The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 100

Endings

Like a great British tv show, it's important to end a thing before you run out of things to say, before you jump the shark. You shouldn't write 7 seasons if you can figure out how to end somewhere in the middle, maybe at the end of season 2. 

Maybe at Coronacation Diaries post 100.

I've thought a lot about endings, about famous final lines, about how to end a thing that has become, literally, a part of my daily life, a part of who I am as a person. As Holden said, “It’s funny. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.” By putting a part of my heart and soul out there on the Internet, by building a small but loyal following of readers, I have accidentally tapped into something much bigger than me, much bigger than my thoughts or words. 

Because, it turns out that the cliche was right: we are all in this together. Well, maybe not all of us. I'm not going to even pretend that I can connect with the "historical statues matter" folks, or the "never maskers" or the "barbershop or die" crowd, or even the "all lives matter" folks. I'm not even sure that I want to. But I can see the community out there of people like me: people who are trying to do the right thing. People who fail, but then get back up, apologize, and promise to do better. People who care passionately about our country and recognize that "I don't do politics" is a road we will never walk. People who sometimes struggle to get out of bed or accomplish anything of meaning...and who recognize that tomorrow is a chance to get up and try again. People who struggle to connect with the ones they love, who struggle being together, who struggle being alone.

Photo by Edwin Hooper on Unsplash

Tonight, I am alone for *I think* the very first time in 100 days. Michael is out running. The kids are at their dad's. Daughter from another mother is out for the evening. It's just me and the dog, hanging out in my home office/front yard, watching the battery tick down on my Chromebook. It is peaceful, but strange, to be alone after so many days of forced togetherness. 

But these so many days of forced togetherness and so many days of having to put my thoughts into words has helped me to make meaning of it all and to find meaning in each day. And my final thoughts are not final, of course. I will still write, I will still blog, and I will still search and find something in each day that is worth writing about. Even though the pandemic is not over, this particular series has ended--but only to make room for other things that need to be unpacked, that need to be said.

Because I refuse to walk back to the hotel in the rain. I refuse to lay down my brush in extreme fatigue, having had my vision. I will always beat on, boats against the current. But I refuse to be borne back ceaselessly into the past. There is no room for defeat, for getting stuck into the what ifs, for attempting to live and relive the past over and over again, for throwing my hands up in the air and declaring my work here to be done.

There is so much yet to be done. There is so much to do. And if I have learned one thing--one singular thing throughout this whole pandemic--it is that our words have impact, not only in how we frame our message for others to hear, but in how we characterize our days and our moments. The words that we use frame our lives, frame our relationships with others, frame every moment. These words, no matter how poetic or succinct, have the power to change our world.

And now I will go clean my desk.

"Are there any questions?"

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 99

All the Things I Did and Did Not Do

I'm just gonna put this right here and move on: I have not yet cleaned my desk.

I know that I said that I was going to, that it was on the short list somewhere around blog post #5, but it still hasn't happened. I also haven't unpacked the boxes from the great house remodel of 2018.

I have, however, managed to run 3 miles without stopping. It took 45 minutes, or the amount of time it would take to walk 3 miles quickly, but I ran it. I can run 3 miles. This is a thing.

I also can do a chaturanga. I did 4 of them in my circuit training tonight.

I did not finish the 30 day yoga challenge. Daughter from another mother and I got to day 18 and then she ended up with a (totally unrelated) stress fracture. I really want to yoga, intellectually, but I haven't figured out how to get that back into some sort of routine. It's been 99 days and I'm on day 18. I can't claim this one as a win.

 I have established that I write best in my front yard. I have also established that I currently have 32 mosquito bites.

After 3 months sheltering in place, I am closer to my daughter and to my daughter from another mother than I was before this all begin. This is priceless.

I still fight every day with my son. I have a lot of work to do.

I got the garden in before Memorial day. It remains to be seen whether or not anything will grow.

I have tried 7 different brands of hard seltzer. Corona wins. Ironic?

Photo by Leon Biss on Unsplash

I have written 99 blog posts. Some of them have been really good. Some of them have been kinda lame. But I haven't had to post the one I wrote and kept in reserve about mashed potatoes. I've managed to write 99 posts without including the mashed potatoes post. And no, I wasn't drunk when I wrote it.

I have written a lot about Black Lives Matter, about white privilege, about what it means to be white in our country today. And I've gained a lot of readers and a lot of shares. I thinks that we can maybe be part of a movement, a movement of white people, who act for the greater good. I think, maybe, that our voices can make a difference. I think that we can get our heads out of the sand and really work for positive, productive change.

