Letters From The Pandemic

A message in the bottle to future generations. Art, letters, writings, poetry, music, film from the peoples living through the pandemic of 2020.

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter 30; No one cares.

Dear Future Generations, 

Everyone has moved on and no one cares. As inflation, war and an ever-growing drum beat of gun violence creeps into our everyday; no one cares about Covid anymore. 

In fact, the collective trauma we all endured is all but a whisper among the full restaurants, bars and events. Life “appears,” normal again. And yet, for some the return to “business as usual,” has been harsh. 

We learned little. We are unwilling to challenge our power structures and institutions. Corporations are forcing workers back to the office. Even though the data proved that working from home increased profits. 

If you get Covid in the US today, you must isolate for five days. Most of which is unpaid. After that, it’s back to work. Mask mandates are thing of the past. Today, I threw out my cloth masks. They are all but useless against these new variants that are spreading harder and faster than the first. 

The reasoning behind the blind eye: we have drugs to keep people from dying now. So it’s time to move on. True but useless data without more information on long Covid. So here we sit. With a forth wave sweeping the city I live in. I learn of a new person in my circle that has Covid every day. 

For those that can’t afford to get Covid, life is strange. I had a conversation with someone who said “ Is that still a thing?” When I mentioned I’d like to eat on a patio instead of inside. I have people in my life I still need to protect but no one cares about protecting me. 

531 million cases and 6.3 million deaths. 30% of cases have resulted in long Covid. The amount of newly disabled peoples is growing. 

It’s all old news. I feel old screaming into the ethers that we have learned nothing. No once cares. 

[lettersfromthepandemic]

COVID-19 To Date: 173,000,000 cases 3,720,000 deaths

Dear Future Generations,

It’s been a year since I last wrote a letter - and the most prevalent feeling I have when contemplating the time between then and now is tired. I’m just so fucking tired. When I first wrote, I was obsessed with conveying the most accurate statistics about everything that was happening. At that point, a play by play of the events as they unfolded felt so important - because it was all so unbelievable and yet true at the same time. Now I find that my mind has very little space for all those dates, numbers and timelines. This year has been an assault on our psyche - a time in which we have been fed constant streams of information and have had to try to make sense of it all. It would have been overwhelming enough if all the information we had to digest were true, but that is not the case. No, 2020 was the year when all good common sense was thrown out the window and opinions and blatant lies were pawned off as being truth, because someone somewhere believed it or at least they wanted other people to believe it. I’ve spent my days trying not to over consume information, while still trying to be informed. This sounds like a simple task, but I promise you it has been anything but.  

What should we do now?

When I wrote before I was filled with apprehension and fear of what the rest of the year might hold - whereas now I have lost the capacity to feel afraid any longer. More than anything I just want a stiff drink and a long vacation, but we’re not quite there yet, and therefore I soldier on. As we shuffle our way through these next steps I find myself going back and forth between feeling hopeful that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and hopeless because I know that life as we know it will never be the same. How could it be? It’s like a relationship gone bad, at some point you cross a line that cannot be uncrossed. There’s no going back. My sincerest hope was that we would have learned something in all this mess. Are there any lessons in the Thanksgiving spent eating baked beans and hot dogs around a camp fire so I could safely enjoy family time, or the long afternoons spent shivering in my backyard in the middle of winter just so I could see other people, or the drunken zoom new years party that somehow still ended up being fun? I think on a personal level I could say I learned something about being flexible in unique situations. I'm not sure what big picture things everyone has a collective could have learned, humanity has a habit of wanting to rush past these blemishes in history so quickly that we forget to take the time to learn the lessons properly. As time goes on and our memories muddle, we become complacent, and distracted, and other things seem more important and so we forget to remember, to prepare for next time, to do better.  

I know that we are all in a hurry to erase the memory of last year. That hurry to forget will come at a cost for some of us. Big businesses and government will keep moving forward at a quick pace - to recoup losses, to shore up bottom lines, to make those profits because nothing is more important for the wealthy than accumulating more wealth. For the average person the bounce back may not be so easy. The landscape of our neighborhoods will be permanently changed by all the small businesses that failed to survive. The populations of our cities will fluctuate as people shuffle about in search of work, better living situations, or of somewhere they feel safe. People will lose their homes as a result of lost work or medical debt. Others will be forced out of their rentals because they can not keep up with the rapidly rising rents. Many homes will feel the awful emptiness left behind by their loved ones who passed on from COVID or something else, none the less making an already awful year feel so much worse. People will be licking their wounds for a long time yet to come, and it has been made plainly clear that the powers that be have very little intention of offering a suitable suture. I imagine that a few months from now, the people who are still struggling to make ends meet will be lambasted as being lazy or simply unwise, but those of us who have to fight for every dollar in our bank accounts will know better. We’ll commiserate with each other about how hard it is to exist in a country that doesn’t want you to succeed, but the talking heads and smiling politicians will get on TV and tell the world that we persevered, we recovered, we defeated COVID because America is fucking great - and I will roll my eyes so hard I will simply have to hope they don’t fall out. I read that it took most millennials about a decade to recover from the recession, which then conveniently led us right into 2020. I imagine that it will take about another decade for many people to recoup their losses from this past year as well - I shutter to think what kind of nonsense awaits us ten years from now.  

