I was so hyped to vote early in person that the experience inspired me to write a poem–something I hadn’t done during the quarantine months until now. Strangely enough, the poem came to me as what First Lady Melania Trump would do when her hubby lost the 2020 election.
You say you packing up early
'Cause you gotta find a private
School in New York for Baron
But isn't that all your shit in those suitcases?
I see you, Melania
Oh, you say you're talking
To the heads of schools
To see which one you like
But aren't those all divorce lawyers?
I see you, Melania
Oh now you're giving
Extensive notes to your
New personal assistant
But isn't she the tell-all ghost writer for famous people?
I see you, Melania
You said "Fuck Christmas"
Apparently you've given up on "Be Best"
Now say "Fuck white supremacy"
Oh, you're not going to touch that one?
I see you, Melania
A week prior to attending this virtual workshop, I dusted off my one and only script, which I’d edited over a year ago. I’d received a thorough critique with examples of how to improve it, but at the time, I didn’t have the motivation to implement them.
This workshop cured that apathy. With fresh eyes, I reread the suggestions. Nothing impossible with the right attitude. I took my time editing, then submitted the script to be read and discussed by one of the guest lecturers.
Her feedback: Although I had an original idea, she couldn’t follow the storyline because there seemed to be too many elements jumping out at her.
Then, I told her why I’d written Replenish: One of my male friends, who was in his 30s, lamented about how a growing number of young men had watched so much internet porn that they could no longer become aroused in the presence of a live nude woman.
While he wondered what the world was coming to, my first thought was, “Finally, a form of birth control men will actually use! Internet porn birth control.”
She loved that pitch, which was ironic given how two days later, I totally bombed the pitch. The guest lecturer on that day hadn’t read the script. Plus I’d been overconfident in my ability to wing a pitch. Even though I had the outline available to guide me through the major points, without the world building necessary to understand the story, she had to interrupt me to ask questions.
I got lost in the weeds after that. I’d started off well. Although she also agreed that I had an original idea since she’d never heard anyone pitch such an idea, she felt that I’d just grabbed at parts of the story without a clear idea of what I was talking about. Furthermore, since I’d indicated that the narrative was a comedy, she said that I should have described at least two funny moments in the movie.
Another thing I learned, I needed a writing partner. What one participant actually said was that I needed my “Coen brother.”
Since I’d bothered to edit that screenplay after a year, I emailed it to my writing group and another writer for feedback. I got a bite. When I told her the feedback I’d received so far on both the script and the pitch, she offered, “I’ll be your Coen sister!”
SCORE!
Of course, this was the same writer friend who had wanted me to direct several of her scripts, so I see a writing and directing collaboration in our future. Instead of being a one-woman production company, looks as if we’ll be a two-woman powerhouse.
Some people dread birthdays. Not me. Not even during a pandemic. After all, being blessed to spend five decades on this wondrous planet is truly the gift.
Last year, one of my sisters had the bright idea to celebrate the “milestone” Virgo birthdays in 2020 since her youngest child would be 20, I’d turn 50 and Mom would be 80–all within two weeks of one another. Fortunately, none of us had started researching any destination birthday plans since 2020 had ideas of its own.
Even though our birthdays were later in the year, the way The States handled the onset of the plague, cautioned us not to plan anything involving travel. As the weeks ticked by, we jumped on the ever-growing Zoom birthday celebration bandwagon.
Normally, my sister would have bugged me about brainstorming, researching, and planning out such an endeavor, but since I was one of the birthday celebrants, I got off the hook–for the most part. She called me a couple of times to ask technical questions about Power Point.
My only task was make a list of people who I wanted to invite and send an invitation.
In the past, for birthdays that ended in either a zero or five, I’d email an itinerary for at least a 3-day celebration, doing various activities.
That way, people chose which birthday activity they wanted to do. This whole pandemic thing made my milestone celebration MUCH easier to plan, mostly because my sister did the bulk of that heavy lifting.
And yet, I still wanted to celebrate my own individual birthday, especially since it fell on Labor Day like it had when I was born back in 1970 in Okinawa, Japan. My predicted birthday was the 17th instead of the 7th. Let’s just say that Mom ate and drank just like she wanted to since I’d already gestated nine months. On the one day Americans celebrate “labor,” Mom birthed me. Now there’s a Virgo mother for you!
Since the quarantine, I’ve ordered take out from a different restaurant every Saturday. For the Saturday before my birthday, I made reservations for my roommate and I at an upscale sushi restaurant. Even though we were technically still in a pandemic, I felt that people weren’t being as stupid as the months before when there was a rush to reopen without precautions in place.
Two things I hadn’t counted on leading up to my birthday: a trip to the chiropractor and another installment of the leasing office fucking with me.
My 49.9 year old spine had led an adventurous life and needed a little more than daily yoga, CBD and rest. I’d seen this chiropractor for nearly ten years, so the only thing that had kept me away had been the plague. As soon as he adjusted me, my spine smiled.