I also lost a union election in my job and I gained a position facilitating the CRWP Remote Literacy Learning Institute. I'm still processing this one, but I know that, in the long run, the people who walk in this world much in the way that I want to walk, they are the people with whom it isn't a popularity contest. I think I maybe came out a winner, even though that loss was incredibly hard.

I did not lose 20 pounds, as planned. Instead, I gained 19. I have to figure this one out.

I have thrown the squeaky hotdog for the dog 1,435 times. I also figured out how to groom him, but I did not figure out how to trim his nails.

I drove to Florida to adopt a cat and ended up spending a week with my dad, getting to know the man who did not raise me, but who always loved me.

I have learned that, although our relationship is not one based on Hallmark movies and Harlequin romances, Michael and I work really well together. If we can weather this together, we can weather anything. This singular fact gives me hope.

I have learned that, although patience is not my strong suit, I have a lot of it. I can do patience. I can build patience. I can have patience.

I'm not sure that I learned what I wanted to learn throughout this whole pandemic thing. I'm not sure that I accomplished the things that I wanted to accomplish. But I know that I am not exactly who I was 4 months ago. And I think that I have learned a lot about who I am, about what matters, and about what is truly important to me.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 98

The New Normal is Nothing But.

This pandemic has done a number on our work lives. I can't speak as to what it is like to be an essential worker through all of this, because I am not one. I haven't lived that, and I wouldn't want to pretend that I understood what that has been like through all of these months. But I have lived working from home and I've watched people I love go back to work and none of this is easy.

For me, personally, teaching from home took on a whole new level of stress and I was even worse (if that is possible) at putting it away at the end of the day. Although I cut the content of I would have been teaching by 75%, just creating and explaining and troubleshooting lessons took forever. And the emails. Oh, god, the emails. Literally, thousands of emails to parents and students, trying to encourage them to participate. And then the daily emails from students asking me to explain an assignment that I had explained in a screencast that they clearly hadn't watched. And then there were emails asking for extensions and emails asking for alternate assignments and finally, at the end, a couple of emails of thanks, thanking me for sticking it out all along and answering all of the questions and working so hard to make it meaningful. Even now, two weeks after school is done, my gut twists a bit and my heart-rate goes up if I open my work email account.

Now that I am on summer break, I find myself putting in 10 hour days, sitting at my "desk" in my front yard, working on various projects. Each day starts with a 4 hour Zoom meeting with CRWP's Remote Learning Literacy Institute, where I attempt to balance facilitating video conversations, text message troubleshooting, Voxer group messages, and a backchannel chat simultaneously. When we finally end the meeting I am so mentally exhausted I can barely string words together. And then, I work on writing projects all afternoon, slowly building a catalog of projects. The "teachers have summers off" thing has always been a myth to me, and this summer is no different. Except that it is. I think it is easier to meet in person, to facilitate in person, to collaborate in person. The addition of keyboards and screens and videos and multiple backchannel conversations all happening at once is emotionally and physically exhausting.

And then I talk to a salon owner, who has just started back after all these months off, and I realize that I don't know the half of it. I don't know what emotional and physical exhaustion really feel like. I don't know at all what it is like to go back to work and try to keep the world I live in safe. I don't know how incredibly stressful it is to try to figure out how to make sure that the chair and every handle and every surface is disinfected. I don't know how emotionally draining it is to try to listen and support all of the various clients coming in, people that I care about, some who I vehemently disagree with. I don't know what it's like when I can't walk away from someone who insists that everything our Governor has done is wrong and all this COVID stuff is just the lamestream media. And I don't know how it feels when I can't convince the person who is afraid, but desperately wants a hair cut, that she will be safe in my chair.  I will never really know what it feels like, in this moment, when I can't please the people who are angry, I can't console the people who are sad, and I can't calm the fears of the people who are afraid.

Photo by jasper benning on Unsplash

I can't truly understand what that is like. I only know my own experiences. But I know that we have to move in this world with all of the compassion that we can find within ourselves. We have to find ways to lift each other up and take care of each other. We have to think about more than our own comfort and discomfort. Because the people around us, providing us services and helping us get on with our lives: they are absorbing all of this emotion, all of this energy, all of this exhaustion, too.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 97

What I Know Now

Photo by Zoe VandeWater on Unsplash

Being an activist is not what I imagined. I had imaged allyship. I had imagined that I would go, I would listen, I would walk in some marches, I would make some phone calls. I would be part of something bigger than myself.

