QuaranTime

It’s nearly 6 months since my last post. Apparently I did not become the prolific writer I envisioned at the beginning of quarantine. Let’s be honest, none of what any of us envisioned at the beginning of quarantine is relevant now. My last post was a view from a peak that was occupied painfully briefly. How different might things be now, had we been led to embrace rather that resent that whistle stop on what was to become our bullet train to hell?

Those first weeks of quarantine look quaint and naive in the rear view. Sure, there was panic at grocery stores and crazy hoarding. But there was also quiet. Empty streets. Neighbors taking care of those who couldn’t leave their homes. The birds filled the trees in a way I don’t recall since early childhood. There was a momentary sense of national hope, as one imagines might have existed during the WWII days. Or at least it exists in movies about the WWII days, and it felt like maybe we could find our national conscience, and maybe a bit of unity again. But it was March. March is cold and dreary and most people are happy to have an excuse not to deal with March. So those couple of weeks turned into a month without much resistance. Then April came. And the sun came out, and people wanted to go outside. The virus was mostly hitting the coasts – LA and NY were in far worse shape than most of the rest of the country, and given a complete lack of national leadership, states were pretty much doing whatever the loudest voices wanted. And we lurched toward summer.

Schools had finished the year remotely. Parents were totally over it. Kids were over it. Everyone was looking for a sense of normalcy. But the thing is, the virus didn’t care. It barreled through state after state, defying a clueless president to stop it. Even in areas that had been carefully trying to follow recommendations and be safe, people started insisting that things had to get back to normal. As Memorial Day and the beginning of summer loomed, political leaders buckled. Bars opened. Restaurants opened. Beaches and recreation areas opened. Politicians covered their asses with exhortations to stay 6 feet apart and wear masks. But there was no one to hear them; everyone was packed into a bar or on a boat or at a beach party.

And 2 weeks later cases exploded. But that became second page news, because a cop in Minneapolis murdered George Floyd. A country that was cooped up, unemployed, and led by the most racist president in decades erupted in justifiable rage. Protests took over the streets and everyone’s daily reality. For the first time, mainstream America couldn’t ignore the pain of 400 years of oppression. George Floyd was every mother’s son. And despite the virus and all the related suffering, the movement continues. There are areas of sustained protest still. It played a pivotal role in the lead up to the November presidential race.

I write this on the day after the close of the 2020 Democratic National Convention, an event indescribably different from what anyone would expect from a convention. Any virtual event is weird, and disconnected, and stilted. But that’s not why this one was so unique. There is such an overriding sense of desperation, of panic, of helplessness among the majority of Americans who hate trump. But even that majority can’t guarantee his defeat. It feels like we’re all trapped in the family home with a serial killer, watching the slaughter, hoping one of us is able to stop him before we’re all dead. And I wish I was being overly dramatic for effect.

The last 3 1/2 years have been so exhausting, so spiritually grueling, so mentally twisted that it feels impossible. I’ve been a political cynic all of my adult life. I’ve backed a loser in every presidential election. But they were the right people. They were the ones who said ‘we have to fix this’. They were the ones who said we could be better if we wanted to be. We could make the United States what it always claimed, but never was. They had big ideas and great vision, and most people laughed at those candidates. They lost handily. And I went on to vote for the candidate that had D next to his name, and hoped they would prove me wrong. It is cold comfort to be right when it has landed us all in such a completely fucked pile of shit. Joe Biden is just one more in a long line of people I not only wouldn’t vote for in a primary, but that I knew would be a placeholder in office. A person that kept everything intact for the next guy. No big changes, no real issues addressed, just enough nice legislation to keep the money rolling. But now, Biden has gotten the nomination at a time when that will be impossible. More Americas are dead from Covid than died in Vietnam and every following conflict combined. We’re approaching the number of dead from the atomic attack at Hiroshima plus Nagasaki. And there is no reason to believe it will be contained any time soon. Prominent Black voices are engaged at the highest levels. They will not be going away. The virus has pulled the curtain completely back on the crisis of for-profit healthcare. All of this will land on Biden’s head on inauguration day if he is elected. If trump prevails, it will bury us.

I lost a dear friend in June. A gifted, hard working Black artist. We were acting partners, he made music with my husband, and he was dear friends with my kids and their partners as well. Covid’s isolation wore on his spirit. During video chats we could see that he was struggling to keep up his positivity. When George Floyd was murdered, a shadow fell over Garry. The shadow won the fight and we lost one of the best people I have ever known. I haven’t left my house for more than an hour or so of shopping (and done that only a few times) since March. I have no hope of that changing anytime soon. Do I desperately want out of here? For sure. But for the sake of all of us, and for the memory of all who have been lost, we have to do it right. We have to get it right. The world we closed our doors on in March is gone. We have to do better this time.