she woke up.
She’d been waiting for a night to dress up with a group of girlfriends and have the most fun in all their 12 years of school.
Amanda hoped the district could deep-clean the school, and it’d be back to normal.
Hope began to waver March 15. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommended a ban on gatherings of more than 50 people. In neighboring Orlando, Universal Studios and Walt Disney World shuttered.
The only other time the theme parks closed like this was after 9-11 — before Amanda was born.
On March 16, her district extended spring week.
Amanda reluctantly started online school. By March 26, the U.S. led the world in coronavirus cases. On April 1, the governor of Florida issued a statewide lockdown.
Amanda’s world grew smaller. She couldn’t visit her friends or her grandparents. There were no movie nights with friends.
Amanda’s 18th birthday — April 5 — loomed. Before the pandemic, she and her friends had dreamed up a three-day extravaganza. They’d hang out in her hot tub at home, watch movies, go to the beach, and, for the big event, head to an “escape room,” an intense game where they’d discover clues and solve puzzles to win freedom.
Now her home had become an escape room — but without time limits, prizes or exits. Nowhere to go, no one to see.
“I miss going to school. I miss being able to talk to my friends and have something to do,” she said. “I feel a little guilt. There are people who are getting sick and dying, but this is also, like, I’ve been looking forward to this my entire school career. I get to be sad because my emotions are real.”
On the day of the big birthday, the family of four — Annette, Amanda, her dad and sister — made the best of things. They drove to a convenience store where Amanda bought her first lottery scratch-off ticket. She and her mom made a cake infused with coffee and giggled while filming a video. They sang “Happy Birthday,” and presented Amanda her cake, with candles in the shape of the number 18. “Make a wish,” Annette said. Sure, Amanda wished things were different. She wants to dance at prom in her Cinderella dress, walk the Major League Baseball field where her school would normally hold graduation, and have a real 18th birthday party — all the milestones teenagers wait years to experience but Amanda will miss.
But her wish that day — that has to stay secret to come true, she believes.
“I can tell you that I hope for the pandemic to get better,” she said, “and for everyone not to suffer anymore.”