Here’s another fine example of showing up being half the battle. I submitted the one and only spooky poem I’ve ever written, which was about my hat. My submission was supposed to go into a box with other submissions from members of my woman-identified film group. The writer of the randomly drawn submission would represent us at this event.
As soon as I got word that I’d won, I knew that I was the only one in the drawing.
I’ve had this scientifically proven to me years ago. I’d attended a workshop where there were 15 giveaways and 16 participants. I was the one who didn’t have her ticket drawn. Case closed.
Not only was this a Halloween event, but also another voting push.
I had already voted weeks ago prior to this event. In between the horror readings, the host kept encouraging everyone to vote if they haven’t already done so.
And yes, of course, this was yet another opportunity to dress in costume.
I’d originally decorated this hat to go along with the “Things Under the Bed” theme at The Austin Writers Roulette.
The sword wasn’t part of the original costume concept.
But let’s face it: what a badass additional accessory!
I bought my ticket to this fundraising drive-in event as if my life depended on it.
Since my mental health received a healthy boost of sanity, who’s to say it didn’t.
After all, once I decided to dress up as Anubis, Egyptian god of the underworld in honor of viewing “Pet Sematary,”
I had a fake existential crisis, “Wait, if I’m Anubis…aren’t I already dead? Or immortal?” Actually, none of the above. I dutifully put on a mask like someone who still had good sense.
Originally, I hadn’t planned to dress up.
Yet, since this event was co-sponsored by WIFT Austin, of which I’m the secretary, I rallied to the call for help. One of the event co-chairs asked if another board member could attend to help her.
Turns out, the volunteers from other organizations assisted her,
so I was there in all my costume glory for moral support, which suited me just fine. She made all the announcements for our organization. The only thing I did was give her two hints about my costume in order to get the audience, who were all sequestered in their cars, to guess who I was dressed as.
The first hint was that I wore jackal ears.
The second hint was that I wore a galabeya. I’d told her prior to our bit that I’d bought my galabeya in Egypt although people from other countries also wear them. So, she gave the crowd an additional hint, saying that Egyptians wore galabeyas.
One guy leaned his head out of his driver’s side window and yelled, “Anubis!”
We were so excited that someone knew who I was that my fellow board member said we’d gift him a free beer and skittles. Hilarious since those things were “free” with the cost of the ticket, but at least I’d save him the trouble of walking to the makeshift concession stand to deliver his prize.
Turns out, I received the real gift.
Once I approached the car, I saw that the winner was one of my former science students! And his girlfriend, who was sitting shotgun, was also my former science student.
Unfortunately I couldn’t hug them, but we were all overjoyed to see one another. He said he knew who I was dressed as the moment he saw me. She said that she knew who I was when I spoke on the mic.
Felt like I hadn’t seen them in years, but truthfully, it had been just a little over a year ago when I’d last seen her at a local film festival where she’d entered her short horror movie. At the time of the shutdown, she’d just wrapped up a shoot as a producer, so at least she was in post production.
I told them about my becoming a one-woman production company, dropping the name of my podcast, CBD & Poetry. He looked it up and confirmed it with me. Is it wrong that I got a little thrill that my former students will eventually listen to my podcast? Nah. It’s 2020.
And just to cement the idea I’ve been quarantined for seven months, I was far too excited that get home in time to STILL watch the newest episode of SNL. Baby steps.
A friend recently invited eight of us to attend a backyard, socially-distanced happy hour with plenty of wine, hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes. Plus, there was a mask requirement until seated. With all that precaution, only five of us RSVP’d.
I arrived first and had my pick of seats in this backyard oasis.
In addition to this loose ring of chairs, there was a trampoline, hammock, and a volleyball/badminton net. Since my friend was a mother of two, having outdoor activities was a must–not that we played any.
The whole evening, it was just the two of us,
which was wonderful since the last time we’d seen one another was at my Leap Day Party way back on the 29th of February of this year back in the old world.
Considering that this event was advertised essentially as a wino party where everything we touched had to be wiped down,
I took the liberty of picking up my own food before heading over. That was an excellent call except I should have ordered more food. Those sliders slid down faster than I imagined.
For a few hours, I could forget. I sipped wine–three different types in all–from my favorite special occasion silver chalice and forgot all about being in a pandemic. Despite the distance of our chairs and wiping down everything in the bathroom after using it. Just two friends catching up with one another.
