Living during the COVID-19 pandemic, my thoughts range widely, provoked usually by a report on BBC, an episode of one of the many podcasts I subscribe to, or something posted to Instagram or YouTube. Today it was a post on Instagram about a family of nine undocumented immigrants living in a tiny shack somewhere on the East Coast. Some of them have already been sick but are recovering without the resources of wage income, health insurance, or access to healthcare or the internet.
I'm hearing a lot of both tongue-in-cheek and totally-serious complaints about the boredom of spending so much time at home -- alone or with kids, the inconvenience of not finding favorite products on the grocery shelves, and the cancelation of anticipated social events. All of this is just more of the same in a sense: American exceptionalism and sense of entitlement. The story about the undocumented family opened my eyes and heart to a new perspective.
Via text and email, some friends are focused on the possibility that "something good will come out of all this." My response is that "good" and "bad" exist all the time. All in the assessment of the observer. I live in a large government-subsidized housing complex that I've sometimes pronounced a blessing and other times a curse since moving in several months ago. It just depends on the day...
Speaking of which, yesterday I was reminiscing about my historic home in Mississippi known as "the Yellow Fever House". It was the site of the first yellow fever death in Holly Springs in 1878. I researched the epidemic and loved sharing the history with tourists who stopped by.
Yesterday I thought about the contrast between living alone back then in a house with a history of pestilence and living with a hundred other people now during the current pandemic. Some Holly Springs residents refused to even step onto the front porch of the house, more than a century after the epidemic ended, believing deadly contamination was still possible.
Here at Babcock, some residents are wearing masks and surgical gloves and insisting on riding the elevator alone. Other more carefree or reckless residents continue to share space in a tiny, enclosed smoking pavilion in the garden that allows less than a foot of social distance. And some people have not been seen since the official lockdown -- no visitors; only healthcare professionals and delivery people admitted; closure of front office and furlough of all onsite staff -- took effect in early March.
Yellow Fever set off widespread anxiety, fear, and sadness during its reign. History repeats itself now. The anxiety I feel is mostly dread of how my fellow humans will respond to prolonged isolation and other disruptions to routine the pandemic necessitates. It's now been recommended that Americans shelter in place through the end of April. What will life be like, feel like, sound like here in Babcock and across the nation two weeks from now?
A first hint manifested here late last night. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted into my apartment. Someone has decided life is sufficiently offtrack to justify defying the no-smoking policy.
I'm hearing a lot of both tongue-in-cheek and totally-serious complaints about the boredom of spending so much time at home -- alone or with kids, the inconvenience of not finding favorite products on the grocery shelves, and the cancelation of anticipated social events. All of this is just more of the same in a sense: American exceptionalism and sense of entitlement. The story about the undocumented family opened my eyes and heart to a new perspective.
Speaking of which, yesterday I was reminiscing about my historic home in Mississippi known as "the Yellow Fever House". It was the site of the first yellow fever death in Holly Springs in 1878. I researched the epidemic and loved sharing the history with tourists who stopped by.Yesterday I thought about the contrast between living alone back then in a house with a history of pestilence and living with a hundred other people now during the current pandemic. Some Holly Springs residents refused to even step onto the front porch of the house, more than a century after the epidemic ended, believing deadly contamination was still possible.
Here at Babcock, some residents are wearing masks and surgical gloves and insisting on riding the elevator alone. Other more carefree or reckless residents continue to share space in a tiny, enclosed smoking pavilion in the garden that allows less than a foot of social distance. And some people have not been seen since the official lockdown -- no visitors; only healthcare professionals and delivery people admitted; closure of front office and furlough of all onsite staff -- took effect in early March.
Yellow Fever set off widespread anxiety, fear, and sadness during its reign. History repeats itself now. The anxiety I feel is mostly dread of how my fellow humans will respond to prolonged isolation and other disruptions to routine the pandemic necessitates. It's now been recommended that Americans shelter in place through the end of April. What will life be like, feel like, sound like here in Babcock and across the nation two weeks from now?
A first hint manifested here late last night. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted into my apartment. Someone has decided life is sufficiently offtrack to justify defying the no-smoking policy.
