On COVID and George Floyd and 2020

When the pandemic hit and weekly blogging became a thing, documenting and sharing a sample of photographs each week helped me process while also serving as a reminder of the many gratitudes. Everyday nuance kept reminding me to look for snatches of light, momentary wonder. That’s one way I’ve seen beauty, even as COVID-19 continued it’s destructive path.

And then on May 25 George Floyd died at the hands of the Minneapolis PD, and the world bore witness. “Again?” we asked, after Michael Brown and Freddie Gray and Eric Gardner and Philando Castile and Sandra Bland and Botham Jean and Ahmaud Arbery and Beonna Taylor and so many more. George Floyd couldn’t breathe, his airway blocked by the knee of a cop. His death sparked outrage. Black communities took to the streets to protest, joined by allies. I don’t know that we’ll ever know exactly why his death in particular caused many corners of America to stop ignoring the systems built to oppress Black people. I do know that last week I realized I needed to stop, to listen, to believe, to learn, to protest. I and we whose skin is white need to become anti-racist. White supremacy begets white privilege, and both are written into the fabric of this country. They must be dismantled. It’s not enough to have a few weeks of unrest. Laws and policies and people must change. And I have to start with me. You, dear reader, have to start with you. My audience is primarily white, and we have a responsibility to make individual and systemic changes. Silence is complicity. We may make missteps and mistakes in undertaking this work, but we must do the work.

Before George Floyd’s death I did not know it was possible to consider defunding the police, nor was I aware of the implications of qualified immunity. I knew American history is largely white-washed. I knew red-lining was a thing. I knew about mass incarceration. I knew Black women and babies die at vastly higher rates. I knew without making myself KNOW. That is privilege at work. It’s not okay. The work we must do begins with learning with open hearts and ears and eyes: the stuff of being a good listener to an entire population we’ve long marginalized. And as we learn, I hope we can transform the shape of this nation to reflect life liberty and the pursuit of happiness with equity and equality.

For me, that looks like Ty and I participating in an anti-racism course. I’m planning to work through Rachel Cargle’s The Great Unlearn as well. I’ve read I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown and am planning to read White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo and How to Be an Anti-Racist by Ibram X. Kendi. I’m following more Black artists, educators, athletes, and influencers on Instagram. I’m committed to learning. And taking action. Elections in November are too far away to be the sole way change is brought about, though voting is essential. Listen, believe, learn, give. Support Black businesses. Celebrate Black voices. Believe Black experiences. And commit to change. What I will work hard not to do is asking the Black people in my life to help me understand; they are not responsible to facilitate my growth. I share these as ideas in case you don’t know where to start. Police brutality needs to end. Racism’s roots need to be pulled out and destroyed. Black lives matter.

Here are my photos from the last two weeks: a mix of everyday cornavirus life and may-we-never-be-the-same-after-George-Floyd-died. I opted to leave everything in one big post, two weeks of photos, because life is chaotic and messy with beauty right in midst of that mix. And they are my process. I hope maybe they help you with yours.

COVID-19: Week 2-ish

My sister sent a video of my two-year-old nephew this morning . “He all done quarantine,” he said, pointing to a stuffed elephant at his side. Aren’t we all? And yet the second week passed, a Groundhog Day playing out against the hum of Zoom meetings and video calls. We found ourselves with shrunken paychecks and non-existent social lives. Even on the nights I managed to sleep solidly for seven or eight hours, I woke up exhausted.

Still, the week started with an early spring flash of snow, and we stood wide-eyed in the backyard, delighted for a morning decorated white, even as new blooms peeked through. Daily a little more spring emerged, nature reminding us life perpetuates, even in this weirdly shaken state. Watching winter yield to season’s change, as it does, always, gives me hope that this great pause is our own yielding to life, to health.

That doesn’t mean I don’t fear for my livelihood, for the livelihoods of others. In a matter of days my employment reduced substantially. I would fear more, though, if this necessary slowdown wasn’t happening, because the trajectory of the virus indicates we had to stop. Just stop. Everyone, except for those whose lives sustain ours, to whom we are all indebted. So partial furlough it is. Both Ty and I are now working fewer hours, which means we’re doing puzzles and reading. A lot. We get outside every day. I try to stick to limits with the ever-present newsfeed. I’m still running miles. I take out my camera often. That practice became a daily tool when I was recovering from cancer treatment, and I’m finding that rhythm similarly soothing now. It makes me pay attention. In paying attention I find that each day holds room for gratitude and grief, for delight and depression, for anxiety and awe. Our menagerie, sensitive to whatever this change is, bring comfort and levity to this abnormal mundane moment. The vague unknowns are. Acceptance is all that can be done with the ever-curling question marks.

So, I’m doing my best to be present to each day as it comes, because like it or not, we’re not all done with quarantining yet (sorry Freddy and sorry your toddler self is well enough acquainted with that word to use it appropriately). My photos, like Freddy’s elephant, help me process, so I’m sharing them. Maybe they’ll help you too. How are you doing, friends? We’re all in this together, even as we are, for a time, apart.