No Touchy

As we enter this next phase that leads us out of pandemic-land - the mental and emotional effects of this last year are apparent to anyone who really looks. There is this manic feeling in the air that forewarns of what is yet to come. I can only imagine what people will do in the name of making up for a lost year. As an introvert - it’s like waking up from a nightmare just to fall back asleep into a different one. I’m know that’s an unpopular opinion to have, but I’ve always really struggled with social situations and now there are added layers to navigate. Not only because everyone seems to be walking around on the precipice of an emotional breakdown, but also because I’m not sure I’ll be able to look at the world the same way as I did before. It may be a very long time before I no longer cringe at the idea of sitting in a movie theater seat, or rubbing shoulders with sweaty strangers at a packed concert venue. What germs might they be sharing? What dangers lurk unseen on shared surfaces? Hand rails, doorknobs, elevator buttons and public restrooms never looked so scary. I imagine that in the spirit of playful rebellion people will hold hugging parties or hand holding vigils. If such silliness does commence in the near future, I may “accidentally” lose my invitation. I have relished having an entire year in which I did not have to succumb to uncomfortable hugs and handshakes due to social niceties. There are so many things about the pandemic that I absolutely hated, but one of the things I wish would stick around is the no touching rule…but that’s just me being awkward and neurotic.  

The Vaccine Vaccines have been made, and slowly but surely those of us who want to and are able to have been happily rolling up our sleeves to get them. We have somewhat unceremoniously entered the slow yet deliberate shuffle toward a future where we hope to resume our lives without having to hear the words Coronavirus, or face mask, or social distancing ever again. As with every other stage on the road to recovery from COVID the vaccine hasn't been without it's controversy. There are those who believe it is not safe, there are those who believe that the government is trying to poison it's people, there are those who believe that Bill Gates is trying to implant microchips into people in order to control them (no seriously...I wish I was kidding). In spite of all the noise, and the arguing and shaking my head at crack pot theories - somehow - as I watch people get vaccinated by the thousands on the news - I am able to imagine what life will be like when I’m no longer fatigued by this nightmare. When all of this will just be a bad speck in human history that I can add to the list of things I’ve lived through. I’ve lived through….that statement bears the weight of over 3 million souls - because there are so many of us who didn’t live through this…who didn’t make it. I have to remind myself that as bad as this was, I am so fortunate to walk away unscathed. There are others who can’t say the same. There are those who carry deep trauma from this event, and then there are those who will never get to tell their story. It feels contrite to sit here and complain about my experience and how tired I am when I should consider myself lucky. It’s a strange thing to think about, that it’s perhaps nothing more than a stroke of luck that I lived through this or that I didn’t catch this disease. Funny, I’ve never once felt lucky in my life.  

A dumpster fire looks good right about now

I know it seems absurd that anything more substantial than this crippling pandemic could have happened over the course of the year. What more could there be to talk about than the virus that bright the whole world to a standstill? The political climate of this country has been volatile at best. People have said and done unthinkable things in defense of their beloved politically fueled beliefs. With or without the virus I do believe that we would still be in this place. There are so many things to fight for - and the issues at hand are so huge - Racial injustices, inequality, corrupt politics, climate change, an inadequate healthcare system, a failing education system. It almost feels as if all of the threads that are supposed to hold a society together have worn thin and are falling apart one day at a time. It’s like when you buy a new house and then 10 years later all the appliances start to break all at once because they were purchased the same year - it feels like that, but worse, much much worse. I don’t know who is supposed to fix those broken “appliances” and I’m pretty sure the proverbial house might be on fire at this point.  

None of this felt more apparent than on January 6th, 2021. The day that our Congress was to formalize the results of the presidential election a group of people stormed the United States Capitol with the hopes of overturning the election results. There are lots of different theories about exactly what they actually planned to do that day. There are also a lot of different opinions about who is ultimately to blame for the incident. By the end of the evening 5 people were dead, many were injured and our nation was stunned. It’s been months and we are still learning more information and criminally charging people involved. I wish I could say that what happened that day was a freak incident enacted by a bunch of over the top extremists who in no way reflect the values of a large portion of the American public, but unfortunately January 6th was simply a culmination of all of the hate, misinformation and division that has been infecting this country for years. In my lifetime I’ve seen my country make many humiliating mistakes, yet we are still supposed to wave our flag and say our pledge and tell everyone we’re the greatest country in the world. Humiliating probably doesn’t even accurately describe what I felt as I watched white supremacists march through the US capital building waving confederate flags. When I saw those flags being waved triumphantly in the United States Capitol - I thought of my friends and family of color and my heart sank knowing how unsafe and disrespected that must have made them feel. What happened that day was not entirely surprising, but it certainly was not the fresh start to the new year that any of us had been hoping for. I drove home from work that day wiping tears from my eyes. When you’re already mentally fatigued from a messed up year - a group of extremist trying to seize the government is just the cherry on the top of a really fucking awful sundae.  

