For the first time in my life, I only had one day off for Thanksgiving. Not really too much of a problem since my present job is super chill and there’s no such thing as a destination vacation for me during a pandemic. Even if I had the time, I don’t have the money.
My original Thanksgiving plans fell through a few days before I’d bought groceries. Although I could have had backup dinner plans, I liked the idea of selfishly spending the entire day just leisurely on my own schedule. Except for the part where I took a virtual yoga class.
At any rate, the sign of the times caught up with me. A few people, who had attended an in-person maskless event where I’d enjoyed myself immensely, had tested positive for COVID-19. So, in a way, things worked out for my selfish celebration. The soonest I could schedule a rapid test was Saturday morning. Honestly, you don’t have to tell me twice to enjoy a day off, work another day, then get two more days off.
After my midday workout, I made my Thanksgiving Day meal: Vegetable Coconut Curry with Tri-Colored Quinoa.
Although I worked on Friday, AKA the notorious “Black Friday,” my coworkers and I joked about being safely at work rather than caught up in all the madness.
As soon as I sent word mid-Saturday morning that I’d tested negative for COVID, I got an invitation for brunch. Fortunately, my schedule was clear.
Once again, no traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Not that I complained. Very far from it. After a selection of cheeses, dips, and chips, I enjoyed a deliciously grilled steak with steamed French fries. Of course, I brought some steak home!
For dessert, there were a selection of digestifs.
I insisted on just getting a “taste” of all of them because I still had to drive home afterwards. My favorite treat was the almond-flavored tequila. Some are too harsh for my palate, but not this one.
My friend gave me a boot-shaped shot glass and kept filling it as if it were a firefighter’s fundraiser.
Fortunately, her son was in town and not driving, so I passed the boot to him to polish off, then I tried the next selection.
At the end of the evening, I didn’t recall that I hadn’t enjoy a four-day weekend. No, I wasn’t drunk. After all these years, I’ve had stressful jobs I’ve loved. Stressful jobs I’ve hated. Unstressful jobs I’ve hated. And finally, I’ve got an unstressful job I like. Not love. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. It’s challenging to match the joy of the best days of teaching to what I’m doing now. It’s close though. This among the things I’m grateful for.
On the first Monday of 2021, I received two things that I’d been expecting for a while, which I hope doesn’t mean my good fortune has peaked too soon. After being in a pandemic along with all its accoutrements, January 4th felt like a holiday grande finale. The government stimulus had been deposited, then later on, I got my Christmas box from one of my sisters. I blamed both delays on the same entity: The federal government. Specifically, the White House-inspired federal government.
USPS had been backed up for months, thanks to the outgoing lame duck president’s beef with Jeff Bezos, which then affected every other thing that depended on the postal service, including mail-in ballots and Christmas presents.
Although I hardly ever ask for anything I want for Christmas since I buy my own gifts, I told one of my nieces she could compensate me for editing all her graduate school essays by sending me Obama’s latest book. Yet, since I was the last one to receive a Christmas box from her family, I’d learned that my niece had given my other sister Obama’s book. I was beside myself. My sister hadn’t done anything that earn that book. Granted, that’s not how gifts work. When I tore off the penguin gift wrapping, I beheld my copy of A Promised Land. Whew…family feud averted.
Since being in quarantine for ten months, that second stimulus payment,
which was half of the first payment, could have arrived a week earlier, but at the last moment, the lame duck wanted to flex a little muscle and demanded more than double the first payment. As par for that reality TV president, it was all for political drama and his personal business gain.
Topping off my fabulous Monday, I had one of the best days at work in weeks. If I were a superstitious person, I’d conclude that my good luck New Year’s Day dinner came through for me. Or those 12 grapes I ate at the stroke of midnight. Just every now and again, it’s my turn to have an exceptional day.
