Quarantine Diaries Day 240: Refresh

Well the year that was last week is over and done. Where were you when the interminable, uncomfortably close race was called? I was on the couch with my family watching TV. We never watch TV on weekend mornings because my daughter’s childhood couldn’t be more different from my own, except when there’s an early football game or, as happened last week, we find ourselves hooked on watching ballots trickle in from Allegheny County and Maricopa, which, it so happens, is where I grew up. For four nights I stayed up late knowing the results weren’t likely to come in but waiting just the same. I wasn’t prepared for the sun to be shining when I got the news. I wasn’t prepared to be sitting next to my daughter. I wasn’t prepared to have nothing to do but react. Pennsylvania went blue on the map we’d been staring at with horror, disbelief, skepticism, and stupid, impossible hope all week and CNN called the race for Biden. My husband pulled out his phone to make a video and caught my face crumpling when Wolf Blitzer declared Harris the first woman and the first woman of color elected to the office of Vice President. I wasn’t prepared for how much that would mean to me. I couldn’t even touch the possibility with my mind after what happened to Clinton in 2016 and, to a far lesser extent but painful nonetheless, to Warren in the primaries. I don’t know everything women can do, but I know exactly what we can’t do in America in 2020. My husband sent the video to my family on the Marco Polo app. Only my sister responded, eyes and mouth wide with happy screams. We’d been texting all week, morning to night and riding out the anxiety together, sisters in arms on the same side, willing Arizona to flip and then watching it happen, was the second best thing to happen all week, maybe all year.

I was still laughing and crying and cheering when I heard a buzzing rumble, long and low and slow. I thought my phone was going off but it was the neighbors blowing some type of horn. We threw our windows open, too, and cued up Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen–all the victory songs the Trump campaign tried and failed to co-opt. We heard voices–a few neighbors had spilled out into front yards–and I ran out to join them in pajamas and sneakers and a mask. One neighbor explained the horn–a Shofar, or ram’s horn, blasted in ancient and modern Jewish religious rituals, and, in this case, to signal victory and celebration–before heading back inside to call his parents. Another neighbor laughed bitterly and said she wouldn’t be calling hers; her mom loves Trump, and I think her in-laws do, too. She laughed but I know this fact causes pain. I wondered where my parents were, in senses both literal and less so. I’d called my dad on Wednesday but he didn’t call back. I’d called my mom on Friday but it had been tense. She won’t share her political views, which means I never know where I stand. My parents don’t want to take sides. I get it. They have five kids who all vote differently. But not knowing means I’ll never know if they care or even understand how much this means to their daughters or how much it means for their granddaughters. I am close with my brothers but haven’t heard from any of them in a few weeks. It’s normal not to talk to my family on weekends but their silence on Saturday was strange on a day when people were dancing in the streets.

Still needing to be outside, I took my daughter on a hike in the afternoon. We sat on a log in the woods and sang The Star-Spangled Banner, start to finish. We belted it, really, bold and unembarrassed. Nobody walked by, but we wouldn’t have minded if they did; my daughter and I both enjoy an audience. The leaves were mostly gone from the trees so we could see everything coming up the trail, ahead and behind. The woods were filled with golden light and the sun dropped into the side of the sky early because it’s been a long year and the party’s starting late. When we got back into the car, I didn’t want to go back home. I wanted to drive downtown. I wanted to go into the bars so I could pour out of them. I wanted to be with people, popping bottles and hopping around and never sitting down. The streets were open but everything else was closed and it was just me and the seven-year-old, so we went back home. I fell asleep on the couch, a week of late nights and four years of watching my back, watching over my people, waiting for the other foot to drop catching up at last. I woke up to dinner on the table. My husband cracked the Martinelli’s. All three of us made toasts and clinked. We raised our glasses to what we’ve been through, personally and as a nation. We raised nodded our heads to how much we still have to do. We drank to starting this next leg of the race newly inspired and refreshed.

We let our daughter stay up past bedtime to watch Harris and Biden deliver victory speeches. She was giddy from the bubbles and good feeling and couldn’t stop bouncing on the couch and babbling over the TV. She practically bubbled over herself when the Biden and Harris families walked into the stage and started in with the hugging. I watched my daughter watch these families watching the fireworks exploding in the sky, all of us with shiny eyes.