Like a gamer getting more life for accomplishing a task, I left my friend’s house with additional sanity.
October 13th marked the first day of in-person early voting in Texas.
Even though the first and last days of early voting will be the busiest, I wanted to do my part on the first day. So, let the games begin! Actually, that’s a false signal since game-playing started months ago with the underfunding of the United States Postal Service (USPS). Then the governor decided that there could only be one place to turn in mail-in ballots for each county, regardless of population size, which prompted at least three lawsuits.
The president declared months ago that if voting was more accessible, then no Republican would ever be elected. With that rallying cry, Republicans have executed a number of strategies to suppress the vote, gerrymandering, invalidating mail-in ballots, blah, blah, blah…but wait, what’s this?
Now that the president has trailed in many polls after being hospitalized with what he touted as a hoax, many Republicans who are up for reelection are actually trying to distance themselves from him. It’s like a scene out of the Serengeti. Once the lion is too old to be of use, the lionesses no longer feed him.
The only difference: this King of the Jungle doesn’t realize his trusty minions, who’ve gaslit the general public for four years, have all but abandoned him now that his base has shrank. Yet as long as he can pack in hordes of mostly maskless crowds to cheer on his antics, he’s on top of the world–his own world, that is.
Nonetheless, after working, doing yoga, and eating lunch, I drove to my nearest early polling place, my neighborhood library, to help dethrone him.
At 2:35 I joined the line,
which was shorter than a line for a popular ride at an amusement park but moved faster. As a matter of fact, it moved faster than the socially distanced grocery store line back in March and April, which was a good thing since I’d forgotten my umbrella on that sunny day.
Although I had an ebook on my phone, which I had every intention of reading as I waited, I took in the ambience of being outside and socially distanced from the mixed demographics of races, ages, and physical abilities. Plus, I’d struck up a friendly conversation with the guy immediately in front of me, who was part of the health care community. The great thing about being six feet apart was that we could still talk to one another without yelling.
Nonetheless yelling occurred anyway because we were in a pandemic and it was 2020. A young white guy about four people ahead of me, told the older white woman behind him to put on her mask and stop standing so close to him. She transformed from a jovial conversationalist to belligerent bitch in a split second. The middle aged woman she’d been happily chatting with attempted to talk her down from her rage. She reminded the older woman that they’d been talking so nicely to one another previously, but the older woman just ranted about how the young man shouldn’t have addressed her in such a disrespectful tone. The older woman at least complied with his request, but also continued to rant about all the bullshit she’d had to put up with in her life.
She’d lowered her mask to drink water and forgot to replace it because she was talking to the woman behind her. So, this transformation was a shock.
Fortunately, the line continued its steady progression and I breathed a sigh of relief as the ranting woman quieted down as entered the building. The guy immediately in front of me, complimented the middle aged woman immediately in front of him about how her soothing tone helped defuse the conflict. She confessed to having an 11 year old.
Throughout the brief argument, I wished to make myself smaller, invisible even if I could’ve. All I could think of was, “Will you white people stop arguing before my black ass gets shot?!” One of my fears is that a stray bullet will somehow find me.
In the end, I waited 25 minutes in line and spent about 5 minutes voting. Voting would’ve been faster if the powers that be would’ve allowed choosing a straight party ticket. In a way it was entertaining to think, “You’re fired!” to each republican, starting with the president.
Before exiting the building, I grabbed my sticker, pulled off my disposable rubber gloves and smiled at the significance of exercising my right to vote.
Although the plague prevented me from having a destination 50th birthday getaway, I’ve still managed to have a wonderful, protracted celebration, thanks to family and friends.
Besides, going to dinner the Saturday before my birthday, then taking the day off for my actual birthday and a Zoom celebration with fellow Virgos, my mother and a nephew, I received a few delivered birthday gifts.
First up was a care package from one of my cousins.
First up was a care package from one of my cousins. In addition to lounge wear, and a $25 money order, she also included a $25 gift card to Longhorn Steakhouse. The gift card furthered my pursuit to try a different restaurant every week while in quarantine. I’d never dined at this restaurant prior to the plague, so it was truly a treat to pick up for Friday lunch.
Since I believe in leftovers, I only ate a small part of the steak the first day, but I polished off that lobster tail in one sitting. I enjoyed steak and eggs with fries for Saturday and Sunday brunch.
Next, a good friend who I’ve not seen in years sent an essential oil diffuser.