Infertility in the time of COVID

As I mentioned in my last letter - we’ve all had our challenges this past year and mine has been silently trying to navigate fertility treatments while in the midst of a global health crisis. Last year I wrote about being trapped in limbo when the fertility clinics had no choice but to shut down. This year - we began the process all over again having to re-do many tests because too much time had elapsed. That meant fighting the insurance company to pay for tests they felt were unnecessary because they had been done before.  In the beginning, I was worried I would feel unsafe potentially exposing myself to infection, but you’d be surprised how quickly you learn to be comfortable with things when you just have to suck it up and deal with it. I feel like I can write about almost every other part of my COVID experience with a healthy dose of sarcasm to ease the tension, but not this part. COVID protocols have certainly added an extra layer of difficulty to an already difficult situation. Some day I might laugh or crack jokes about it, but right now when really think about what it has meant, it's hard to see the humor in it.

-To minimize the amount of people in the doctor’s offices and hospitals, my husband cannotcome to any of my appointments.

-I had to have surgery alone. My husband dropped me off on the curb outside the hospital that morning and the nurse called him to pick me up that evening. It meant going through my pre-op alone, and waking up post-op alone. It meant that he wasn’t there to ask questions for me or comfort me when I was in pain.

-In situations in which it would have been encouraged that my husband hold my hand in support so we can feel connected while we medically try to conceive, instead it’s me and a nurse awkwardly making small talk while I try to ignore how painful or uncomfortable the procedure is.

-It’s me waking up at dawn to run off for lab appointments alone and calling my husband from the car in tears when I’m feeling discouraged.

-It’s me teaching myself how to give myself my hormone injections because with limited staff there wasn’t anyone available to give me the crash course.

-It’s me not actually being able to see my own doctor face to face this entire year and feeling completely lost in the shuffle 99% of the time.

Fertility treatments are a challenging and isolating experience, but going through fertility treatments during a pandemic feels like a true test in strength. I had hoped that by the time the world was waking up from it’s COVID fog that I would have happy news to share with friends and family. That isn’t the case and so I push on one exhausting day at a time. I wish I could have had at least one truly happy thing to write in this letter, but it’s also completely appropriate that my plans for 2020/2021 hadn’t worked out the way I had hoped. I mean really…did anyone’s year end up the way they hoped it would?

Life is short, drink coffee

Dear future generations - the best advice I can give you is to look up the years 2020-2021. Hopefully there is someone out there who has more eloquently outlined everything that has happened, not only pertaining to the pandemic, but all of the noteworthy events of the year. Don’t be surprised if you find the information overwhelming. I’m living through it and I’m overwhelmed! I hope that all the words written about this time serve as a lesson. I hope that the scars left behind by this year are a reminder to everyone that we need to do better. Life is far too short - people have always said that, but I think after everything we’ve been through this year people can feel it in their core. I don’t know how to wrap up my small part in this story neatly with a little bow…so I won’t. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, or the next day, or the day after that. The only thing I know for certain is that there better be strong coffee to help us through this.

-Anonymous Writer / Photographer in the Southwest Suburbs of Chicago

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Recovery

While sorting my laundry, I had a thought that morning: “I should get laundry service today. I should splurge and do drop-off/delivery at the bigger laundromat a few avenues down instead of going around the corner. Just this once, I should treat myself.”

I’d entertained the idea before; it’s NYC after all. Loads of people get laundry service. But back in the summer months I tested out the price comparison between doing laundry myself at the small laundromat a block away versus drop-off/delivery and it wasn’t affordable for me. So I shook the thought away and schlepped over to the laundromat. I’ve come to a system to try to remain safe. I leave and come back between cycles or take a walk if it’s sunny out and people are sparse on the street. The laundromat is too small, not set up for sticking around. Sometimes the door is open for ventilation, sometimes it’s not. They don’t enforce a maximum of customers at one time, nor do they strictly enforce proper face coverage. It’s a risk going there, even with my two masks and other PPE. It’s a risk going anywhere.

I haven’t seen anyone or gone anywhere else in a couple weeks… not the supermarket or even for a walk. My roommate’s been gone for over 15 days, safely drove out of the city to her parents’ place for a while. 7 days ago I got a headache that brought me to collapse on the kitchen floor. I don’t get headaches much. The pressure was severe; I assumed it was a sinus issue given the dry environment of my apartment. The headaches led me to a dizzy spell and bedrest the 2nd day. I periodically used my thermometer: no fever, no other sickness symptoms. The headache pressure kept wiping me out. Things got a little worse, then then they got a little better. I could look at screens again. I could finish a modified version of my bedroom workout without getting dizzy. I could eat a little more. But something felt like it left, left my brain on day 3. It’s hard to describe...it just felt like I lost something I’ve never lost before. I thought I was being dramatic or that 11 and a half months of this pandemic was simply chipping away at my sanity in a new way. I powered through the pain and fatigue.

“You can do everything right; every single thing. There is still a risk. Don’t blame yourself; it won’t heal you.”

