This morning has been like most of my mornings the past year.
I thank God for another day and for my good health. I take the dog for a walk, I stop by my local bodega for a large coffee with extra half-and-half, and I check the COVID case numbers before starting my shift as a contact tracer with the NYC Test & Trace Corps.
My job is to combat the spread of COVID-19 person by person, community by community, by calling New Yorkers who have tested positive and asking where they’ve been and who they’ve seen. I’m drawn to their stories, but this isn’t nosiness. During a pandemic, when thousands are infected and dying, we can’t underestimate how important even the smallest detail can be. It’s all part of how we hunt down the virus.
In June 2020, I began work as a contact tracer and very quickly realized that with each call I was establishing a new relationship. Some were heartbreaking. New Yorkers were scared — scared that they might die from this virus, scared that they didn’t have a weekly paycheck, scared that they couldn’t feed or take care of their family. I was confronted daily with a level of distress and misery I had never witnessed before.
I cannot observe the expressions on my clients’ faces or read their body language. I cannot see if, where or how they are isolating, since most of them live in apartments with roommates or family members. But like a bat with sonar, my ears have become attuned to the subtleties — a crack in someone’s voice, a congested tone, labored breathing — as well as differentiating between whether that sound in the background is a loud television or a crying child. These details allow me to ask questions — “What are you watching?” “Is the baby sick?” “Is there anyone else who can help?” — in order to build a deeper rapport with and gain the trust of the client. My mind often creates a grim scenario as I say, “Tell me about your symptoms”; ask, “Is there someone who could have exposed you to COVID?”, and offer services like food delivery or a hotel room if they can’t separate safely at home.
Working from home with the city shut down, my life revolved around four screens: my work laptop, where I watched for my next COVID case; my television, where I watched the Black Lives Matter protests and presidential election unfold; my phone, where I scrolled Instagram to see the latest from @newyorknico and @humansofny, whose stories about everyday New Yorkers have become a cultural phenomenon; and my computer, where at the end of the day my boyfriend and I would Zoom. I always looked forward to seeing his face but dreaded my own. I noticed dark bags under my eyes and a dullness to my skin. My morning blowouts were replaced with topknots. My stylish yet uncomfortable wardrobe was replaced with anything soft that felt like a hug. Women in the 1960s burned their bras; I retired mine.
It’s been said that when her phone rang, Dorothy Parker would say, “What fresh hell is this?” That is often how I felt when looking at another screen. Last summer was grim, and so were the days that came after. As spring came, the vaccines became available, and work got a little quieter. Cases decreased and soon life across New York City, once declared “dead,” was back.
I grew up in the suburbs, but ever since I came to the city for college, I’ve considered myself a true New Yorker. I didn’t flee after 9/11, I didn’t desert during Hurricane Sandy and I wasn’t about to let a virus run me out of town. How could anyone want to leave this marvelous metropolis? “Me and the cockroaches, here until the very end,” I told concerned friends and family when they invited me to hide out in the suburbs. After all New York has given me over the years, how could I leave the people that make this city possible?
Throughout these difficult days, there have been bright spots. The young man who was upset about getting COVID while DJ-ing at an underground party who still shared a dozen contacts. The woman who told me, a fellow Italian-American, that she “identifies as Italian even if 23andme says otherwise.” The brusque adult son of a hospitalized client who admitted to initially giving me a hard time and told me he appreciated how I had persevered through his disagreeableness. The clients who simply but earnestly thank me. And the celebrity who confirmed a positive test for COVID, though claimed to be doing “just fine,” which reinforced the message that this virus is an equal opportunity invader.
But while I’m helping them, they aren’t aware they’re helping their neighbors, myself included. Because every personal connection I make with a client makes me a better tracer for the next New Yorker I call.
Martinetti is a contact tracer with the NYC Test & Trace Corps.