Years ago, I had a diffuser and when I moved, I donated it for lack of use. This time around, I’ve used the diffuser every day. Can’t go wrong using something that adds to self care while Rona’s here.
Then a delivery person came one day during the middle of my live-streamed yoga class.
I called to my roommate, who was on the phone in her room with the door closed, that her delivery had arrived and continued with class. I felt so bad when she received the package and told me that a friend had sent ME a box scones. What a lovely breakfast treat.
My sister had warned that her birthday card to me would be late.
I didn’t realize that she was making it herself. It arrived heavily taped up.
Once I opened the first envelope, there was another envelope inside the card, containing a crisp $20 bill.
Of all things! Against many warnings not to send money through the mail, her card defied the odds and had made it through the ever-worsening USPS.
Again, I got myself another Friday birthday treat. At that point, October had begun.
Nonetheless, it’s always wonderful to celebrate even if it’s a belated birthday or just the end of the week or beginning of a new month.
A truly unexpected gift arrived the day I bought my grapefruit vodka.
One of my Rouletters sent me a box filled with nostalgia and sentiment, mostly from my show. The T-shirt bore the last three words of one of my poems, describing myself, which he stated served as a reminder of who I am as I enter my sixth decade. The book, which wasn’t officially a birthday gift, was full of pictures of me dressed up while hosting the Roulette. He’d meant to give it to me at the last Roulette, but it arrived at his house afterwards.
Then there were the beads. Here’s the explanation he wrote about the beads:
“These beads go by many names. I first learned the name decades after I got them on my 5-year hitchhiking trip after I got out of the Navy. I was in a grocery store and a woman stopped me and asked me about my Job’s Tears necklace. After decades of wearing them that was the first time I ever heard “Job’s Tears.”
Once I got that, I researched them online. It’s binomial name, Coix lacryma-jobi, also known as “Adlay millet.” It is native to Southeast Asia, but is cultivated in warmer climates around the world , including Southern US. Job’s Tears has many uses, including jewelry, rosaries, rattles, teething toys and musical instruments.
It is the only bead created by Nature Herself. The way it grows the hole is natural. The nature color ranges from a deep brown to off white. The colors are all dyed, which takes some effort. I found them for sale in jewelry, but could not find them in bulk.
I finally found a woman in Soweto, South Africa that was selling by the quarter pound. I bought the 11 bags she had. I made this 300-bead necklace for your 50th birthday. Buddhists and Orthodox Christians both have 300-bead prayer ropes. In Tibet, they are called Vaijayanti Malas mostly used by monks or those on years’ long pilgrimages.”
All in all, these gifts helped in some form of self care: good food, relaxation, humor and prayer. Four things I wish to carry forward for the rest of my life, especially when the entire world is undergoing a shared trauma.
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!
We’ve had runoff elections in the past, but never during a pandemic. The common sense thing to do would be vote online or by mail-in ballot, but as Trump pointed out, if voting became easier to do, no Republican would ever be elected again. Of course, anytime he tells the truth, many rush in to “correct” him. He later regurgitated the party li(n)e: voting via mail-in ballots would increase voter fraud.
There are a few states which allow mail-in ballots without much hassle, but since everything’s bigger in Texas….A lot of confusing legal back and forth ensued as to whether voting by mail out of fear of catching the plague is legal.
In Texas, only three categories of people can vote by mail: voters 65+, voters with disabilities and absentee voters. The second category has caused all the court battles. One side declared that fear of catching the coronavirus if you have pre-existing health conditions or live with someone who does counted as a disability. The other side stated that people couldn’t claim fear of catching the plague a disability–to do so would be committing a fraud. But wait! no one has to prove their disability, so no fraud would be committed.
I took the usual precautions of social distancing and wearing a mask in order to vote. Black women before me endured far more to exercise their right to vote, therefore I carried on the torch. I even brought an umbrella, just in case it was too sunny or raining.
I actually dreaded what I may find at my normal polling place during this unnormal time.
Yet, this was the best outcome.
As I approached, I saw a woman returning from the direction of the main door.
I asked if they’d redirected her to the side door to vote. After confirming my question, I entered after her. At a safe distance, of course.
The volunteer who checked my ID sat behind plexiglass, but I was more interested in the other things on the table.
To the right were popsicle sticks. Yet the real eye-catching items were the finger condoms on the left. The volunteers didn’t call them “condoms,” but I can’t remember the sanitized word they used.
I made my selections quickly since I’d studied before hand.