If I’d been absolutely oblivious to the fact that I lived in a capitalist country, I would know it without a doubt with all these offers to buy New Year’s Eve tickets. As if I need to pay money to sit at home, drink my own alcohol while looking at a screen. And for those fatalistic entrepreneurs who actually think that I’d pay the few pennies I’ve managed to scrape up during the pandemic only to spend them on an in-person social event to contract the very virus that’s turned the world upside down, well they can go fuck themselves.
I started planning my NYE celebration a week ahead of time, starting with the menu. This was before I ever bothered to read any of those emails, which advertised NYE dinners for two that ran anywhere from $175 and up. There was no way I’d even pay for half of that tab. Instead, I researched recipes for the auspicious meal I’d have on the first day of January 2021.
For the gold representation, symbolic of wealth, I baked cornbread on Wednesday with my favorite embellishments: creamed corn, two types of cheeses (sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack), green chilies and brown sugar. For the green representation, symbolic of American money, I made a spicy tomato-based collard greens dish on Thursday. Then on Friday, New Year’s Day, I made salmon croquettes. In some traditions, they bake a whole fish. Since this was all edible superstition, I improvised.
As a matter of fact, I even bought green grapes, soaked 12 of them in honey-flavored Jim Beam since some South American cultures eat 12 grapes to make 12 wishes, one for each month, at the stroke of midnight for good luck. The addition of whiskey was my own twist because why not?
For New Year’s Eve, I woke up a bit earlier than the previous work days during the two-week Christmas-Kwanzaa-NYE stretch.
I planned to work half a day only because I hadn’t hit my bonus the day before. There was no way I wanted to ruin my 3-day weekend by logging on just to hit a bonus. Technically, I had until Monday, but I’d worked more than five hours on some days and not made progress toward the bonus. I definitely didn’t want to risk waiting until the last day.
After hitting bonus, I took my regularly scheduled midday Inferno Hot Pilates class, cooked lunch and then popped open my favorite bottle of special occasion red wine, which I planned to polish off within a few hours of slow sipping.
Just before I tuned into the NYE TV show that took me into 2021, I changed into a party dress and put on lipstick and earrings.
At least I can say that I wore my favorite salsa dress once in 2020.
Soon afterwards, I changed into my PJs.
By this time, I sipped the whiskey to liberate my grapes when the time came. At the stroke of midnight, I ate each grape, thinking of a wish. I probably said the same ones more than once because I didn’t write them down first. Nonetheless, we’ll see how 2021 turns out.
2021 began like a normal Friday except I had the day off.
I read, wrote and watched TV until my midday yoga class, then enjoyed my New Year’s Day meal altogether. The only thing I hadn’t cooked were the bacon-flavored black eyed peas. Good enough was good enough, especially when surrounded by homemade deliciousness.
I followed up my early dinner with dessert:
fresh blueberries and honey-flavored Jim Beam salted caramel sauce. May the rest of the year taste as sweet and luscious.
If anyone’s irresponsible enough to tell their kids that Santa’s coming to town in 2020, I just hope they update that creative lie by incorporating how Santa’s visiting everyone’s homes safely during the plague. Of course, the beauty of lies is that they aren’t confined to the truth, so there’s a lot of room for invention.
Unfortunately, there was a superspreading Santa who infected about 50 people at a mall. Just in time for the holidays! Even people who attempted to evoke the spirit of Christmas by mailing off packages early were thwarted. The combination of “monster snow storms,” as nearly every news station called it and the “mission of the century,” another media-spun appellation, which actually referred to the coronavirus vaccine distribution, slowed down the delivery of Christmas packages.
At least I still got my Christmas cooking on.
This was the first time in decades that I was not home for the holidays, so I actually looked up some Christmasy recipes for a change of pace. First up: Butternut Brussels Cranberries and Pecans. Seriously. The main ingredients were all in the recipe name. The worst part was cutting up my hand to dice up that squash. The sacrifice was worth it, though. I baked all the veggies, toasted the pecans in a skillet and put it all together when the veggies were ready.
Next up: Roasted Beet Salad.