But what I learned was that I needed to shut up. I needed to listen. I learned that I would make horrible, awkward mistakes, centering my own voice in a fight that wasn't about me. I learned that my good intentions can still cause harm. I learned that defending my good intentions really wasn't necessary and definitely wasn't valued. I learned that I needed to shut up and listen. I learned that accomplices were needed. Allies were all well and good, but accomplices, people willing to get dirty in the fight, were what was truly needed at the front line.

I'm not even on the front line. I'm not there in person. I'm not canvassing, making phone calls, sitting in. I'm not protesting; I'm not putting my life on the line for a revolution. There was a rally today, but I didn't go. I had too much on my plate. I held the worth of other things in my life above the worth of this fight. Instead, I stayed very comfortably at home, in my safe space, in my pretty little neighborhood.

But I also know there are things I can do, even when I don't show up to the physical fight. What I can do is use my voice, and my writing. That's what I have. That's what I'm good at. That's how I can be an accomplice, even if I'm not physically on the front line.

As I attempted to become an accomplice, I envisioned what it might be like.

I had envisioned that I would have difficult conversations. There would be angry exchanges on Facebook. There would be mandates from administration to tone it down. There would be accusations of an agenda.

There might even some tense moments during actual protests when I got a little bit nervous, a little bit unsettled. I've experienced police in riot gear. It is terrifying. Maybe I might end up there again someday.

There would be some imposter syndrome. I would feel like don't belong here, like maybe I'm just acting. Maybe this isn't really me, this is just who I wish I was. People might see through my act.

There would be some angry emails from parents because I was indoctrinating their children.

None of this is new. All of this is what I was already used to. These things that I envisioned, I knew I could take, no matter how uncomfortable they were. This fight is worth it.

What I hadn't imagined is that I would be ghosted from groups I belonged to and valued. I would be ghosted from many of my colleagues. I hadn't imagined that they would vocally, vociferously defend a racist white man over the needs and safety of our students. I hadn't imagined that.

I hadn't imagined that I would be talked over so many times by well-meaning white women who wanted to insist that their knowledge was more valid than the lived experiences of People of Color.

I hadn't imagined the latent racism that existed in so many white men, men who would try to hush me, belittle me, tell me to calm down, try to quote Morgan Freeman at me out of context.

And I am still doing so very little. I am not out throwing bricks. I am not out talking to our politicians. I am not out at that rally. I am just pushing back in little ways, on social media, in conversations, at my job, in my freelance work. I wear a Black Lives Matter t-shirt to the store. I dare you to "all lives matter" back at me.

This work is hard, in ways I hadn't imagined.

I was prepared to ask myself hard questions.

I was prepared to grapple with my own privilege, with my own biases, with my own racism. I was even prepared to face and admit the mistakes I made along the way.

I wasn't prepared to deal with the emotional and physical exhaustion of fighting day after day after day. I was so very naive.

I wasn't prepared for how truly empowered the white man is, and how truly self-important the white woman is.

This fight isn't even about me. Even in this blog post, I am centering my experience, my voice, in this fight. But this blog is about me, and this fight comes at a price I had not anticipated.

I have so much work to do. We all do.

If we want to be part of something bigger than ourselves, if we want to truly provoke change, then we have to take the risks head-on. It won't be easy. It never was. We just weren't really trying that hard before now.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 96

A Lot on my Mind

Tonight I have a lot on my mind and nothing is floating to the top. It's been a long day of facilitating tough conversations and sorting data on the side.

Michael and I are outside, stoking the fire for marshmallows later, drinking hard seltzer, listening. The baby birds in the bird house are chirping angrily because we we are daring to sit near them on the patio. Their mama bird darts in occasionally with another snack, but the babies are hangry.

Sam has a friend over from a family in our quarantine circle, a long-delayed sleepover planned months ago. I pitched the tent for them; they built a blanket fort inside. We grilled hotdogs in the chimenea on the patio. Now the boys are inside the air-conditioned house, watching a Star Wars movie.

A family down the hill has a squealing child, running around the yard. Traffic on the road behind us is loud and constant, waves of engine and tire noise. Jet Skis are on the lake, slapping the water and revving their engines over and over and over as they cross and re-cross each other's paths. Somewhere, a bass line is thumping in the distance. A child's voice keeps insisting, "stop! stop! stop!" And the birds are still chirping, their bird house rocking back and forth.

Sometimes, it's easy to forget how different everything is in our world right now. Sometimes, it's easy to forget all of the hard conversations that need to constantly happen, if we are ever going to change our country. On evenings like these, we can just sit in the moment, listening to the birds' consternation. Michael is too close to the bird house. Mama bird is not happy.

If I close my social media tabs, the ignorance disappears. It's just us, sitting here by the fire, on a Friday night in June.