Yet, the main thing I wanted to do was rush outside and take a picture of my finger condom. One of the volunteers delayed my mad dash to the exit and reminded me to get an “I Voted” sticker. I left the polling place, proudly strutting with the sticker, which promptly blew off my chest into the wind. Hope that wasn’t symbolic of what just happened to my vote.
I’d originally overcropped the picture because after more than 4 months of no manicure,
I couldn’t stand how my hand looked, especially the cuticles. So, I texted the above picture to my family to show off my finger condom–even calling it by that name–and still some family members thought I’d texted them a penis.
Mom thought I was wearing it to “play doctor.” One of my nieces thought it looked strange. And for the family members who thought it was a penis….I assured them that a) I hadn’t had a sex change; b) even if I had, I wouldn’t have whipped it out just to vote with.
The day’s amusement wasn’t all about finger condoms. Since I had just 5 candidate races to vote in, I gave myself more than just the reward of exercising my civic duty. I wanted gifts, based on how many out of the 5 candidates I voted for actually won. So here’s the breakdown of what I’m going to gift myself to celebrate:
Box of ice cream sandwiches
Bottle of Cabernero
Bottle of 1800 tequila
A Plantronics CS520 XD Wireless Headset
BARWING 4D Vibration Platform
For the near-impossible 5 out of 5 winning candidates, I’m going for the first piece of exercise equipment I’ll ever purchase. Since I’m exercising at home every day anyway, I might as well go for something that’ll make my joints feel amazing and is lauded for toning muscles.
Since I saved so much time at the polling place, I went grocery shopping afterwards.
I didn’t realize there was another shortage brewing until I got into the checkout line.
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.
While watching a horror movie, I texted a friend, who had grown up in a home where indigenous medicine was practiced,
about one of the scenes where people were cleansing themselves with smoke from an herb bundle. Sage perhaps? She confirmed my conclusion.
She told me the practice was called “smudging.” People smudged to cleanse the energy when they moved into a new place, or when something bad has happened, or to eliminate negative energy or serious problems. She had me at “cleanse the energy.” Since my roommate and I’ve been sheltering in place, the energy had become stale and emotionally strained.
My friend volunteered to bring me some of her sage the following day. She arrived wearing a mask and I opened the door while wearing mine. Although we avoided embracing one another, it was such a joy to see a friend in the flesh rather than virtually.
She handed me a plastic ziplock bag, which enclosed a short bundle of sage sticks. Even though that was the point of the visit, she stood just outside the doorway and I’d backed up at least 6 ft away and we talked for a while. I would’ve offered to set a chair out on the porch for her to sit, but she was en route to visit another friend who was recovering from surgery.
Following what I’d read about smudging, I lit the bundle of sage sticks and cleansed myself, then I walked around all the rooms in the apartment. Before cleansing my roommate’s room, I asked her if she wanted to be cleansed first.
I believe in prayer and even the power of positive thinking. It’s more challenging when the whole world is undergoing a prolonged trauma though. Every little bit helps. Smudging once a week, daily yoga, daily microdosing CBD & CBG, sleeping 7-8 hours a night. Just as important as the preceding list of self-care, I’m still working from home.
In the past, underemployment has been a source of my insomnia. Despite all my big plans for multiple streams of income, my day job has been my Steady Eddie. I’ve not abandoned hope in those other pursuits. I’ve just slowed down my frenetic pace. I’ve read that being under prolonged trauma, such as this pandemic, drains one’s energy. Instead of being full of untapped energy due to the lack of a schedule, people are zapped of energy. I calmed down and dedicated myself to doing a little at a time until a project is done.
Especially the 156 illustrations I must complete for my third book. Initially, I tried to whip out an illustration a day. Then, I reframed the whole process and considered it a part of self care since I enjoy coloring and painting. Once I scaled back my ambitions, I began truly embracing my shortfalls and mistakes as another creative way to do things. After all, I wouldn’t want every illustration to hit the same note.
With my recent illustrations, I’ve become more efficient with some techniques and have learned some new tricks, especially with shading and highlighting. Cannot say that’s directly related to burning sage. Yet, the atmosphere in my little creative cave hasn’t been unconducive to progress.
I’d drank during virtual book club meetings, writers’ meetings, and other social events.
Yet getting together with other people across the States who I work with was a bit different since I’d never met most of them previously. We’re all customer service reps, called guides, who work from home and set our own hours.
