I was adapting to the unimaginable current situation, or trying to.
The coronavirus discombobulation is still difficult for me. I miss my old life and especially miss my former optimism and I-can-roll-up-my-sleeves-and-handle-anything attitude. I know the post-virus world will be different and wonder if this old lady will be able to adapt. As time goes on, my doubts and angst increase.
I realize that everybody in the entire world is affected in some way and that many or most have it a lot worse than I do. Yet my list of places and things that I miss and hope will come back quickly continues to lengthen. I miss my friends and family more, not less, every day. As I have said before, we are a social mammal and need each other. Keeping in touch virtually is a definite plus but I really miss maskless, face-to-face contact. And I hope future social contact will permit hugs and handshakes.
The twin uncertainties — when will it end and what will life be like — keep me more than a bit down. The feeling that I am too old to help create this brave new world in any meaningful way adds to my discontent.
Second, I am upset that systemic racism and police hyper-militarism seem to be part of America’s DNA. The riots and protests that fill our TV screens and newspapers are troubling to see, though the continued protest is heartwarming. The political situation is unbelievable and scary. We are not one nation indivisible ... we are in partisanship hell. Much must be done but it is too close to stalemate from my point of view.
I remember a very much earlier race riot when a just turned 5-year-old little boy asked his mom, “What is a negro? Have I ever seen one?” The startled mother said, “You had Jimmy at your birthday party!” The little boy said, “Is Jimmy a negro? I didn’t notice!”
Children have to be taught to hate, as the masterful lyrics from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical “South Pacific” tell us.
“You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!”
Parents, grandparents, and teachers all have an enormous teaching and reinforcing task ahead. Years ago, when the numbers of teen pregnancy were increasing, parents were urged to face the facts of human sexuality and teach their daughters about birth control and safe sex. I wrote a column telling parents that both boys and girls need to be taught about sexuality and contraception as both are needed for a pregnancy to occur.
Children of all colors, starting with white, need to be taught not to hate. The message from every person and pulpit is simple. We are one people on a fragile planet and we must work together — everybody is needed to change our course.
My third worry? The first terrible wildfire of the season. I live in an area south of the Catalinas and saw a ring of fire as spectacular as the fire in “Valkyrie” for the Wagner fans out there.
At night the fire seemed to be only one mountain ridge away from our house. We asked close neighbors if it was scarier than it looked. Both neighbors said they were staying in place for now, as did we.
However, the next morning we were alerted by the Pima County sheriff that our location was only two streets away from the area now designated Set, the second of the three safety stages: Ready, Set, Go! Because we had a house to go to that was not in the fire path, we grabbed essentials and went. We did not want to be caught in the evacuation crowd.
We were comfortable and cool and had ample food and reading material. I grabbed a bunch of unread newspapers and periodicals before leaving our home. Three days later when we went back home almost all of the reading material had been read and recycled.
But I admit I suffer from the psychological effects of three plagues piling on me all at once. How strange that a new virus, massive racial unrest and a raging wildfire melded in time. Readers: I admit to feeling shaky and down.
The sudden move was difficult but I played a little game with my thoughts. On the drive to the house on Mayfair, I pretended I was going to the Hotel Mayfair, a beautiful resort on a tropical beach.
When I get out of the shower, I usually turn off the ceiling fan while I am wet but at the resort I pretended it was a sea breeze. My psychiatrist daughter assures me it’s OK to pretend, just don’t dive in the driveway pretending it’s an ocean.
My last straw was the realization I suffer from what I call Zoom Incompetency Disorder. I have used Zoom several times for family celebrations and online humanities seminar courses. Each time, I have to learn how to Zoom all over again. Despite frantic telephone calls to advise me, I missed joining the party.
My raging case of ZID kept me from joining my grandson’s innovative, socially distanced drive-in birthday party. My son and daughter-in-law procured a huge movie screen to play a G-rated film for the kiddies and their parents to watch while safely ensconced in a car parked in the birthday boy’s driveway. Parents brought their own liquid refreshments. Sliced cake and goodies were packed in sealed baggies and sanitizing wipes were provided.
I have been assured I will not lose my grandma license but feel sheepish and cross with myself. I realize that for most of my life I learned quickly and forgot slowly. Now, dammit, I learn slowly and forget quickly!
Smoke ended our morning walks. I could not make myself do my exercises. But I assure you I am back to walks and exercise for my physical and mental health. I vow to limit my worries to no more than 15 minutes in my designated “worry chair” and count my many blessings in another “gratitude chair.” I will get therapy for my ZID from somebody younger and much more technically adept than I am.