Another thing I’d done for nearly a decade was reside at my current apartment complex. In that time, the complex name had changed twice, the color scheme had changed more often than that, but even accounting for the pandemic and the revolving door of office employees, this latest iteration of “leasing agents” took the prize.
Out of nowhere, the corporate office emailed, stating that they’d recently audited my renter’s insurance on file. Under the “additional interested party” section, it stated “none,” but should’ve listed the corporate office address, which they provided.
Yet, the part that had me cursing as if I were possessed by demons was this:
“This will need to be updated and sent to us by 9/7/2020 to avoid a lapse fee of $50.00. Please let us know if you have any questions.”
Do I have any questions? On my ACTUAL fucking 50th birthday, I’m going to owe you motherfuckers a $50 fee if I don’t take care of this task, which has NEVER, in the 10 years I’ve lived at this property been required of me? Why the hell would the deadline be on a federal holiday? Did you know that in some cultures, people gift a newly 50 year old $50, not charge them some $50 bullshit fee?
I called the insurer to update the policy. The next day, I called the leasing office. Of course the least competent among them answered. I asked for the most competent, but he told me that she was already talking to someone else. When he gave me the option to wait on hold or discuss my issue with him, I repressed the urge to tell him that he was the reason I had to send a copy of the renter’s insurance policy the second time. I’ll be damned if he fucks this up.
Once on the phone with me, the most competent empathized with my situation. I pressed “send,” so she could open the email that contained my third effort of “sending a copy of my renter’s insurance” to the leasing office since July. She assured me I could enjoy my actual birthday on Monday without worrying about a fee.
“As long as ya’ll don’t turn off the water at the last minute,” I quipped. For some reason, there’s always an emergency water leak that can only be remedied by shutting off the water with very little notice. She agreed barring that, which was beyond her control, I should have a good day. So when, minutes after waking up on my birthday, the electricity blinked out for 30 seconds, I knew the universe had winked at me.
My birthday dinner went over without a hitch.
I only put on lip gloss for this picture, then wiped all of it off before putting on my mask once I parked at the restaurant.
I’m still not sure how to take pictures while wearing a mask.
I know it’s useless to smile, but at the same time, I don’t know how to smile with only my eyes, so I do this weird thing instead. Too much thinking. I should just smile as I normally do, which will reflect in my eyes.
Not that I did much better in this surprise picture my roommate took.
Trust me, by this point, I was still in the throes of a food-gasm. We’d ordered the six course tasting, but as a birthday gift, the chef threw in an extra course.
For dessert, we received what tasted like a luscious Heath candy bar with a dollop of vanilla ice cream rolled in crumbled chocolate along with a glass of champagne.
The last time I had an actual birthday cake was 20 years ago. Yet, my sister wanted me to have a cake with candles because it was part of her “Milestone Birthdays” program. She sent me a link to choose my cake. After looking at all the options, I chose the most beautiful chocolate cake available. When I texted her my choice, she told me that she should’ve set a price limit of $50.
Given the fact that I hadn’t wanted a birthday cake in the first place, this still felt shitty. Nonetheless, I chose a less attractive chocolate cake and kept the grumbling to myself.
Days later, the cake arrived.
My apartment complex had wisely installed a package hub in order to prevent theft. Since the deliverer jammed the package into a compartment that was barely taller than the box, I had to strong arm maneuver it out. Had the deliverer placed the box in the taller adjacent compartment to right, I wouldn’t have had any problem whatsoever. So there I was fighting to get a birthday cake that I hadn’t wanted in the first place, but then had to settle for the second choice and because it was packed in dry ice, appeared to be sweating as if it was doing a lot of work.
After all that, my sister had got me good.
Before I even laid eyes on the actual cake, I’d read the packing list: Red Rose Chocolate cake! I used gloves to place the dry ice into the kitchen sink, which created an eerie effect. Then I took the frozen cake out of its box. Following the instructions, I removed the plastic wrapping, replaced the cake in its box and allowed it to thaw out in the refrigerator for two days until the party.
I called my sister. I’d spoken to her a couple of times between choosing a cake and receiving it.
She was relieved the secret was out. Before ordering anything, she’d found a $15 off coupon. With the cheaper cake, she’d have to pay $35 for shipping, but shipping was free with the more expensive cake. The bottom line: my first choice was only $5 more than my second choice.
Another wonderful surprise: Mom wore a tiara during the Zoom celebration.
We had a pretty good Zoom turn out with around 40 participants although none of my nephew’s friends were on the call.
I properly dressed my cake for the occasion.
Since my nephew had gone to Virginia Beach with his older sisters,
he actually left his birthday cake at home and blew out a candle on a cupcake instead.
One of my candles destroyed itself before I had a chance to blew it out.
Good thing I’m not usually superstitious.
Mom, who’d opted for an ice cream cake, didn’t want to blow out candles,
so she just held hers up as everyone sang three different versions of “Happy Birthday” to us.
This cake was just as sweet and luscious as it looks.