The star of this dish had to be washed, rubbed in olive oil, sprinkled with kosher salt then roasted in the oven for nearly an hour. Beets are unattractive vegetables that are absolutely beautiful when cut up. Since I’d worked with them before, I knew to cut them up in the metal baking pan rather than on my plastic cutting board. I mixed fresh squeezed lemon juice with fresh cracked black pepper and toasted sesame seed oil. Then tossed in the baby spinach, carrots, added the beets, and sprinkled feta on top. I loved the beautiful colors. Everything slowly turned purple as I ate this salad.
Technically, I could have logged on to work on Christmas Eve, but why should I tempt Christians to cuss me out? Instead, I got in on some of the cursing myself during my attempt to make figgy pudding, which turned out to be a cake, not pudding–damn Brits! The misnaming of the dessert was the tip of the annoyance iceberg. The aggravation continued as I hand chopped the figs, which stuck to the knife. If I ever make this recipe again, I’ll complete this step the day before and follow Mom’s advice to use scissors instead of a knife.
Grinding the cinnamon and nutmeg, followed by grating the orange peel were comparative walks in the park, but chopping up two mini croissants taxed my hand since it was already pre-fatigued from the figs. The rest of the batter came together easily.
Until I poured it into the bundt pan, which sat in a deep baking pan. Since I had to create a hot water bath, I transferred six cups of hot tap water, two cups at a time, into the pan. Then, lucky me had to lift that entire weighty apparatus and place it into the oven–for 2 hours!
I sipped honey-flavored Jim Beam as I waited for it to slowly cook.
Originally, I needed any ol’ whiskey in order to make the hard sauce. I bought canned salted caramel frosting and mixed in the Jim Beam. Pure perfection. Of course I added a wee too much alcohol for a frosting texture, but certain not too much for the taste nor a “saucy” texture.
By the time the cake was done, I was too anxious to try it.
I waited the requisite 10 minutes before removing it from the bundt pan, but I didn’t bother to let it cool before adding the drunken sauce. Rarely do I encounter a visual hot mess. Again, the two together were delicious. I transferred the cake to another plate, poured the sauce back into a container and placed both into the refrigerator.
In the meantime, the poinsettia chocolate cake I ordered for my parents, my sister and her son, arrived safely on Christmas Eve.
They reported that it smelled and tasted as delicious as it looks, which was a good thing given how much that edible beauty cost!
I had my Christmas morning all planned out, which is why it went sideways straight out of the gates. What was supposed to happen was a virtual 8 AM yoga class, hop in the shower, start my breakfast hash brown casserole, then jump on a Zoom call with my family. What actually happened was 15 minutes into my yoga class, the electricity went out, taking my internet connection with it. Since I’ve been doing Bikram for about 20 years, I knew the routine by heart, but human interaction was gone.
I’d just started to put away my yoga things and gear myself up for a potential cold shower.
Like a Christmas miracle, the electricity returned. I postponed my shower in order to make the casserole. Fortunately, this recipe merely consisted of stirring the ingredients together and grating cheese. Very low prep stuff. I popped the casserole into the oven, then hopped into the shower.
I joined the family Christmas Zoom call a few minutes late, but I didn’t turn on my camera. I don’t like eating over Zoom and I dislike when people, ie Mom, questions about what she sees in the background, which was why I normally sit in my massage chair that has a wall behind it. I ignored requests to turn on my camera before I was ready. As a matter of fact, I had sent a warning text that I’d join the call 30 late since the electricity had cut. Not a soul seemed concerned about that. Nor the fact that I’d managed to join the call sooner than I’d originally anticipated given the electricity hiccup.
I mostly listened in to the call, muting myself while I was eating, washing the dishes and brushing my teeth. By the time I finally turned my camera on, one of my sisters kept trying to wrap the call up. One of my previous complaints during our Thanksgiving family Zoom call was how early it took place. Since they’re all on the East Coast and I’m in Central time, they get an extra hour to get their acts together. Nonetheless, we still started the call at the same damn time. Then, all the sports fans bid their good byes and caught whichever game enticed them off the family call.