I took a long walk to see the doctor today to ask about my headaches. A rapid test came back positive. He said the worst is over. He said in 4 days at the latest I should feel “normal.” He said I can keep my vaccination appointment because of the date. He said that it’s hard for a body to fight for almost a year to avoid something that is everywhere. He said I am luckily out of harm’s way with my otherwise good health and regular breathing. He said my choices have saved others and that I should be proud of my vigilance. He said it’s hard in my neighborhood, and it’s hard for BIPOC people in this city with its millions of people. Even if you don’t go much farther than your block, risk is everywhere, and safety isn’t entirely equitable. He said I wasn’t wrong to do my laundry in the same place I’ve done it for the last year, using the same safety measures I have been, if that’s what I could afford, but I keep thinking…why did I have that feeling that morning? Why?

I am grateful that I will recover easily in the comfort of my own home, but I am heartbroken. I am frustrated to be another statistic in a demographic hit harder than average throughout this crisis. I am afraid to go to the laundromat, any laundromat. I am angry that I didn’t feel like I deserved to treat myself to one-time laundry service. I am annoyed that I can’t be proud of my frugality in that moment. I am upset with the ableist ways my mind is trying to attack the heartbreak. I am relieved that there is no one else I have put in danger, no one I have seen.

“You can do everything right; every single thing. There is still a risk. Don’t blame yourself; it won’t heal you.You have the right to your healing.” Thank you for the reminder, doctor. Thank you.

- Wed. Feb. 24th, 2021, anonymous

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Twelve days ago I spent an afternoon with my favorite person in the world face to face, or rather mask to mask. I was in a quiet park in one of my favorite places in the US, a trip made possible by access to  vaccinated earlier this year. 

I spent much of that trip alone, exhibiting the same behaviors I’ve had for the last 14 months: staying home, masked even when it wasn’t required of me and no one was around, acutely aware of the effect my actions had on others everywhere I went when I did step out. 

Meeting up with my favorite person was the first time I experienced a genuine sense of safety and happiness in a year and a half. Between frequent silences we joked about awkwardly about recalibrating socially as society revitalizes. We shared what reliefs we are beginning to experience and what ways we are reluctant to confidently move forward. 

I look forward to next time, when perhaps we will feel brave enough to show our full faces to each other, to let our laughter fill the air, to witness each other’s smiles. Maybe we’ll even share a hug. As two fully vaccinated people outdoors with plenty of space, according to the  guidelines we could have, but there’s what we’re permitted to do and what we’re ready to do...

I am not ready to abandon the behaviors that helped my neighbors stay alive and safe, those near and across the globe. I’m slow to release the habits of my hyper vigilance. The world is still healing and the pandemic is still happening. That surreal experience of feeling truly safe and happy in someone else's company…I want the most vulnerable to have access to that. More than that, I want them to have access to surviving the pandemic and the recovery. We are not yet out of the woods.

[lettersfromthepandemic]

A blackout poem I made in the midst of the pandemic:

.

The way we see ourselves

Between this moment and another one

Seeds our imagination and is bound up with how we resolve to make ourselves complete

He becomes focused on the length of life

She remeasures her connections

Time strains to toss expectations

The distinction between this and that erases

One loses understanding

It’s dark, but you don’t have to count the difference between now and a while ago

From one eternity to the next is moved because life remains

The difference between a human and a heartbeat becomes coordinates on the globe

Spreads to every corner of the world

Demolishes our understanding of freedom

How big is a virus?

Where does it get the key?

[lettersfromthepandemic]

A blackout poem from the first 40 days of shutdown in New York City:

.

silence fills, allowing air to be

wind blows, oxygen passes in and out of lungs

people sleep

the air around us...

public air, still air

air constellates us

it choreographs, strung together by breath

it is those stillnesses

crafting sequences of everyone at home

what follows?

lying still, sleeping

virtual view

[lettersfromthepandemic]

.

It certainly feels true

many things have become unavoidably obvious

flaws taunt me, fill a pitcher of my daily sputtering

I notice when they weren’t my whole world

with my pathetic tool kit

I scrubbed top to bottom

I sharpened my knife

I assembled a sense of satisfaction

I couldn’t control much

but my ambitions expanded

couldn’t I lose my impulses, I complained

if we’re going inside

it might as well be the inside we want

[lettersfromthepandemic]

It’s been a year. I’m patiently and anxiously waiting for my vaccine. I don’t want things to return to normal. Not interested in spending all my time grinding and hustling for pennies. In a country that doesn’t value my life. I survived, but I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do after this.

anonymous, USA

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Dear writers and readers,

It has been a year since Covid-19 turned our lives upside down. What a year it has been. I set out with a goal of collecting and curating stories to capture and preserve this moment. The submissions we have received are beautiful, vulnerable and heartfelt. I enjoy seeing what comes in. 

That said, I’ve uncovered the difficulty of putting pen to paper in this moment. We have a lot of readers but not enough writers. As I talk to people who have expressed feeling guilty for committing to create something for this project but found themselves stuck - I realize how deep we are still in it. The experiences we are having; are enormous. I want to honor that. 

Thinking of the anniversary of entering lock-down myself in March, I am feeling the heaviness of where we are, how far we have to go and what I’ve learned along the way. I am frustrated with collective cooperation, tired of fighting for others to care about their neighbors and anxious for what comes after this. 