As a child, I loved sweets. As much as I appreciated this cake, I now find it strange to celebrate a birthday with something that may lead to diabetes. Now that’s the half century talking!
“I don’t care if the Earth opened up, swallowed you whole and shat you out in hell!” Namibia growled as she hurried around the living room, gathering her things before fast walking out the front door. The weathered screen door, still in desperate need of a paint job, creaked behind her as she sprinted down the porch steps two at a time. The crunch of loose gravel beneath her vintage cowgirl boots warned anyone within earshot to beware of the runaway woman train.
She opened her grandmother’s hand-me-down pickup truck like she had good sense, slung her things across the front seat, and closed its tricky driver’s side door without a thought, thanks to muscle memory.
As she put the key in the ignition, she used her other hand to wipe inconvenient tears, which blurred her vision.“Come on, Nellie Bell,” Namibia coaxed, using the nickname her grandmother had given the old pickup. Nellie Bell didn’t give a damn about making a quick getaway. Treat her roughly, your ass would be walking.
Namibia’s phone vibrated from within her purse. She shot a look at the house. “Fuck you, Jamal.”
Namibia checked the rearview mirror as she eased Nellie Bell out of the drive way until parallel with his house. She bit her bottom lip, took one more look at that old house, and rehashed his stupid words. “We are over the red line. We all should have fled the country months ago.”
Memorial Day commemorates the men and women of the Armed Forces who have died in the defense of the United States.
Yet, like every other thing existing with the COVID-19 pandemic in the background, even this celebration morphed into the latest wave of international protest.
On Memorial Day 2020, two black men, one in New York City and the other in Minneapolis, both going about their lives in the great pursuit of happiness, entered the most dangerous space known to black people: the mind of a racist.
Avid bird watcher and Harvard grad, Christian Cooper, merely wanted a woman to leash her dog, so it would stop trampling all over the plants–or “plantings” as he called them. (Let the record show that I thought of him as a nerd long before I knew he was a Harvard grad when I heard him talking about “plantings”!)
When the woman didn’t comply with his reasonable request, he took a treat out of his pocket for the dog. His reasoning: most people didn’t like strangers feeding their dog, so they would leash them. At least that was the usual response, but thank goodness he videotaped her response.
Amy Cooper (no relation) reached into her arsenal of white privilege and told Christian that if he didn’t leave her and her dog alone, she’d call the police. She calmly voiced her threat to weaponize the police against an African American man who’d done nothing more than ask her to put her dog on a leash and then offer the dog a snack.
(Side note: I italicized “African American” because Amy made a point to use the politically correct phrase while doing something racist. To which I say, don’t bother calling a black person an “African American” if you’re just going to treat them like a nigger.)
Christian told her to go ahead and call the police.
See, when black people stand our ground, we usually don’t have a gun aimed at the other person. We stand our ground by daring to show our courage and bravely staring down our threats.
With her bluff called, Amy called 911. Her demeanor changed as she displayed her voice-acting skills. She shrieked into her cellphone about how an African American man was threatening her and her dog–all the while Christian was obviously more than the acceptable 6ft of social distance away from her.
The police arrived and, thank God, saw through the sham. After all, both Amy and Christian were still there. No tickets, no arrests, no shooting, no death. The police concluded that two people merely had had a verbal altercation.
Afterwards, Christian reached into his arsenal of social media and uploaded the video. It was the ultimate clapback. Of course the video went viral. Millions of people, especially black people, witnessed the how a white woman, who was fully aware of the potential police brutality against a black man, proceeded all because she could.
The backlash was swift. She lost her job because her employer said they didn’t tolerate racism. She lost her dog. Yes, the same one that she’d rather weaponize the police over than to put a leash on.
The animal shelter insisted on her surrendering the dog so they could place it in a safe home. You see, despite Amy’s insistence that an African American man was threatening her dog, all Christian really did was offer the dog a treat. Amy, on the other hand, had dragged the dog around by hooking her fingers into its collar.
In the aftermath, Amy did two predictable things: she offered a self-serving apology and she declared she wasn’t racist.
Let’s hope her apology indeed made her feel better. So much better that it leads her to read up on systemic racism. And while she’s at it, perhaps she’ll learn that racism isn’t like pregnancy: either you are or you aren’t. No, racism has degrees.
Picture, if you will, a racism continuum. At one end are microagressions such as when a white co-ed during my freshman year in college paid me the insulting compliment, “Teresa, you don’t talk like a black person!” At the other end is first degree murder like when a white gunman carried out his plan to mass murder black people at the African Methodist Episcopal Church in South Carolina. In between is every other racially-biased action such as when Amy voice-acted her 911 call to weaponize the police against a black man.
She, like many white people, don’t view seemingly nonviolent actions as racist. What she fails to see is the “death by 1000 cuts” aspect of her actions. She contributed to Christian’s everyday stress of living while being black. This violence is slow-moving, collective and deadly over time. This constant racial stress has been shown to shorten the life expectancy of black people.