On Boxing Day, I packed up a magazine, my favorite specialty wine and leftover breakfast casserole and had lunch with a friend, her husband and fur babies.
This beautiful display was the only time during this whole holiday season I was in the same room with a Christmas tree. All the others I’d only seen on TV.
Ten months under quarantine, but at least I survived long enough to see another Christmas. Perhaps “Santa” will eventually bring my presents, which were sent mid-December. Either way, Rona nor The Grinch has not stolen my Christmas–the spirit of Christmas as been inside me this whole time. At least that’s what all the seasonal movies have told me.
My sister and her family got a jump on the holidays.
They traveled to NC from VA a week prior to Thanksgiving to visit Mom and Dad and to deliver Christmas gifts. Although this group picture doesn’t look too “socially distant,” they kept their masks on and stayed outside during their visit.
My Thanksgiving, on the other hand, began on the morning of, I took an 8 AM yoga class, showered afterwards, complete with washing my hair, then I hopped onto a Zoom call with my family while twisting my locks. The call ended soon after I finished my hair since I had to do my Thanksgiving cooking.
Since my friend was preparing pork chops versus turkey, due to food supply chain concerns, I looked up recipes that would compliment the main dish. I couldn’t decide between “Lemon Ginger Spinach” and “Honey and Balsamic Baked Brussels Sprouts,” so I prepared both of them–after making cornbread, that is. I hadn’t baked cornbread in quite a while. The way I like it is with a cup of butter, hot green chilies, two type of cheeses, whole kernel corn and nearly a cup of sugar. This time around, I used creamed corn and brown sugar.
When I arrived at my friend’s house, the Corgi welcoming crew awaited me.
Those two little sweeties remained calm until I took one step into the house, then the happy barking began. I’m no Dr. Doolittle, but I knew they were excited to see me and wondered why it had been a while since they’d last seen me.
One of my traditions, especially with this friend, is that whenever we’re celebrating something, I bring over a bottle of my favorite speciality wine, Cabernero, which is a full-bodied cabernet infused with habanero peppers. Everyone who hears that description initially thinks the wrong thing, but when I offer them a sip, they admit it’s a delicious spicy red wine. I’ve never taken it to a party and brought a partially filled bottle back home.
So, of course, we started with the wine and a charcuterie board. Her husband joined us briefly before the football game drew him to the sofa.
Two glasses of wine later, we moved the conversation into the kitchen where she prepared an amazing pork chop recipe.
What I had envisioned was fried pork chops, which I would have been perfectly happy with. Yet, what she prepared was a joy to watch as if I were part of a cooking show audience.
She started by frying up pancetta, an Italian bacon that wasn’t smoked. As soon as I tasted it, I knew exactly what that fancy-sounding bacon was: cracklin! My grandmother, Mama Bea, used to serve cracklin for breakfast. When I looked up which part of the pig cracklin came from, the explanation said that it included the skin and underlying fat. The description for pancetta wasn’t that much different. They even included something Mama Bea always joked about: We eat every part of the pig except the oink! I don’t care how fancy other cultures think they are when it comes to pork products, Black people have come up with the same thing. As slaves.
After scooping out the pancetta, she cooked the pork chops, removed them, then fried the yellow apple slices, removed them, then added spices, followed by bourbon and heavy whipping cream. Once the sauce had formed, she reintroduced the chops and apples into the skillet. Quite a beautiful show to behold and wonderful to partake.
Our dinner was rounded out with her delicious mashed potatoes.
My Thanksgiving reflected several cultures coming together.
On Black Friday, my mother’s side of the family had its 79th reunion.
We normally hold our reunion the last full weekend in June, but nothing has been normal in 2020. Everyone who was part of the program logged on 45 minutes early. Since I was the emcee, I logged on and reminded everyone how we had to name ourselves, which was our first and last name, our branch or tribe name, then we indicated which breakout room we wanted to be in.