I am not inclined to put Harris or Biden on a pedestal. They were imperfect candidates who disappointed me before they ran and whose administration will surely disappointment me going forward. We the people will need to hold them accountable. In the meantime, I am heaving with relief. I rest easier knowing there is no doubt that the President and Vice President Elect are decent people who love this country and care about the welfare of families other than their own. I trust that they understand the seriousness of the task that lies before them. I believe that they will restore honor to the offices from which they serve. I am confident that they will work on behalf of the people they serve. I pray that the next four years will be better than the last for every single one of my fellow Americans, but especially for the ones who have suffered the most.

The night before the election my daughter had a hard time going to bed. “What happens if Trump wins?” she worried. “Oh girlie,” I reassured her, as she climbed into my lap. “We’ll keep doing what we’ve been doing. We’ll keep taking care of each other and working to make the world a safer, more loving place.” Since then, I wondered if I was wrong to let her in on so much of what’s happening in the world. Maybe I should have done more to shield her from the damage the Trump administration inflicted on so many, and the danger he still poses. Maybe I should have taken a page from my mom’s book and shielded her from the bias of my own beliefs.

Celebrating together this weekend, I tasted the first fruits of raising my child to be politically engaged. I try to teach her respect for her uncles and grandparents that vote differently than we do, mostly because I want her to know that I won’t love her any less if she grows up to believe differently than me. She will never wonder where I stand or where she stands with me. Today, I got another hint that we’re headed in a good direction. My daughter came downstairs and asked me if she could read a page from the book she’s writing for her non-fiction unit at school. It’s called “The 2020 Election!” and the first chapter starts like this: “2020 has been a crazy year. And I’m not making that up.” She dedicated her book to “all the people in the United States.”

Quarantine Diary Day 78: Treading Lightly

The first time I took my daughter out of the neighborhood during the pandemic was May 30 and it was nerve-wracking. I was taking her to The Grove, a nature preserve in Chicago’s northern suburbs with a few miles of easy trails winding through acres of prairie and woods that had recently reopened to the public. I lectured my daughter on the drive up. “You have to listen to every word I say and follow directions. You can run up ahead of me but if I stay stop, you stop. If I say come back, you come back. If there are other people we need to wear our masks and give them lots of space. If there are too many people we’ll need to leave. I need you to do EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY.”

Reader, perhaps you are less surprised than I was that my daughter was not enthused to leave her safe and comfy cocoon of the last 2.5 months to go on a masked nature walk with her rigid and neurotic mom!

I lured her out of the house with honey sticks and a handful of Red Vines from the 3.5 lb bucket that my father-in-law shipped to us without warning, a gesture that was in equal measures ludicrous, considerate, delightful. I also let her put a mask on her stuffed dog, Golden.

When we arrived at the park I was pleased to see only a handful of cars and I triangulated the parking lot so as to put as much as many spaces between those cars and mine as possible. When we climbed out of the car, I wrapped a green paisley bandanna around my daughter’s head and tied it in a rough knot, tied a pink Carhartt for Women (what) “work handkerchief” (double what) around my own face and sprayed us both down with a layer of sunscreen followed hand sanitizer that smelled like gin because we’d ordered it from a distillery. The sunscreen was for us; the hand sanitizer for anybody we might meet on the trail. My daughter sported a backpack with a water bottle and magnifying glass and clutched Golden, in her arms.

She squinted at me over her mask. “When do I get a honey stick?” “When it’s safe, girlie.”

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a family–a heterosexual couple with a toddler and a baby in a stroller–headed for the park. They looked like they might be a little slower than us and that stroller was going to be hard to get around on the narrow trails. I grabbed my daughter’s hand. “Hurry hurry go go go.”

Inside, The Grove was gorgeous. Sun filtered through the leaves dappling the ground. Wildflowers bloomed, resplendent. The wetland pools were thick with green algae, nitrogen runoff from nearby farms. Birds hung around like lazy, oversocialized squirrels, content to let us watch them nest. Bugs buzzed by our heads and flew off before we thought to swat them away. We spotted robins and red-winged blackbirds and mallards and wood ducks and geese and swans and a chipmunk cavorting in a felled tree and turtles sunning themselves on logs and a snake slithering in a patch of dry grass and a black beetle with a red head. We pulled off our masks and sucked honey from plastic straws, sucked air through licorice straws. My daughter declined the fruit I packed to feel like a good mom so I grudgingly ate it myself.