An example of the racism most white people acknowledge as racism occurred on the same day in Minneapolis when George Floyd encountered weaponized police. For 8 minutes and 46 seconds, Officer Derek Chauvin knelt on Floyd’s neck as he agonized about not being able to breathe. With his dying breath, Floyd called out for his deceased mother.
For all who watched this viral video, it was the last straw. Firing the four officers involved was not enough. Even Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey stated in a press conference that if anyone else had done what former Officer Chauvin had done, they would’ve been arrested.
Waves of local protests grew into national protests, which spread into international protests. By that Friday, former Officer Chauvin had been charged with third degree murder. The protests continued. Former Officer Chauvin’s charges were upgraded to second degree murder while the other former officers who had stood by watching him kill an unarmed, handcuffed black man, where arrested and charged with third degree murder. The protests continued. Even when opportunistic looting erupted, the protests continued. Even when some police were brutal with peaceful protesters against police brutality, the protests continued. Even when some police took a knee and marched with protesters, the protests continued.
(Side note: Once I witnessed cops taking a knee against police brutality, the situation had come full circle for me. I instantly thought out loud, “So when is Kap getting is job back?” Lest anyone forget, Colin Kapernick started the nonviolent taking of a knee to protest police brutality.)
Protesters declared that black lives matter even when there were next to no black people in the protest. Around this time, corporations and city councils, those uneasy bedfellows, starting saying that black lives mattered.
Many questioned how a cop could choke a man in broad daylight, with 3 other cops around, and witnesses and videos. The short answer is systemic racism curated over 400 years. Everything in former officer Chauvin’s past experience, what he knew to be true, told him that he’d not receive any serious consequences. He figured he’d not be charged for months if at all.
What he hadn’t counted on was the waterless flood known as COVID-19. What once was, was no longer. The pandemic had already changed the contour of our existence. Anyone under the illusion of things set in stone need only to look at how the Colorado River shapes the Grand Canyon.
The biggest difference, the coronavirus didn’t need millennia to fundamentally change our environment. Infrastructure vulnerabilities revealed. Food and product chains disrupted. Healthcare professionals swamped. Essential workers exposed.
Systemic racism depended on hiding in plain sight. The constant, distracting rat race of existence provided an excellent cover. Lots of stimuli to draw focus in several different directions all at once.
Then–POOF–the frenzy stopped. Without the blurring fog of activity, systemic racism no longer had shadows to hide behind. No denial plausibility of something else actually going on.
So the real debate: what to do when there’s a glaring problem?
Nostalgists long for things to return to “normal.” Realists embrace “the new normal.” Optimists dream of a future better than before. Pessimists dread that the best days are behind us. Conservationists seek new ways to preserve old structures. Revolutionists want to tear this motherfucker down to rebuild with equity.
While all the “-ists” jostle for position, Mother Nature rages on.
On a bright and beautiful Saturday morning during the umpteenth day of self-quarantine, I ventured out to pick up a massage chair my cousin had gifted me. Pre-pandemic, he’d hosted movie nights at his place. I’d had the joy of sitting in that chair while we talked and joked so much that sometimes a movie wasn’t actually shown.
For most of my Zoom calls, I’d rolled in my work chair from my bedroom, where my office is set up, into the dining room. Now, my massage chair is there. Something about a vibrating chair that enhances the joy of drinking. No meeting will ever be dull again.
My cousin warned me that I could time travel (ie fall asleep) in that chair if I wasn’t careful.
I nearly did that once, but at least I wasn’t in a meeting.
“How’re doing?” is usually said as a form of greeting without really wanting to hear any heavy response. Thanks to this pandemic, some people feel bad for asking as if it’s still a superficial question. While I’m not so far gone after seemingly innumerable days in self-quarantine to reply, “You know how the fuck I’m doing,” I have an amusing response:
“I’m sitting in self-quarantine heaven with this massage chair, sipping a glass of Malbec (or margarita), and talking to you.”
May not be much, but it’s something. That’s all most of us are looking for right about now. An amusing distraction, but not too much to cause FOMO. Or make us feel guilty for not doing more. Or any other motivation to invite negativity in.
Prior to many Americans taking the impending pandemic seriously, but just in time to be racist, the mob-mentality overcame some people, who in turn blamed Chinese people for the coronavirus. In practice, racists targeted any nearby Asians. To the point of shunning them on social media, in public and committing acts of violence against them.
Whenever I feel angry about something, I try to respond in a positive manner that is within my reach. No matter how small. So after my Saturday Ashtanga class, I hopped in my car, and ordered Vietnamese takeout, Het Say. If some were being hostile to Asians, then I’d do the opposite. Besides, I genuinely enjoyed that mom and pop restaurant, which was so near to my apartment, my roommate and I would occasionally walk there to eat.
By the following week, no restaurants allowed a dine-in option. Yet, I’d set a precedent the previous Saturday. I easily convinced my roommate to hop aboard to support another local restaurant. Besides, this gave us a reason to leave the apartment. We ordered from Hank’s, a restaurant that had such a welcoming ambience that the consolation was ordering from them to keep them in business. As the employee handed us our to-go orders through the drive-thru window, I joked that it was too bad that we couldn’t order a cocktail as well. He corrected me. Yet, I pointed out that I hadn’t seen cocktails on the online take-out menu. Nonetheless, we got two cocktails to go.
