Crossroads

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Half a Year of Thoughts

Here I sit in the time of pandemic. A lucky one by all accounts. I don't know anyone who has struggled health-wise from Covid 19. Certainly I don't know anyone who has died. We all have our jobs, save Cade, who thanks to a nice dose of youthful optimism, or naivete, or plain luck due to unemployment checks and plenty of other things to keep him occupied, is doing great. Thanks to Jeff's summers off we haven't had to scramble to find safe childcare. Olivia even has a best friend whose family agreed, after 3 months of quarantining, that the girls could safely play together. To top it all off, while small businesses have been falling behind on payments, struggling to stay open and finally closing doors, unable to make ends meet, we have the good fortune and audacity to open a small business that appears to be thriving. We don't have black or brown skin in this hateful country, and so amidst the violence and oppression and racism, we remain privileged, safe, ignorant to the pain millions of people wake up with every day because their skin is not white. We not only don't live where natural disasters strike, we live in one of the prettiest places to be in summer and we get to take advantage of it with leisure and luxury. Our life is a freaking joy ride.

And yet.

As the summer slowly creeps to and end, as Autumn draws close, bringing with it's cooler breezes the evergreen feeling of a new beginning, this year it feels different. In the past those wisps of crisp air have carried hope and and almost excitement of a new start. New routines. New activities. New teachers, classes, friends. This year, though, as my eyes light upon a lone red leaf, as dusk meets the day and ushers it out sooner, I feel nervous. Almost dread. The uncertainty of all that is coming sometimes nearly freezes me in place. Olivia is transferring to a new school for 3rd grade, as all kids do in this town. But they don't get orientation. They don't get to tour the school or see their classroom. They don't get to meet their new teacher. What will school be like for Olivia? How will she wear a mask all day long? How will she be able to make new friends or even nurture old friendships from 6 feet apart. She is already quiet. How will her classmates and teachers hear her beautiful, intelligent voice now, muffled by fabric? How will the kids play? Will school be fun? Will it hold any joy? How can we expect so much from teachers? From 8 year olds? She's starting on the gymnastics team this year. A low-risk sport when it comes to the virus. Yet again my heart beat speeds up when I consider all that's involved. Normally I would be filled with concerns about broken arms, sprained ankles, bumps and bruises. This year, though, it's more than that. We're not allowed in the building for safety reasons. How will she do? She will be the only one joining, so all the other girls will already know each other and know the drill, as it were. Will they open their circle to her? Will they befriend her and show her the ropes. Will they hear her from 6 feet away? Will she feel scared? Will she feel alone? Will she learn and grow in her skills? Will we be allowed to watch her at any point? Will she be happy? The same pondering swirls around my mind for Jeff. How will he be able to teach online 4 days a week and in class 4 days a week? There aren't 8 days in a week! Technology did not prove to be his friend last Spring. Has the district better prepared for the Fall semester? Will the students in his classes participate online? Will he feel the camaraderie with his kids that he normally feels and makes him such a beloved teacher? It's his first year teaching calculus. Will it go okay despite all of this? And last but not least. Will we stay healthy?

In my heart of hearts I know that everything will be fine. Fine. Which is much better than many, if not most, have it from day to day. Everyone and everything has been affected by this pandemic. I can't help but want it to be more than fine, though. Even amidst our luck, our good fortune, our privilege, I can't help but worry about the future and wish it would all go back to "normal." For now I hope I will continue to acknowledge how lucky we are. I certainly hope in the future we will look back at this time and see how much we gained amidst the loss. See how much things changed for the better despite the sadness of it all. We will learn from this, right? Right?

