quarantine diary -- episode 3: boiling

it was a typically regrettable start to the day.

as is my unfortunate habit, i opened my eyes that tuesday morning, rolled over, grabbed my phone, and opened twitter. the first tweet i saw showed the video of george floyd’s murder. i didn’t watch it. i don’t watch snuff films. besides, i’d seen too many of them cross my timeline before. later that day, i was ashamed to admit to myself that maybe i’d become numb to them.

because we’ve been down this road. there is shock from some. there is despair from others. there is outrage from many. but there is almost never justice. how much energy should i expend when the outcome seemed predetermined? after all, there was still COVID-19 to worry about.

i noted to myself that i was approaching 11 weeks of stay-at-home. the “new normal” still feeling new enough to be uncertain but getting old enough that i was beginning to make an uneasy peace with it. a furloughed fiancée, a rambunctious toddler, and general anxiety over what the next few months might hold was more than enough to keep my mind occupied.

people experience depression in their own way. for me, it’s the opposite of the boiling frog allegory. instead of the heat being slowly turned up, the temperature is gradually turned down. before long, you’re feeling cold, dark, and wanting to hide from everything.

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a couple of days later, i woke up early to take care of the boy-child. he’d just turned 14 months old two days before. i watched him in his crib, bouncing, giggling, and watching cartoons.

and it hurt my heart.

i looked at him realizing that i was going to have to have “the talk” with him. i sat thinking about what i would say. i hoped that i would be able to push the conversation off as long as possible. i worried about what might be the event that would even make that conversation necessary. a former co-worker mentioned he finally had it with his 12-year-old son. i wondered if i would be so lucky as to be able to wait 12 years.

(in this moment, i also longed for a time when “the talk” could only be construed to mean letting him know about sex. that feels so much easier.)

one of the things i’ve been most grateful for in recent months is that he’s too young to remember any of this. it’ll be the kind of thing we tell him about when he gets older. but i’m increasingly worried that it’s stunting his development in ways i can’t imagine. are we stimulating his mind enough at home? how much are we hurting his social development by not letting him near other kids when we go to the park? yeah, it’s just 11 weeks, but when you’ve only been on the earth for 14 months, 11 weeks is a significant chunk of your life.

nonetheless, he has an uncanny knack for knowing when dad’s not feeling right — even if it’s just running over and falling into my chest for a quick laugh and hug before toddling off to create more mayhem. maybe he’s wondered in the last few days why dad wants more hugs. or why dad wants to hold on to him a little longer.

energy comes and goes in bursts. my natural rhythms are off. i sleep less but i sleep harder. friends and family have reached out. some to commiserate. some just to check in. my level of engagement has varied depending on my current mood. all were appreciated, even if i didn’t always know what to say or how to say it.

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i was 13 when rodney king happened. growing up sheltered in a racially-diverse neighborhood of a northern california suburb, the video was the antithesis of what i believed police to be. but the courts would make it right. there was no other option in my mind. police officers were on video beating a defenseless man. there was nothing justifiable there.

moments of disillusionment are most powerful when we don’t realize how emotionally naked we really are. once those layers are stripped, we have the wisdom to protect ourselves.

my experiences have never been so overt. i’ve never been physically assaulted by police or arrested for just being. my experiences have been more run-of-the-mill (if such a category exists for this milieu) — being followed around retail stores or being asked if i “belong” in certain spaces because i don’t look like anyone else there. not enough to spark a full-on rage against the machine. just enough to foster a healthy cynicism and create a pit in my stomach when i see a patrol car.

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if there has been a through-line to the past few months … it’s the economy, stupid. we must trust it. we must save it. it will save us. if only some of us are willing to get sick and die for it. it’s a terrible thing to be made to feel you must support the system killing you slowly or by asphyxiating it, hasten your own demise. at some point, we all fight because just giving up isn’t an option.

that had been a stopping point. attending a protest with a young child at home felt reckless. donating to various funds felt insufficient. elevating voices of the people in the fray, the people who were smarter than me about all of this offered some catharsis. the irony of using the same twitter hellscape that frequently causes self-harm to find a manner of self-healing wasn’t lost. the dude abides.

the issues have existed for hundreds of years. to think that any of us will solve them in days or months is asinine — especially when there are equally-motivated forces working for diametrically opposite outcomes. i can only work for me and those around me.

it means learning. learning more of the history that was haphazardly taught in school, where crispus attucks was a black history month deep cut. it means being able to teach my son as much of it as possible in order to help protect him for what might come his way. think globally, act like the change you want to see from the man in the mirror. or something.

i’m still exhausted. i still can’t sleep. i still flash between sadness, anxiety, depression, and anger. but i feel like i’ve found a path and a new motivation.

and for now, that’s worth moving for.