I have joked that I am not excited to experience the collective explosion of energy after this is all over. But I mean that. I keep thinking about people climbing Everest. They say that the hardest part of the climb is after reaching the summit. It’s on the way down. I have an inkling that we are all hunkered down to “make it,” to the “return to normal,” but are not planning for the integration of what we learned while we are here now. Holding on to all our emotions to “get through,” and once we reach safety the emotional explosion will happen. I have heard of friends breaking down after they have received the vaccine. Exclaiming that they didn’t realize how deeply they have been living in fear. That really struck me. 

Part of doing this project was to allow myself the space to write, feel and process this experience. To open up the space for others to do the same. The response has been wonderful and yet gathering letters is hard work. I think we are all here in this space. Juggling our worlds, holding it together, finding the joy while working through the upset. 

I have enjoyed slowing down. I have enjoyed unplugging from the grind. I have learned a lot from the interruption. I have spent the most time with my husband this year, then I have all of our marriage. We have grown by leaps and bounds because of it. I want to see the lessons integrated as we emerge from this virus and I fear that society will forget. I am worried we will forget that we are all connected, that my action or inaction effects others. That our society is built to support businesses and the wealthy few, not the collective people. 

At the same time. I am aware that the fear I have been working through is ever present in my body and I have learned to adapt to it. With the vaccine light at the end of the very long tunnel. I wonder how I will come down from this mountain and am doing the inner work to prepare for how I want to emerge from this. 

That’s where I am now. Submissions are still open and will stay open. I invite you to join the 26 people who have submitted. To dive into this space with me and make the time for yourself to write and create. We publish everything and perfection is not required. 

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter 26; Is it worth it?

The impossible mathematics of empathy and responsibility have me doing mental / ethical jumping jacks daily. As we wait for vaccine rollout to move, the salvation at hand, I wrestle with my upset.

I have to assume we are all doing our best while at the same time critical of what is absolutely necessary. Angry about the frivolity of others in the face of the unseen consequences. I can’t separate the personal responsibility to keep the virus from spreading with my desire for travel and fun. So I’ve been at home approaching a year, organizing my closets, while I see others flying to Mexico, embarking on road trips and just “living life.” I envy their ability to not care. It got me thinking about how life would be easier if I cared less. This pandemic requires us to have empathy on a level our country doesn’t have daily. So I’m not surprised. Am I wrong, I wonder? Should I not care also? I day dream about freedom from consequences - of the possibility of not being responsible for spreading to someone who might loose their life. If I value the life of others, here I sit. Emotional jumping jacks. Is it worth it?

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty Five: Till then, be at peace.

Here at the “end-ish,”of my life (age 94) I’ve seen some things. Enough to know that nothing is permanent. I envy those younger who can justify holing up in their homes until the pandemic passes by. My days cost more at this age. I’ve had to learn to let go of feeling cheated out of company in 2020. Company is the highest currency for the elderly.

I already felt kind of invisible before. Visited a few times a year by family inside my “old folks home.” Just me, my memories and technology I don’t understand. Now, to save my life it’s even less. Can’t say I haven’t fantasized about planning one great last day and saying, “fuck it,” I’ll take my chances with this thing. But I sit here anyway alone in my little bubble. Trying to type this between naps and jello delivered by astronauts. That’s what they look like anyway. Astronauts. My old age is their frontier.

Having lived through a lot, I’ve learned that we are a dramatic species. The world was going to end and has ended many time over while I was alive. Yet, here I still sit.

I can’t pretend like the world won’t end - because something is ending. But life surely will still be here. After all, the organisms terrorizing us in this moment are still a form of life. Efficient little shits, but still alive. I don’t think they care about the resources they are exploiting to replicate and live. So Covid is not unlike ourselves in that way.

We do the same. Who am I to judge what organism does it better?

I have time to ponder these things. Life is just one long jello break, nap and pondering session. My stresses aren’t much. For which I am grateful. I have my tiny room. People wave at me through the windows. I crack jokes at my astronauts. Some days they laugh. Those are the days I know I’m not in any real danger. It’s the quiet days that scare me. I know beyond my four walls, death could be waiting at any time. My astronauts see it. That’s when they get quiet.

I have pity for them. I’ll probably leave this mess behind before it gets worse. I won’t have to clean up the economy or find a way to mourn the magnitude of loss.

Nothing is permanent though. Not even me. That knowledge is a strange comfort. This body has done enough, I’m ready to see what’s next. So I greet this pandemic with curiosity.

I’ve left behind my former material life. It all fits into a single dresser in my room. A few trinkets I couldn’t part with. The rest, I purged long ago. No use leaving a big mess behind for those I love to clean up. Seemed like the kinder thing to do.

There is a freedom in that. In being forced to sit quietly. I’m not wanting my former life. This one doesn’t bother me all that much.

I learned to text so I could talk with my family. I pretend to know what some things are. I used LOL properly the other day and was quite proud. I watch the sun with fascination. Weather the same. I listen to music and marvel at our voices.

At 94 this pandemic taught me peace. I had no choice but to accept that this might be it. Go figure that it took a virus to teach me how to let go.