We spotted other people, too. I was prepared to see and most concerned for older people in masks. I didn’t want to put them at risk and I didn’t want to scare them. Mostly we saw moms or moms and dads with young kids. Probably desperate to get out of the house after a long spring with nothing to do. My hunch that the trails would be too small to maintain six feet of distance while crossing paths with another group of walkers was right. Our first encounter with another family we were in the middle of a long wooden footbridge over a wet marsh. When we saw them step onto the bridge at the other end and start walking toward us we turned around and booked it back in the direction we came from, stepped off the bridge and waited for them to pass. We did that several more times with several more families, most of whom were masked to various degrees. When there was no space to step aside, I grabbed my daughter and forced her to walk single file right in front of me, or to stop altogether and press our bodies to the invisible edge of the trail to let the other group pass.

I didn’t see anybody else backtrack to give another group space to walk freely. I didn’t see anybody else grabbing their kids. The first older couple we ran into were unmasked and walked right by us, apologetically but seemingly more concerned about us than themselves. It was a relief to to see that people weren’t running away from us and our homemade masks my unbridled child. Even after it became clear that people weren’t going to lose it if the six foot barrier was breached, I continued to take as much care as I could to ensure that we respected it. I continued to step aside, to stop and wait, to go out of my way to let people figure out whether and how they wanted to enter our space. I wanted people to be comfortable with the risks we were all taking. I wanted to avoid at all costs forcing my risk call on someone else.

After an hour or so of doing this dance we reached the longest bridge of the day. Way over on the other side of the marsh I could barely make out a group stepping onto their end of the bridge. I decided we would wait for them to pass to avoid meeting in the middle and one of us having to double back. They had a long way to go but we had plenty of time. Minutes passed. My daughter and I pointed out the different types of purple flowers lining the path and sniffed a few. We looked at the duck houses in the water. We counted up all the animals we’d seen so far. Eventually I checked my watch. This was taking longer than it should have. Maybe the other group had spotted us and were waiting just like we were at the other end? I peered out over the bridge. Ah. There they were. An entire family had plopped down in the middle of the bridge to eat lunch. They hadn’t even noticed us. This was going to far. “We’re going out there,” I told my daughter. We marched out across the bridge and strode past the family, masks dangling around their necks as they dove into their sandwiches. When we got to the other side and spotted yet another group standing around looking at a map I decided we’d been there long enough. It was time to cede the trails.

Throughout the pandemic, we have been careful but not the most careful. My husband goes out for groceries and other supplies, which we stopped wiping down almost immediately. I have wandered longer than necessary in Target and, on one occasion, the art supply store. We have been considerate but not the most considerate. We have made decisions that put the wants and needs of our family above the safety of others. We drove across state lines to camp with friends, stopping at gas stations and for food along the way. My daughter is going to summer camp. Nevertheless, at every fork in the road, every juncture, every decision point, I have tried to open up my eyes to the people around me, both seen and unseen, and at least consider how my actions might impact them.

Before we left the Grove we stopped at a clearing with a cold firepit and rows of log benches. Usually we trace our fingers along the beetle galleries in the wood but this weekend we weren’t touching anything. Instead we hopped from log to log and talked about bugs. It took a few minutes to realize we weren’t alone. There was a backpack at the edge of the clearing. Down in the grass behind the logs a woman squatted scribbling in a notebook. A little boy skittered with a net around the edges of the nearby pond. Suddenly there was a splash and a yell. The boy had caught something! He ran to show his mom. My daughter, who’d been keen to leave only a moment earlier, was all ears. “Mama, I think that boy found a frog!” The woman overheard and urged her son to invite my daughter to look at his catch. He moved in our direction and held the net out. “Do you want to see?” I surveyed the situation, mom and boy without their masks, boy with his arm stretched way out, both at ease. I nodded at my daughter. “Go ahead.” We added one more sign of life to our tally for the day.