The next Saturday, my roommate chose the restaurant, Salvation Pizza. They allowed us to walk in the restaurant to pick up our orders, but we were very aware to stay 6 ft away from the other customers. I enjoyed talking to everyone more than usual when speaking to total strangers.
Neither my roommate nor I had ever eaten at TenTen’s Nova Kitchen, but since all the proceeds would go to the employees, we supported them that Saturday. My roommate hopped out of the car to get our orders. They politely asked her to return to the car and text them our names for curbside service. Apparently the unlocked front door was only for their use: drivers and curbside food runners.
As more businesses shuttered and a shelter in place order was issued, people weren’t merely losing their jobs, but for some, their health care since it had been a job benefit. There were businesses that were still open, but had not provided health care prior to the pandemic. Now those businesses were in the spotlight. Essentially any business that would put their employees in harm’s way, but not provide at least sick leave, were incentivizing their employees to come to work sick for as long as they could.
Since moving to Austin 11 years ago, I hardly ever ate at a national chain restaurant, but I made an exception for Olive Garden, which was one of the first to announce they were offering sick leave to their employees. They had the most user-friendly websites for to-go orders, offered buy one get one free entrees and when we drove to pick up our orders, they had trays in every other parking space so that no two customers were close to one another. Several employees approached the cars and ran orders to customers. Things looked very well orchestrated.
We put another local favorite in the rotation, Colleen’s Kitchen.
I was so happy that they still operated. By good fortune, this restaurant already had a pickup window prior to the pandemic. I’d been going to Colleen’s ever since they opened. Given their southern cuisine and down home decorations, I’d asked them why they didn’t offer chicken and waffles, which seemed like the only thing missing from their menu. Well, not any more!
Of course I had to order that along with an individually wrapped roll of toilet paper. Like many restaurants, Colleen’s had a supply of toilet paper for its own business use, but without any dine-in customers, they did the next best thing and offered TP on their to-go menu.
Not only that, but I also ordered one of their cocktail kits, which came with chopped fruit,
fresh fruit juice and bottle of sparking wine as well as 4 promotional plastic stemless wine glasses. I’m saving those glasses for an after-the-pandemic celebration out in a park somewhere.
The following Saturday, we ordered from a restaurant that we’d discovered on one of our prepandemic walks. 1618 Asian Fusion, which I’ve blogged about before due to my roommate’s and my long-winded, but hilarious conversation about the origins of the number “1618”. Turned out to be the address. (forehead slap)
By the time we ordered from the black-owned soul food restaurant, Hoover’s Cooking,
the Texas governor had officially opened up some businesses, including dine-in options for restaurants. Hoover’s was still in curbside and delivery mode, which suited us just fine since we were very willing to allow others to test the waters with dining in.
Earlier in the week, a major meat-packing place had closed due to coronavirus infection among the employees. There was a mild panic that we’d go meatless. I normally cook poultry at home, which was why I made a point to order sausage and ribs from Hoover’s. I am an omnivore after all, even though I rarely eat red meat these days. I made an exception this weekend.
And if my lunch plate looked a little light, it’s because I saved room for a slice of heavy cherry cobbler that I’d ordered.
There was a time when I could’ve eaten the entire thing in one setting. Nowadays, I have to limit my sugar intake to a couple of tastes. At least I get to have cherry cobbler for a few desserts.
For the next Saturday, we went to another part of the world: Argentina.
I’d spent my 46th birthday and some other special meals at the Buenos Aires Cafe. Of course, I ordered empanadas, but I still had some other options that I hadn’t tried before such as the grilled chicken and polenta. This restaurant had two sets of doors. As soon as we opened the second set, a small table blocked anyone from entering. Yet, our orders were already bagged up and waiting for us. Now THAT’s service!
Not sure when I’ll feel comfortable with dining in again, but I’ll continue to support one local restaurant every Saturday through my to-go orders.
My earliest recollection of a reoccurring anxiety dream was when I was a preschooler. I had a digestive issue as a young child, where if I ate French fries or “mixed” my food versus eating all of the greens, then all the mashed potatoes, followed by all of my meat, I’d vomit.
The reoccurring anxiety dream at that time was that my maternal grandmother would be strapped to a horizontal circular slow-spinning disk above which were very large sharp blades. Just as they started chopping her up, I’d wake up to vomit. Since I was a child, my dream showed no blood or entrails gushing forth, but the mere suggestion that someone I loved was being chopped up, made me nauseous. I’d wake up from that dream in time enough to run to the bathroom to throw up. Eventually, I outgrew that digestive problem and never had that particular anxiety dream again.