I send prayers up for all of you. I wish no suffering but hope we collective learn our lessons with this time. The world we built is wrong. It puts too much emphasis on production. I hope you change that. We have enough to share it all and then some. Hopefully this is the great cosmic shift I keep reading about.

Best of luck dear astronauts and I hope to still be here when we celebrate this all being over.

Till then - be at peace.

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty Four : Stacking Soup, an existential crisis. 

They shipped the vaccine and began rolling it out across the world. A tiny pin prick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. With so many hurdles to cross till it is safe to resume socializing with the public - here in the midwest we are settling into the winter. 

The numbers are higher than they were in March but having lived a year in discomfort surrounded by daily updates and death tolls - it somehow does not feel as dangerous. 

I work long hours stocking the grocery store in my neighborhood. I lost my job back in April when they shut down the entertainment industry. I went from making a good living to scraping together minimum wage. It reminds me of college. I don’t have a family and live alone, so I don’t have an excuse not to work any job I could get my hands on. I won’t expose anyone beyond myself. So here I am. Contemplating life between stacking Campbell’s soup cans and dried beans. 

I’ve spent six months learning to enjoy the rituals and schedules of labor. Stacking and unstacking canned goods day after day. With so many people at home, the staples keep flying off the shelves. Flour, sugar, pasta, milk, butter and eggs. We never seem to be able to keep them in stock long enough. 

I take comfort in the supply chain. There is an abundance of food still available. The apocalypse didn’t exactly happen the way I imagined. 

I am writing this into my phone as a note on my break. I wanted to write long before this but the exhaustion of putting this whole experience into words has kept me from doing so. 

Beside, what do I have to write about? 

Who would find value in my story? 

We had a few outbreaks here at the store. One cashier died. I didn’t know her but she had two kids. We all just went on like it didn’t happen. I am not sure how to feel. 

I personally haven’t lost anyone this year. But I am not numb to the death tolls as they climb. They hurt. They hurt more than I am willing to openly admit. I am angry - so angry sometimes I can not sleep. We’ve allowed so many things to happen that we feel are “out of our control.” “It is what it is.” If I hear that phrase one more time I might punch someone. 

Many of these deaths are preventable. Paying people to stay home is possible. Working to get everyone on board with a solution to mask wearing and damage control is a worthy pursuit. 

We could change all of that if we wanted but I fear apathy is the Great Wall of progress. It would mean I’d have to first admit that I cared and then admit that I am scared to do the work to change it. 

OR maybe, it’s just too much work and we want someone else to save us. Like the vaccine. It means I have to wait till other people figure out how to distribute and convince the public to take them. 

So I sit here, stacking cans and wondering how I might have done this differently. I understand that surviving this year is enough of an accomplishment but it feels empty. Self preservation in a time when we need more people to stand up and be part of the solution. 

I stack my cans and keep to myself. I put my social life on hold. I quietly rage watching friends on instagram still traveling, eating out and finding ways to do the things I wish I could be doing. I listen to couples fight over budgets in the aisles. Old ladies counting out pennies to get bread. Toddlers crying because the cereal they like is too expensive now and they can’t have it. I feel it all with the undercurrent of praying I don’t get sick. Every little hiccup is a question. If it does happen, I hope I have the easy kind. That I don’t join the check out woman at the grave and my coworkers carry on without me. By the time the day is done, I am emotionally spent. 

So writing about it all - took months. So what have I learned? 

That there has to be more people like me out there. Wanting to be part of the solution but feeling empty because the best thing anyone can do is what I am already doing. If I am not a scientist or found myself as a leader in charge with lots of power - all I can do is sit. 

Seems simple but it is hard work to sit with yourself day in and day out. To stack soup and write letters on breaks. To talk about my feelings openly and not feel like part of the solution. So I wrestle with it between cream of mushroom and chicken stars. 

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty Three: The Watch

This is the watch of a dead man. He died of Covid-19 a few days ago. My team and I spent multiple hours in sweaty plastic isolation gear trying in vain to save him. I took care of him in ICU for three nights before that. Nothing we did worked, and he slowly suffocated over a week. Two weeks before that he was up on his roof making repairs. He had been a healthy 70-year-old man. In his dying moments, his wife could not be next to him. I held his hand and put my communication badge up to his ear so that perhaps he could hear his wife’s voice through it while his heart beat its last. I’m begging anyone who reads this to take the pandemic seriously. Mask wearing and distancing are not political issues. No one is trying to take away your rights. This is about giving a sh*t about your families, your friends, your coworkers. Your local health care workers are not ok. We are tired. We are emotionally drained. We are breaking. We need your help in this. While the sentiment is nice -- we’re not asking for special recognition, or signs, or pizzas in the break room. What we’re asking for... what we need... is for the public to ease some of the pressure off of the system by making an effort to not fan the flames. No one will argue that this is a simple fix, and we’re all tired of isolating. No one wants small businesses to suffer. No one wants to not see their friends. No one wants to miss holidays with their family... but the next time you consider going to a concert, a crowded church service, or just running in to the gas station without a mask, remember the loved ones you are putting at risk. Remember the army of health care workers putting their health on the line to save you. Please help us help you.

