We are still in Indiana. It’s amazing how we adapt.
When we first arrived, I felt like an alien being, arriving here from an ocean of collective sorrow. To quit the flattened curve of New York City for the unknown of the road made my chest constrict and my stomach turn. So much had been weathered by so many. We had battened down the hatches. We had followed the directions. We had been diligent, vigilant, militant. Inside their small bodies, my kids have the learned skill of maintaining distance from another body on the street. We did all the things, made all the right moves, all the while saying to the rest of the country: This will be you someday//New York is the canary in the coal mine//This is your future//Take this seriously//You are not exempt
And now.
And now.
Here we all are.
These words are going in a different direction than I intended. But my fingernails are trimmed which makes me type faster, so I let them go. There are many things to be typing fast about. So many things. I have not forgotten any of them. I am carrying them in the space behind my eyes.
Wear a mask. Wash your hands. You are not exempt.
Think of the way your mind works. Think of how you’ve done harm. Get to doing the work of unlearning history, unspooling the thread of your own biases, processing the work white folks need to do to undo hundreds of years of systemic oppression and racism. You are not exempt.
Consider your family first, of course. Then think of the circle beyond that, then the one beyond that, then beyond that. Our actions and reactions to impossible situations, pod-creation, private tutors, schools in castles, ripple out into others’ lives and bodies. You are not exempt.
It’s been nearly one month since we left Brooklyn. Sometimes, I lay in bed in the dark and worry about whether or not my cats will remember me when I get home. This brings a sharpness to my heart, so much so that I have to take a breath to release it. I worry about whether or not my plants will be alive and why that matters so much and if it actually does matter and the conclusion I’ve come to is that yes, it does matter, but also it is ok if they die. Now I’m crying thinking of it all. The continued loss or potential loss or ambiguous loss of it all. I am not exempt.
I lay in the big inflatable bed in the dark. I look at my dad’s aquarium before we turn the lights off. The fish move in small pods, the same-looking fish in the same pods. I wonder about the little catfish that hides in the hollow rock at the bottom of the tank all day. They come out sometimes, usually when no one’s looking. They’re beautiful, spotted and shimmery, silver and black with long feelers. They come out at night to do the work of cleaning in the dark, snacking on extra food here and there, keeping things tidy.
The ache I feel in my heart when I think of my cats feels like the pain of missing my place. New York, I love you, but you’re bringing me down…
I miss you, New York. I love love you, Brooklyn. Who will you be when we come back? Will you remember me when I return?