Our patriarch, Jesse Strange, had 12 children, which we all referred to as the “branches” or “tribes.” Since I descended from my grandfather Floyd B. Strange, I put his first name after mine. The three breakout rooms were “Youth,” “Main,” and “Seasoned.” I put a capital S after my grandfather’s name since that was my age category, 50 and above.
With very few tech glitches, we enjoyed our family,
starting with my opening monologue, then an opening prayer, scripture, a father-daughter gospel song, a brief family history, operational report, achievements, family picture slideshow, a 30-min breakout session, and finally, when we were all back in the main room, a closing prayer.
So many family stories flew around during my breakout session, I wish had recorded that part. Nonetheless, I’m going to follow up with the relatives in my mother’s generation to document as many stories as I can for the Strange Family Folklore podcast. As good as everyone felt at the end of the virtual reunion, I should get a lot of cooperation.
Given the fact that half of my closet is costumes, I could have easily recycled a past character. Yet, the past four years, culminating in the existential crisis time period known as “2020,” inspired me to pull together my art and costuming supplies to devise a new character: Ms. Information the Pseudoscientist.
I decorated my tie dyed lab coat with colorful pieces of sticky foam on which I’d written misinformation.
I had a plethora of bullshit to choose from. I approached the task like a quick write exercise, jotting down the first 12 things that came to mind. They consisted of political and pseudoscientific “alternative facts.”
In the meantime, my roommate, who had no intention of dressing up, instead made a gluten-free version of Depression Era Chocolate cake.
Something in the concoction animated. Cake batter bubbled and spewed over its tins like the oven version of the volcano experiment.
[Turns out, it WAS a chocolate cake volcano! I discovered nearly a week later that the recipe for Depression Era Chocolate cake includes vinegar. I guess spewing cake batter was something that lifted spirits back then.]
Yet, this being Halloween, I reminded her that this holiday was the perfect time to celebrate with a hot mess dessert. She spooned out the delicious baked chocolate confection, topped it haphazardly with whip cream and called it the “State of Black/White Relations in 2020.” A nightmare indeed.
Earlier in the week, I’d tacked up a black flat bed sheet on the wall to cover up my art and provide a background for a Zoom event.
I kept it up, so we could use it as a photo wall.
Our first guest arrived in time for lunch. She brought us brisket that her husband had prepared. We provided the sides, wine, and of course that chocolaty dessert.
I’m not sure if Jello shots are classified as a dessert or an edible cocktail, but I was so excited to make this batch.
I’d bought the largest oranges I could find and cut them in half. Then I used a knife to cut out most of the pulp and finally a spoon to scrape out the rest. Finally, I mixed strawberry-flavored jello with peach flavored vodka and poured it into orange peel cups.
Fortunately, the cups were in a plastic tray since that liquid jello oozed out of one of the cups. I discovered much after the fact that I should have used a handheld juicer instead of a knife, then scraped out the pulp with a spoon. All this meant was that I’d have to make shots again in the near future. Again, a less than attractive dessert on Halloween only adds to the celebration.
In the evening, another friend and her husband arrived with wine and vegan curry.
I knew her dietary restrictions and had made Thai jungle curry the night before. What a difference overnight marination makes! So, we had two vegan curries, wine, art and whatever movie HBO played in the background.
Just so happen that my friend and I were part of the same writing group, but neither one of us had been writing much.
I lifted the black sheet, so they could see the best 25 rough draft watercolors I’d done for my upcoming book.
She expressed an interest in seeing the other 131 rough draft paintings.
I handed her the vinyl envelope with the other paintings and gave her husband my iPad, so he could see the final illustrations.
Adding to the ambiance of the Halloween night, we went outside to view the Blue Moon,
which everyone took great pains to explain that the color itself hadn’t changed. Just meant that it was the second full moon within a month, which occurs about once every two and a half years, hence the expression, “once in a blue moon.”
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.
