For Where We Are Right Now

"Carry the weight of the world

In all of the faces you've found
Carry the weight of the world
With deadlines on the ground
Balance the world on your head
It fits like a knife in your chest
Breathing is bitter and sweet"

 - Weight Of The World, by Jon Foreman 

At the start of March 2020, I took minutes during a meeting in which the topic of the Coronavirus was briefly discussed:

"We're told that the spread is very limited," was the sentiment I recall hearing. There were only a small handful of cases in Texas at the time. "We're keeping an eye on the situation, but it doesn't seem to be of grave concern." 

Heads nodded. Back then, the name Coronavirus was funny because it made one think of Corona beer. But just a few days later, the SXSW festival in Austin, an annual event which welcomes filmmakers and stars, musicians, technologists, and more from across the globe and is a huge boost to the local economy, was canceled. It was shocking, and, in conjunction with the reason why, it was the first time I heard the phrase, "Unprecedented times." 

A statewide emergency was declared on March 13th. Restaurants, schools, gyms, and nursing homes closed on March 19th. New or unused terminology entered the daily vernacular: 

"Shelter in place", "Essential workers", "Pandemic", "Super spreader", "Social distancing", "Flatten the curve", and "With an abundance of caution". 

We were told how long to wash our hands, and to not touch our faces. Weddings and other large events were canceled. Unemployment skyrocketed. 

Everyone at my office began to work from home. There was no official day of goodbyes; the mass exodus of packing up equipment and paperwork and setting up home offices was surprisingly quiet. But back then, we thought it would only last a few weeks. We prepared to weather the storm, with a laughably limited idea of how long the storm might last.

I recall the fear I felt not of the virus, but of the unknowns. I was given an official letter to carry which stated that I was authorized to go into work when necessary, the idea being that I would show this to the police if I were pulled over and questioned as to why I was out and about. (Would I be questioned for grocery shopping, I worried? For visiting a sibling?) I stocked up on essentials, horrified by the videos of people fighting each other over toilet paper. 

Back then, the lack of traffic and empty streets were both novel and eery. Restaurants offered takeout like nobody's business, and were legally allowed to deliver alcohol as well. From my patio, I'd see people on other patios or parking garages getting creative with their exercise routines. I started running like never before, in part as it was sometimes the only reason I'd leave the house. 

My sister, a photographer whose work was hit hard, took her camera to the empty streets to document the strange time. She wrote a short article for a local magazine which regularly features her photos. Revisiting her photos and words months later, it's a reminder that we're still navigating the unknown one day at a time. 

On May 1st, businesses slowly began to reopen, but the feeling of hope this sparked didn't last as the pandemic wore on, and on, more people catching it, more long-term effects being seen, more people dying. A friend of mine caught it, seemed to get better, then dealt with terrible fatigue and weakness for months. It was an invisible threat which stamped itself onto the lives of people worldwide. 

Hospital workers were cheered for, heartily and repeatedly, until the cheering slowly faded away, exhausted over time along with the jovial news of people singing from their balconies or boasting of homemade bread or other new skills. We still laugh when kids or pets wander into important video calls, but maybe are numb to the feeling of only seeing people via a screen. We've grown to hate the phrase "new normal", wanting to reject it, wanting to mock it, and worried about what it could really mean. 

Almost a year ago, I wrote the following as an anecdote to the times, and though I smile to read it, it also hurts. Even with all the unknowns, I wrote it with optimism born of the naive impression that I was living through an unusual and small blip in time. 

It wasn't long after the shelter in place took effect that I was overtaking the apartment with my things.

My sister and I share a place; I told a friend over the phone how much I love our home, how if I had to be quarantined anywhere I was so glad it was here, to which she laughed at my earnestness. With my sister sheltering in place with the family she nannies for, I've begun to be less diligent about moving my things back to my room as I normally would. My laptop might stay on the kitchen table. The puzzle I'm working on covers the coffee table. Embroidery is perched on a chair. But it's books which are appearing in the most places: the three I'm reading currently, plus any I've finished recently, migrating between my night stand, desk, and a stack on the kitchen counter. It feels as though I'm keeping myself company with my things, warming my surroundings with reminders of activity within the limited space. 

I feel an admirable innocence when I read this, glad that my past self didn't know where I'd be a year from then. Where I am, of course, is looking back on both the beautiful and bleak things of the past year, a year of loss and love and survival. As with anything, there are things from this past year I wouldn't change for the world, alongside many I would. But along with looking back I'm looking ahead to the vaccines which could significantly cut back on the spread, and feeling incredibly frustrated with the process of it. Personally, I believe in vaccines. I've been shot with yellow fever, Hepatitis, and other required vaccines before traveling abroad. You go to certain parts of the world where those diseases are more prevalent and that's just what you do to be safe, so to me, the common sense part of it feels no different. In that vein, it's disheartening to watch the system make it so difficult for people to get something which will protect themselves and everyone around them. As of now, I'm waiting for eligibility, or trying to volunteer to get a dose, a process which has brought me to tears. It's so close and still, still so uncertain at the same time. I know someone who, being eligible, waited for weeks for a local appointment to no avail, then drove 6.5 hours each way for a vaccine which took less than a minute to administer. Unreal. 

There are many different sentiments being felt surrounding all of this. Information has been stilted, and the result is a turbulence of beliefs regarding personal responsibility versus personal rights. 

We're all tired of making history; we want precedented times, run of the mill normal, and to gather in large groups and say, "Remember when?" 

I hope for that day to come, soon and sooner. Until then, I want to remember the acts of kindness and creativity alongside the loss and fear. I want to remember finishing my first "pandemic puzzle", and making a flock of origami cranes to give away, and the friends I became closer to, and how people communicate with their eyes like never before. I want to remember weeping when a friend from Ecuador wrote me about the death of a woman I cared for who worked on the streets. I want to remember this nation's division and strive for reconciliation. I want to remember, and grow from, every raw feeling while living through history, day after day. I look forward to the sweet relief of saying, "We made it through." 

I'll toast to that. I'll sing from my patio for that. Until then, I'll remind myself to keep my optimism, remembering what we've made it through so far and having hope for what's to come.