Straight out of college, I went into the Peace Corps to teach math and science in Tanzania. That experience ripped me out of my comfort zone. During that time, the reoccurring bad dream was that my teeth had fallen out. That was probably around the same time I’d started grinding my teeth. The worst of those dreams was after my teeth had fallen out, and then insects and centipedes crawled out of the sockets. As soon as I completed my service, those dreams ended.
I continued being a teacher in other foreign countries, but didn’t have reoccurring anxiety dreams until I returned to the States to teach at a high school in Austin, TX. I can truthfully say that out of all the ridiculous students and parents, nothing compared to the bullshit of the educational system within which I found myself. (That’s another blog post.)
The reoccurring dream during this time and long after was that in the middle of a dream, I’d misplace a shoe, my keys, or car. Then I’d spend the entire dream anxiously wondering around to find the missing item. I’d never find it.
At one point, I got hip to those dreams and would take control of them by manifesting lost item. It felt like cheating, even within the dream, but at least that version wouldn’t reoccur.
So, the latest dream, where I was on vacation with extended family–perhaps on a cruise ship, similar to the one we went on this past Kwanzaa–I needed a pair of flip-flops. Unlike reality, I unzipped a small carry-on, which contained nothing but shoes. I immediately saw the flip-flops, put them on and went on about my day–very unlike my previous got-to-find-my shoes/keys/car nightmares. I actually woke up feeling optimistic. And this was during the beginning of the COVID-19 shelter in place.
These days, I only read into dreams for sport. Sometimes they’re a source of writing fodder. Yet, I’ll take optimism where I can it, especially during this pandemic.
All the creative pursuits on my social calendar dissolved, starting around March 1st. Most were flat out cancelled, but some optimists declared they were merely postponed. Even though I wasn’t going to SXSW, I knew the shit got real when it was cancelled.
Since I already worked from home, I didn’t make any special work-related arrangements. Yet, for both mental and social health, I continued to exercise daily, attend yoga classes and a 60-minute workout class, minus the occasional high-fives.
The yoga studio, which was already pretty good about controlling the Petri dish conditions of the floor, stepped up its game, wiping the counters and door handles more frequently. Then we stopped the pronounced open-mouthed breathing, only breathing in and out through our noses. All ashtanga classes were temporarily suspended since they involved the instructor adjusting us.
The prohibition against not touching other people extended far beyond yoga and exercise classes. Jimmy Kimmel suggested the elbow bump. Trevor Noah did the “Wakanda Forever” greeting.
But hold up, wait! We couldn’t even touch ourselves? Oh, just not on the face? Whew! OK, I could live with that. The fun parts were below the waist anyway. Actually, once we’ve washed our hands with soap and water for 20 seconds, the playground was open for touching ourselves anywhere.
Once the president finally took the pandemic seriously and declared a national emergency on Friday the 13th of March, my fellow Americans did the predictable thing: they made a run on eggs, bread, and milk. Because when we’re faced with a crisis of Biblical proportions, we must make French toast! For some inexplicable reason, there was a run on toilet paper as well. Given the fact that a coronavirus infection didn’t cause diarrhea, I wasn’t sure why the need for all that toilet paper unless it was the side effect of too much French toast.
Unsurprising was the run on hand sanitizer, disinfectant wipes, and masks. For a hot second, prices soared on those items until the inevitable backlash. At least the French toast ingredients remained the same price although limits were placed on how many of some staple provisions could be purchased per customer.
The following Monday after the Friday the 13th national declaration/acknowledgement of the pandemic, I went grocery shopping as usual with my list on my phone. I noticed a few people with kerchiefs on, covering their nose and mouth, but the most telling signs were the nearly empty produce section, no fresh spices, no disinfectants and a total ghost land in the toilet paper section.
Yet, I got everything on my shopping list even though I had to improvise, especially the eggs. I reminded myself to be thankful that I found something eggy. Plus, I found other, slightly more expensive versions of carrots, turkey sausage, Brussels sprouts and boxed wine. At least the collards were cheaper than my original green leafy vegetable pursuit, spinach.
The way I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, started off by watching the news
and hearing about how we needed to socially distance ourselves to prevent the escalation of the coronavirus while at the same time not coming down with cabin fever. Experts cautioned us to keep in mind that social distance did not equal isolation. As a matter of fact, one perfectly acceptable social distancing activity was walking around outside while maintaining 6ft from others.
My roommate and I already enjoyed taking an occasional long walk to a restaurant destination prior to the pandemic. Since our new next-door neighbor worked at an all plant-based food truck that was a good walk from us, we made that our latest eatery destination.
We walked to the location through a drizzle, but food truck wasn’t there. Although we’d passed many other food options, we discovered that most restaurants were temporarily closed. The ones that still operated didn’t allow inside dining. Most only took credit cards, which I totally understood. Cash was germy and required hand-to-hand contact.
According to the various signs that had cropped up like spring rain mushrooms, the only two options were delivery or takeout.
We ordered plant-based burgers to go at another food truck.
En route to home, I had the bright idea to stop by the liquor store to pick up some Irish cream. After all, it was St. Patrick’s Day. My roommate thought it would be wonderful if there was a mint-flavored version, but I told her she need not worry because I had fresh mint, thanks to one of the recipes I’d made that week.