Normally, the supervisors fly into a big city and invite nearby guides and guides who were willingly to fly into town, to work at a makeshift call center. They’d provide special training on the latest system update, but also test it out, so the supervisors could see in real time how it works with a few guides before unleashing it to the rest of the team.
With everyone in self-quarantine, all guides who wanted to participate in this latest virtual guide happy hour, just registered for the Zoom link and for an hour, we all politely chatted like the strangers we mostly were. I purposely set up in front of my rough draft paintings because they are an instant conversation piece. Who can resist what appears to be a quilt of naked people?
I explained that the paintings were rough drafts for my third novel, which of course led to the inevitable question about my first two books. One guide even questioned whether there were two previous books. I happily dashed into my bedroom, retrieved Tribe of One and The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa. I held the books up to the camera. I told the other guides that once this third book was done, I’d change the profile picture on Slack, holding my newest book.
Although I’m not a bourbon drinker, I bought this particular brand because Matthew McConaughey and his wife donated PPE to first responders.
I figured I could put some money in their pocket for that. Plus, I wanted to expand my happy hour selection.
I first tried it over ice with a splash of tonic water and margarita mix.
After going to the grocery store, I filled a goblet with fresh fruit: blueberries, strawberries, and mandarin slices. Then I poured the bourbon over it and let that marinate for about 20 minutes as I prepared dinner. Next I added a splash of margarita mix and tonic water. I called it a bourbon fruit cocktail. Leagues better than my first attempt, but still wasn’t quite a go-to drink.
Then, my roommate hit upon a classic idea: jello shots!
Both a nostalgic and delightful dessert drink. Previously, I’d only used my Korean celadon tea cups for tea, a shot of Baileys, and a midnight snack size portion of trail mix. Yet they were the perfect serving size for jello shots.
The first batch of jello shots were made with dark cherry.
I shared the above picture with one of my friends who summed up her thoughts with two quotes: 1) “Whisky is liquid sunshine.” ~George Bernard Shaw; and 2) “The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” ~Unknown. Although I’d always heard the expression as “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,” which is an old folk saying and references the 1929 novel, The Blacker the Berry: A Novel of a Negro Life by Wallace Thurman. The second batch of bourbon jello shots were raspberry flavor and still delicious.
The bourbon laced dessert I didn’t like too much was the Godiva dark chocolate pudding.
The strong bourbon taste overpowered the chocolaty goodness. Perhaps I hadn’t waited long enough for it to set. Or too much alcohol was used. The texture wasn’t pudding-like. And then there were coconut flakes. I normally love coconut, even with dark chocolate, but with all other things being “off,” the coconut flakes seemed like an out-of-place texture.
I stuck with the jello shots.
At one point, I looked up at the calendar and realized I hadn’t had a happy hour with the “insurance ladies” in over a month. At one point, all of us were insurance agents, but currently only one of us was. Nonetheless, I sent a group text that we were about due for another virtual HH. None of them responded.
Well, fuck me.
Reminded me of the time I was a preschool teacher. At the end of the day, there were about five 3-year olds sitting at the table with me, waiting for their parents to pick them up. I got the bright idea to start a rendition of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” I didn’t get past the first line of the song. No child joined in singing with me and none of them clapped.
At least I laughed at being rebuked by those preschoolers. This felt far more personal.
I calmed myself down and promised not to send another text although I double and triple checked that the message had been delivered. I took several deep breaths and acknowledged that everyone was becoming edgier due to being self-quarantined for over two months.
Then I remembered those preschoolers.
Maybe it wasn’t the request to hang out virtually, talk and drink that was problematic, but the implied obligation to be “happy.” What other catchy phrase can we call it? Discussion Drinking–no. Wine Whining–not quite. Thirsty Thoughts–oh, wait, I hear it now–and no.
The following morning, I DM’d one of my friends who I’d texted, using our workplace messaging system. She told me that she had missed the message since her son had been using her phone to make movies. Yet, she later replied to the group text, stating she’d prefer Saturday, so her hubby could watch the kids.
This prompted another friend to reply that she’s been battling poison ivy–yes, I thought of the Batman villain first–and requested we meet the following Saturday or the one after that.
I’m so happy that I’d calmed myself down and gave my friends the benefit of the doubt for not responding sooner. Not only did I spare myself and my friends a lot of drama that none of us needed, but I struck a wonderful compromise: I had a zoom call with one friend and we’re still working on scheduling a bigger HH.