Lammas AKA “Loaf-Mass” AKA “First Grain Harvest” is a Christian observation in some countries and a Pagan observation in others that occurs on August 1st. I’ve never celebrated it before, but I serendipitously invited myself to a friend’s house on this day, which conveniently enough fell on a Saturday.
Since I sell CBD, I recently started a new promotion: if someone participated in a Zoom presentation about the CBD company I’m associated with, then they’d receive a free 7ml bottle of sublingual CBD.
Initially, I was going to mail her the bottle, but the very next morning, the news reported how the USPS was backlogged. That spooked me. When I texted her that I’d deliver the bottle Saturday afternoon, she told me to come with an appetite. This turned into more than I bargained for.
My friend lives with her two kids, husband and parents.
Since the quarantine, they’ve been taking this pandemic as seriously as I have. Even though I hugged my friend as soon as she opened the door, the only other person I hugged was her husband. Except he hesitated. “Have you been sick?” he asked, crouching as if he’d pounce on me had I said yes. We embraced one another after I confirmed that I’d been healthy, but just to tease him, I fake coughed afterwards.
I only verbally greeted everyone else, but of course I had to take a picture of the little lady of the house. Plus, I made sure to sit in the same spot and I did not use the bathroom. That last part was challenging since I lived about an hour away. Who knew waiting for long periods of time to use the bathroom during those marathon bus rides as a Peace Corps Volunteer was a transferable skill? Lord knows, I didn’t overstay my welcome.
My friend perfected this homemade apple bread recipe during the pandemic.
As a matter of fact, the bread was the only part of the Lammas offering that we ate.
She cut up communion-sized pieces of bread, read a brief description of the observance along with giving thanks for the first harvest, then we all ate a piece of bread. Short and sweet, followed by a sip of strawberry peach mimosa with Proseco–my contribution to the occasion. I didn’t know how this celebration was normally observed, but I knew mimosas went with brunch.
Afterwards, she fixed my plate: a Colombian rice and meat dish with three types of meat.
Heaven! She remarked how that dish was so easy to whip up and I laughed because it would have taken me hours to prepare.
I’d packed my silver chalice, bathing suit and a towel.
This brunch invitation served as a mini summer vacation day trip. I’d not even had a staycation. So, this counted.
Like any true vacation, there was an unforeseen factor: they’d drained their pool for a cleaning, which was just as well since I’d already made up my mind not to use their bathroom and have too much class to pee in the pool.
Nonetheless the drive, the in-person visit, and libations were all vacation-wonderful. No matter how long a vacation lasts, it’s all worth it to temporarily vacate the humdrum of my pandemic quarantine life.
This year, more than any other, I heard my fellow Americans pointing out that not all were freed on the original July 4th.
This wasn’t a new idea to me, but we’re now living in the intersection of pandemic, global police brutality protests and the strong light of truth being shined on systemic racism.
And to counterpoint the highly vocal people about how not everyone was freed, there were also people highly vocal about reasserting white supremacy. Yet, most of us, just want to live our lives, which should never be too much to ask.
The pursuit of happiness for most of us was a convenient opportunity to be outside. After all, The Fourth of July landed on a Saturday. Some working people had a 3-day weekend. Some, such as myself, had a regular weekend. So, regular in fact, one would not have known that Saturday was a holiday–except for the Macy’s Fourth of July TV special.
This was the first time I’d ever heard the black national anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” played during this celebration. Rumor has it, it’ll also be played at the start of NFL football games. The question remains: When the hell will there ever be another football game?
Nonetheless, I continued my Saturday routine with a few tweaks: call Mom; call older sister who thinks she’s my mom; write; yoga; order takeout; watch movie while eating takeout; illustrate while watching TV, including Macy’s Fourth of July.
Rinse and repeat.
Is that depression talking or merely cabin fever? Either way, it’s definitely not “I’m ready to tear off this mask and go running around in a crowd of other unmasked people.” I still value being safe. I even value my Saturday routine. I guess it’s the lack of variation that’s beginning to weigh on me.