Author: Adam Johnson

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty Two: In the year that never was.

In the spaces between memories and old fashion. 

Soft and slow purge. 

In the dangers that lurk in breath and viral. 

Those covered and not. I sorted the discontent. 

Mine. Not mine. 

When all was done. The piles made. 

I vowed to light “not mine,” aflame. 

Those embers be and so do I. 

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty One: I’m the footnote.

In the US, Covid is spreading at a rate unlike any other country. With a vaccine on the horizon and distribution in the next year - no one cares to save lives while we wait.

I lost my business to the Pandemic. Blood, sweat and tears of a small business owner went up in smoke two months after the PPP support gave out. I had to let go of employees who’s careers I was responsible for. My industry is decimated. No amount of saving could have prepared us to be shut down for a year, now it’s looking like two.

I haven’t slept since. While trying to find the silver lining and let go - I realized today that no one really cares.

As I shuttered our doors, packed up our things. I was the last one standing in the space. It closed without a sound. The place where I poured my time, my purpose, was gone. My story will fade into the ethers that is 2020. Eclipsed by the inertia of the pandemic and the country that chose a stock market over people’s lives.

It has me questioning, like many others - Why did I spend so much time on something that could disappear in a second? When my neighbors invite 20 people over quietly for a "social distant,” evening that is anything but. They don’t care that their actions will close more businesses like mine.

I’ve googled moving to another country. I hear Canada wants to attract new residents to help with recovery. I’m half serious. I’d like to move somewhere where my life matters.

It’s been hard to say the least. It’s been hard to let go. Our hospitals filled up yesterday. I saw them wheel 4 freezer trucks into the parking lot. I assume for all the bodies. It’s serious and yet, out my door - I see no one wearing a mask.

So as I rebuild my life, I’ve decided to scale back. I want to simplify. This pandemic has shown me just how quickly everything can change. A concept I never fully understood until now. I’ve experienced loss before. When 9/11 hit and our phones stopped ringing, we hit some hard times. When 2008 hit and the recession took away my livelihood and almost evicted me, we recovered.

Both those times, I rebuilt in the same fashion. This time, I want to rethink what “rebuilding,” means. I question capitalism’s goals. While some got rich off this pandemic and the rest of us waited in food lines that spanned miles. I am living my very own Grapes of Wrath.

I’ve networked on zoom meetings, meditated on apps. I’ve watched Netflix with friends over my internet browser. Taken up bread making and considered pottery as a hobby. Laughably all the typical things of the quintessential pandemic experience.

I doom scroll my debt. I wonder how a year on unemployment will fair while that interest piles high. I sell things on Facebook to make a little extra. I ration my entertainment spending. I get lean and mean, like the poverty that pushed me to build a business. I know this place. I know what it means to do without. I just haven’t been here in a while.

I curse the neighbors under my breath and wait. I pray I don’t get sick. I pray that it’s over soon. My old life tells me I should be “hustling.” But right now, I dream of a world free from those shackles.

I learn to love the break. I don’t want to go back to the pace I was living before but I miss my old life. I miss my bustling event space, full of life and carefree. I miss community.

I have little advice for the future. There is little I can do to explain how we got here and the work needed to make it better for the next pandemic that sweeps the world. Our society invented money as a social construct - it could invent something new and more equitable. But I fear that will be a war before those in power let go of said power.

Perhaps not. But we’ve written enough dystopian stories in my time that I feel our collective consciousness knows that to be true. So maybe I’ll make it out of this just in time for the revolution. Maybe I won’t.

I’ll be a footnote in your history book, for a term paper project and perhaps this is all you’ll learn about me.

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Twenty: Is there even a pandemic?

It’s the ninth month of March in 2020. Election jitters abound. Social Media plastered with BBQs, restaurant nights out, birthday parties and travel of others. We’ve been limiting anything indoors but seeing others doing things we were warned not to do: Is there even a pandemic?

This from the same social media that brings conspiracy theories, promotes hate bots from other countries sewing discord and TikTok 5D ascension instructions for the starseeds.

I don’t know what to think anymore.

The 234,000 that have died in my country are barely a footnote. The 100,000 cases in a single day eclipsed by the election. While Europe announces 3-4 week lockdowns to save the holidays - Americans give zero fucks anymore. I don’t know anyone in my first hand circle that is sick but my “know someone who knows someone,” group is starting to show signs of Covid-19 and deaths. 

It feels like it’s getting closer.

I count all my interactions with others in two week increments. I breathe a sigh every time it passes and I am not sick. Hoping that means we are doing it right, but it’s hard to know if it’s time to relax some things. We are no longer washing our groceries, we can take walks without anxiety, travel with precautions no longer feels like a chore. But still not comfortable in crowds or indoors.

Still, I get so angry to see others disregarding the rules. Without clear data on what is actually safe, I feel frozen to make decisions. Soothing anxiety is a full time job. I’ve decided to listen to the doctors and nurses and forget the politicians. I only want to know what to do from the people who are fighting this disease. 

Winter scares me.

This whole thing has brought out my relationship to my own fear and needing to control my environment for safety. The historic pains of my poverty still showing their scars even though I am safe and cared for despite these challenges. Interesting that it never goes away.