Friday, March 27, 2020

From a Place of Privilege

So today we are in our 2nd week of social distancing due to the Coronavirus. I haven't begun to give my mind the space to really think about the devastation this virus has already had on the world and the fact that it has probably just begun. I'd like to say I'm simply too busy homeschooling Olivia, figuring out how to someday open a bookshop even though the timing has drastically changed, working to keep peace and harmony in our home of lonely, bored, restless, worried family members. But the truth is, it is simply too scary for me to contemplate fully. Like many issues in our world, I am fortunate to look from a place of privilege. Meaning I am not forced to contemplate the ravages of injustice the majority of the world face on a daily basis. I recognize this. I am trying to use my privilege for change, even in small ways.

Yesterday I read a post on social media that came from a place of hope, love, good intention and optimism. It was a post talking about how the children of the class of 2030 will look back on 2020 and not remember how terrible it all was. They won't remember the economic downfall, the sickness and death, the anxiety and worry. Instead they will remember family dinners, playing outside, being homeschooled and surrounded by creativity, fresh air and loving family. It was made to be a feel-good post in the midst of great turmoil. Words of hope. And while I 100% believe it came from the biggest heart and purest intention, it gave me immediate pause.

Because the kids that graduate in 2030 with those memories of 2020 will have come from the same place of privilege I sit in now. Yes, this virus is ravaging everyone. We are in this together.And yet. Those with a situation like mine are truly lucky. My 8 year old has a mama who already stayed home much of the time planning activities, helping with school, taking her on outings, playing with her, encouraging her to read and draw and create and move her body. She has a daddy who already plays with her every day, cooks her amazing meals every night, snuggles with her at bedtime, has summers off to spend quality time at home and on a myriad of outings around our gorgeous state. She already has grandparents who are healthy and able to call and check in and send messages of love. She lives in a position of great privilege.

My guess is that those 2030 graduates who look back on 2020 with memories that don't include anxiety and fear ALREADY have the kind of life and family pictured in the social media post. BUT LET US NOT FORGET. Not every child, in fact I would wager a guess that MOST children, are not experiencing this time in the same way. Let us not forget those children who live in food-insecure homes. Whose parents relied on school meals twice a day to feed their children. Let us not forget the children whose parents already work 2 jobs or late nights or inconsistent schedules to try to make ends meet, whose parents already struggle to find childcare when their kids are sick, who already worry about missing a day or two of work when they are sick. Let us not forget the kids in big cities who don't have yards or parks to play in, let alone parents who can take the time to get them outside. Let us not forget the kids in rural areas who are isolated even more now. Let us not forget the kids who don't have extended families to call or video chat with. Let us not forget the kids whose parents are SCARED for a multitude of valid reasons by what this virus is doing. Parents who are scared of contracting the virus because of all the misinformation out there. Who are scared of being unable to pay bills or buy groceries. Parents who are scared their kids will become lonely or sick or fall behind in school. Let us not forget kids who live with their grandparents, who are now scared to go out because they are vulnerable. Let us not forget the kids who are now stuck at home with caregivers who are addicts or abusers. Let us not forget the kids who can feel the fear in their parents voices who talk openly about the coronavirus. Let us not forget the kids who received extra help for behavioral or learning difficulties from teachers at school, who are now unable to get the specialized care they need.

I would love nothing more than to look back at this chaotic time and have it be filled with positive memories. I would love that to be true for all the kids in the world. But that is a dream for the privileged. So what do I do? What do we do to help? I'm going to start by trying to be grateful each day. By thanking the school and teachers who are spending an incredible amount of time and energy to create a way for students to continue to learn, eat, play and have some structure. By checking in on neighbors, family and friends. By keeping my eyes and heart open to see those around me who might be hurting, who might need help. By dropping off a roll of toilet paper on a porch. By sending a card or letter to a classmate. By donating to hospitals or food pantry's or shelters. By allowing myself to feel my own fears and anxieties and remember that each day is new. Each minute is new. By approaching each person, place and situation with compassion.

People have rallied together in the most beautiful and creative ways to help one another. It has been inspiring to see. Let those of us who hold privilege consider how to be there for those who don't.

We are all in this together.