A few days before Friday the 13th, I’d ordered business cards.
With my Etsy logo on the front and my books on the back, I rubbed my hands together, waiting for them to arrive, so I could network the crowd at every event I’d attend.
Well, it was a good thing I love rubbing my own hands together because by the time the cards arrived, I was no longer touching anyone else’s hands, much less handing them anything.
Years before, I’d adopted the habit of daily exercise.
That was my main reason to leave my apartment every day. Unlike the 1918 pandemic, those of us with access to the internet had access to many other things, especially since nonessential businesses had temporarily shuttered.
I found an ashtanga video to follow along with twice a week for the duration of the coronavirus-inspired social distancing. I enjoyed it even though I wasn’t surrounded by other people’s energy. With the patio door open, the warm breezes and far-off sounds of my fellow human beings wafted in.
That woman did the trick! Even though the video displayed a timer, which ran throughout the entire workout, I still found myself wondering when the torture would end. Another thing I liked about the instructor was that she had a real body. Not some surgically enhanced body. Very relatable.
One of my favorite Thursday wind-down activities was doing a weekly crossword puzzle.
(Yes, I always do it in pen!) I wasn’t about to go out just for the joy of getting the free weekly paper. My pre-pandemic weekly routine would have taken me near a stand to get that paper. I downloaded and printed it out instead. Not nearly the same experience, but it sufficed.
The following day, I found a 60-minute Bikram yoga class. Once again, another winning workout. I’d never worked out with a video at home before. Now, I’d experienced three fulfilling classes at home. I’d heard we may have upwards of 18 months of social distancing, so I’d have plenty of practice, turning my living room into an exercise space.
The upside of not commuting to and from a workout class was hitting my my weekly sales goal in 4 days. Everything I made on Friday was just the cherry on the top. Had I started out doing exercise classes at home, I could have saved both time and money. Yet, the biggest downside would have been missing out on the community aspect of attending a class. That’s truly what this pandemic robbed from all of us, second only to the loss of lives.
Prior to the order to shelter in place, I’d asked my fellow yogis to pray that tax day be delayed until June 15th. They all laughed at me. Well, the joke was on them: two weeks after I’d made that prayer request, the government officially announced that tax day was postponed until July 15th. Even better! Now I had more time to make money and pay last year’s taxes.
As the pandemic unfolded, two weeks after the government announcement, my grocery-shopping experience continued to evolve. First, I had no problem finding a parking space. Secondly, I joined the tail end of a queue, standing 6ft behind the person in front of me. Unlike a line at an amusement park, the grocery line moved much faster.
I listened to music with my headphones and snapped a few pictures.
Once I finally got to the entrance, an employee directed me to receive a basket and a wet wipe from another employee. I looked her directly in the eyes and said with a smile on my face, “You’re doing such good job.” She was taken aback at the compliment. I also made direct eye contact and smiled while I said, “Thank you,” to the guy who handed out the wet wipes and baskets. After all, I had a customer service job that I did from home. I knew the stress of working with the general public. At least I could hang up on the assholes.
I searched for any reason to leave the apartment
while also distancing from others even if it was merely walking the long way around the apartment complex after checking the mail. One day, my roommate and I took a short walkabout to mail a letter. Somehow, in the course of progress, public mailboxes had become scarce. I normally mailed things from the leasing office, but it had temporarily closed. So, we mailed the letter at the nearby strip mall, but continued walking down the strip to settle a debate: whether or not the liquor store was still open.
I argued that it was nonessential, so it had to be closed. As we walked the strip, we saw all the temporarily closed establishments, but the pizza joint was open (for delivery or takeout only), the Goodwill was open, and lo and behold! the liquor store was open. Had I any faith that it would actually be open, I would’ve brought money and ID. I was prepared to wait outside since I couldn’t prove my age. (An inside joke for a 49 1/2 year old.) Fortunately, one of the employees recognized me and stated that I looked at least 21. Thank goodness because it was hot outside.
I remarked how amazing it was that a liquor store was considered an essential business. Another employee informed me that the powers that be wanted liquor stores open, so the people who needed alcohol wouldn’t be in another crisis. Unbelievable.
I guess for politicians that was cheaper than universal health care. What I hadn’t realized at the time, even for those of us who didn’t struggle with alcohol, we would drink more along with stress eat.
On another walk to complete a light errand just to get out of the apartment,
I came across a rent strike poster. The City of Austin hadn’t yet declared an anti-eviction policy. During this time, even the federal government was still debating about a one-time payment to select Americans. Some politicians even wanted the country to reopen by Easter rather than provide monetary assistance to furloughed Americans.
As weeks rolled by, car insurance companies offered credits due to their insured drivers who drove less. Students facing food insecurity received meals they would have otherwise eaten at school, delivered via their former bus route. The latest Bond movie announced postponing their release a few days prior to the closure of all the movie theatres. Live TV shows sheltered their TV talents at home, who then had to use their phone or laptop to do their jobs.