[lettersfromthepandemic]

Letter Nineteen: Dear Future Generations - October 29th 2020

Dear future generations, It’s six months since I last wrote you. In that time, 44 million cases have spread the world. In the US alone 500,000 new cases just last week. The news of over one million deaths spread with a whimper. I am not the same person I was when this started. 

I have done all I can to follow the advice of the WHO. Mask wearing, distancing and no one inside our home that doesn’t live there. To be honest, I don’t dislike the space to be myself outside the pressures of society. While I miss friends, movies and concerts - the release from the grind I was in previously has been rewarding. A gift.

That gift has not been without a cost. As our city is closing restaurants, bars and limiting events for a second time. I fear the next round of closures to small businesses. While I agree that indoor’s without masks is dangerous and closing spaces that pose risks is right, there has been no financial support for those closed spaces since July. I fear for my small business friends. I’ve been quietly sending cash to friends who are out of work, what little I can send, without saying anything. Hoping that it would help among the darkness. Unemployment benefits are 168.00 per week. I don’t know any one with a family that can live on that.

The racial unrest pulses underneath everything. Another man was killed by police this week in Philadelphia, sparking more riots and protests in that city. Here, the neighborhoods hardest hit by Covid are those who have the least among us. Those neighborhoods kept small through decades of discrimination, redlining and racists practices.

In my city, there is no police reform. There have been protests everyday. Peaceful, beautiful outdoor gatherings where people have danced, read poetry and gathered to fight for change. They are not covered on the news. Only the riots. Because everyone wears masks, the spread from these events has been safe. It’s the events without mitigations that have spread the virus more fully.

The president had Covid and recovered, it has vilified his position that the pandemic is almost over. Scientists disagree. The drug he used and is claiming success with is not a cure but a bandaid to save lives. There are only 500,000 doses of that drug available. They will go to the privileged first. To them, it will feel like it’s almost over.

We have settled into our little routines and rituals at home. Setting boundaries with others has been difficult. Family in particular. This situation has forced me to examine how I concede my own boundaries when faced with conflict. I’ve had to learn the art of giving zero fucks.

It’s the first time in my life where I have been forced to defend my health in this way. Where the consequences of staying silent are greater than those of not speaking up. Also a privilege not lost of me. That has been both liberating and exhausting. It’s meant cutting people and events out of my life for safety and nursing my own hurts when bullied for being too strict.

All the while a large third wave is sweeping our country and our hospitals are crying out for the population to listen. This time, there is no campaign to “stay home, stay safe.” People are over it. They have accepted that they might die. The worst, is that acceptance will cause more pain for others. There is no national rally cry. For those like myself, who are cautious - it’s easy to feel gaslighted into lowering standards to peer pressure.

We are fortunate, and have not lost anyone due to the disease but as I study past pandemics. I know that we are in for a long journey. 2021 will be lost to limbo as well. In 1918, it took five years for the virus to run through the population. It wiped out millions before it was over. I think we may be on target for the same. So I am preparing myself to be in Covid purgatory till 2025.

As we prepare for winter, we have purchased a treadmill and begun thinking about how to keep ourselves sane. We’ve bought snow suits to be able to visit friends outside without freezing. My pandemic puppy sits at my feet. She’s certainly kept our minds healthy. I’ll likely start baking bread as it gets colder, I think with a laugh. This evening we are doing a drive through haunted house experience. Because fun and silliness is what gets us through. As the holidays loom, scientists and doctors are warning us that we should not host large gatherings. I can’t see the majority of Americans behaving, so it’s likely by February we will have another spike. 

Living like this is hard but it’s crazy to me that more and more people are willing to roll the dice. Perhaps I will survive the virus, but I could spread it to those who won’t. That simple fact is what keeps me cautious. I care. I remind myself of that while I see friends getting on airplanes and flying away for vacations - to the three countries our passport works in - dining inside at restaurants, hosting parties, working events that have maxed restrictions, kids playing sports with no masks and family making fun of me for wearing a mask at my grandmothers funeral.

It’s hard work to care. When others won’t. It’s hard work not to judge others either. I know there are people like me out there. I think the loudest are those throwing caution to the wind, feeling confident they are making the right decision. I know real life is more nuanced in decision making. I take comfort form my doctor and nurse friends who tell me that as long as I use my PPE properly, wash my hands and keep my distance - I will be safer.

And so winter begins. I continue to live in these strange times and pray to not loose loved ones.

To those reading this in the future, looking for answers if you are experiencing the next 100 year virus. I can tell you that life in this space is all about expressing ones feelings and learning to find joy in the smallest places. In the warm furry baby laying over my feet as I type. The candle filling my space with warmth. The comfort in virtual coffee with a friend. A walk in the park. In the tears over the death counts every day. In the fear and anger that swells me a write, dance and paint. In finding small freedoms and spaces to breathe deep, fresh air. In laughter. I fear we are doomed to repeat history over and over until we decide to behave differently. But if you are in a time where there is no global unity and it’s every person for yourself, like it is for me now, know you can find joy. Even when the world is falling apart around you.