With social distancing, I had to research how to conduct an audio interview remotely in order to pursue my podcasting dream. As if I didn’t suffer from enough analysis paralysis. Nothing my little nerdy self loved more than to read up about something and kick the can down the road instead of taking action. I figured most people would agree to a remote interview, but perhaps this would actually help temper people’s cabin fever now that we were all sequestering ourselves.
Originally, I’d planned to step up my podcast production schedule by completing a season’s worth of one-on-one interviews during March. I’d practiced using the USB mics, recording, transcribing and editing enough. The time was ripe to start scheduling interviews and knocking out episodes.
I sent an email blast to several friends who I’d known or suspected had tried CBD, so I could interview them and capture how they first crossed paths with that particular hemp product. Since I’d been in sales for a couple of years, I knew that not everyone would respond. I just needed 12. OK, make that 10. OK, I’ll settle for 8.
Like the rest of the world, I downloaded Zoom and never looked back. The first remote interview was with a friend who was far more nervous about trying new technology than I was. He was comforted by the fact that I was learning that new platform as was he. I requested that he use earbuds so that the audio quality would be better. At the end of the 25-min interview when I’d stopped recording, he laughed. He commented that he hadn’t needed the earbuds at all because he could hear me just fine without them. That was when I learned to double check that a tech nervous person had plugged earbuds/headphones in all the way.
Nonetheless, I had no time to dwell on minor errors. Part of my slow progress to getting my first podcast season together was that, outside of working, I also juggled illustrating for my third book, The World’s Sexiest Dictionary.
I’d bought an iPad in February for the express reason to use a drawing app. What a game changer! I was far more talented with writing than drawing, but that technology turned my feeble attempts at illustrating into something more publishable. All of my rough draft illustrations were very labor-intensive watercolors.
With better technology, they now looked like this:
Again, I didn’t dwell on minor errors.
Despite all of my traditional creative endeavors–writing, podcasting, illustrating–perhaps the most creative thing I accomplished was not marinating in negativity. The skies blued and the gatekeepers’ gates opened up. Every morning before getting out of bed, I envisioned the best way to schedule the day, then attack. Some view adjusting to the changing times as mere flexibility, but creative responses provide options worth pursuing.
I’ve been working on the world’s sexiest dictionary for a couple of years because I’d used a labor-intensive process to illustrate the rough draft pictures. I recently bought a tablet and an app to facilitate illustrating. Total game changer! So much easier than the assbackwards method I used for the rough draft. Yet the rough drafts help with the overall composition and the example sentences.
With an easier process, I can render all the depicted black people with natural hair. Several recent events helped push me in that direction. There’s current legislation concerning hair discrimination. That bullshit has been around for centuries, but only now has gained traction with more diverse representation among elected officials.
A national outrage concerned a black senior at a Texas high school who was expelled because he wouldn’t cut his dreadlocks. The universe conspired with him. Black filmmakers invited him to the Oscars. They were nominated for their short animated film, “Hair Love,” which they subsequently won. Not only that, but they also wanted to help end hair discrimination and normalize natural black hair. Imagine that. Natural black hair must be normalized. Which other demographic in the United States must do that?
So, a few days later when I walked into the women’s locker room where I practice yoga, the first thing I saw was another black woman with a fabulously coiffed Afro. I greeted her since I didn’t want to appear creepy, staring at her hair. I told her about my dictionary project and how whenever I see another black person with natural hair, the visual really stands out to me for creative purposes.
She was so flattered that I considered her hair beautiful because she hadn’t done anything special to it. I think it’s such a woman’s way of viewing herself. Most men walk around thinking they’re the sexiest thing on earth, but we women always feel we have to do something extra special to be beautiful.
Of course we discussed the Oscars and the high schooler who attended because of his hair battle. “Apparently it’s part of his high school curriculum that black students embrace European standards of beauty,” I commented.
At that point, an older white woman who had been getting ready for the upcoming yoga class scurried out. I was then aware that she had found herself outnumbered. After all, we were two black women and a Latina, who was taking a shower but still part of the conversation, with no other white women around. So I figured her temporary minority status made her uncomfortable. At the same time, I thought it was unfortunate that she hadn’t stayed to listen and perhaps learn more about how black people experience life in the States.
When I shared this incident with a friend, another black woman, who was a decade younger, she saw the exiting white woman as a positive result. She concluded that the white woman sensed that black women needed a safe space to discuss an issue and would greatly benefit from not having a white person shut down the conversation or, make it about herself.
After yoga class, I walked into the women’s locker room and spotted some snazzy socks, depicting Nefertiti. I complimented the socks, then looked up to see that it was the same white woman. Yet this time, we engaged into a conversation about decorative, iconic socks, which she’d bought a pack of.
And no, I didn’t get into any cultural appropriation conversations. After all, I’m happy that an African woman, renowned for her beauty, was part of the iconic art socks. Now, to normalize natural African-descent hairstyles….