The boys paused the movie and are now roasting great flaming marshmallow torches.

The child down the hill stopped squealing. Mama bird finally fed her babies.

I reopen that Facebook tab and push back on the ignorance some more.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 95

Run up the Big Hill

Although my daughter missed her first "not really a practice but some people will get together to skate but this isn't sanctioned so league insurance doesn't cover it" practice, we did show up today. But, no one else was there. Apparently Facebook is hard and I didn't quite understand what the "not really a practice" schedule was.

We sat on some rocks and waited for about half an hour. It was quiet, and peaceful, and the weather was perfection. Some guys were working out, HARD, running up and down the sledding hill. Women randomly walked by in pairs, dressed in running shorts and running tanks, the summer soccer mom outfit of choice. A youth field hockey team practiced in the skating rink and then got their pep talk after practice. "We are the best team in the league! We will work the hardest! We might not have the most talent, but we have the hardest workers! Go, team!"

When it became clear that no skating would occur, my daughter and I decided to hike up the sledding hill. It was a slog. I was panting like an overweight middle-aged woman by the time I got to the top. #busted. At the top of the hill, we took photos. She restarted her picture a day challenge, since I accidentally erased the entire last year of her life on her phone when I reset it. I took pictures of her taking pictures. #meta.

She's told me some things these last few days. Confided in me. 14 is a tough year. She is going into high school, figuring out who she is, and who she wants the world to see.

These fleeting moments captured in time frozen by a pandemic are incredible and precious. I'm not sure these moments would happen in any other reality.

Sometimes, we are gifted a moment --a chance to run up the big hill, stop at the top, take in the view, and try to memorize the details. This right here, right now is an opportunity.

Let's run up the big hill.

Photo by Schaub Family 

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 94

Musings

As I write my way through this pandemic, the responses have been incredibly supportive and incredibly fascinating. Some readers are right there with me. Some push back, telling me I expect too much or hope for too much. I think that they know that "expect too much and hope for too much" is my middle name. I will own that.

Photo by Yeshi Kangrang on Unsplash

I've already decided that 100 is a good, round number, like bottles of beer on the wall +1. So, the end is closing in on the Coronacation Diaries, and regular weekly or biweekly blogging will commence. I have other things to write, other writing opportunities that I need to explore. It's been a really good run, an incredible challenge, and I have learned so much about myself, about how I am processing all of this, about my friends and family, and about my take on our nation.

Finding a way to put each day into words, and finding something unique in each day gives meaning to the mundane. And the realization that others are using these words to also process this strange time has been empowering, frightening, awe-inspiring. The fact that you are reading this, by choice,  helps me to realize that I am not alone. We are all in this together.

Together, yet apart. Apart, yet together. This has been the common thread. We are all feeling the stress of this pandemic in unique yet similar ways. An oxymoron. A paradox.  Teachers are struggling with how to teach and connect. Parents are struggling with how to parent.. Partners are struggling with how to partner. Workers are struggling with how to work from home. The kids are bored and lonely and frustrated and loving it. Everyone is generally in limbo. We all feel fat. Even when we all are realizing that there are aspects of a slower life that we might want to hold on to, going forward, we all are still mourning our lives, what used to be, what we wished still was. None of us are sleeping well.

And I've also learned that, if I had to be stuck in a smallish cottage on a 35x100 lot for 3 months with 4 pets and 3 tween/teens and a partner, I would choose these people. And if I had to co-parent, I would choose my ex, who has been phenomenal throughout all of this. As I sit by the fire in the chimenea with a glass of wine, laptop open, bats flying overhead, dog awkwardly trying to climb on my lap, partner poking at the fire, traffic echoing in the distance, I really can't complain.

If you are reading this, if you have been reading all along, if you just stumbled into this space today, let me know in the comments, or on Facebook, or on Twitter. What are you observing in your life? What should I write about, in these last few diary entries? What have you learned about life, about yourself, about your family, and what really matters? What would you print on your pandemic t-shirt? What has all of this done to you and your people? And what can we take away from this whole experience, to act better, do better, love better, be better? What will we tell our kids or our grandkids about this time in our lives?

We are all in this together. Apart, but together. This I have learned. This gives me hope.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 93

One Step Forward...

Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

Now that the kids are officially on summer break, I am trying my damndest to help them organize their summer. They can't sleep in until noon every day and watch youtube until 2 a.m. in their squelchy, festering bedrooms. They can't live on Pop-Tarts and Cheez-Its. And they can't snap at each other whenever they venture out of their rooms, like angry vampires, stumbling and cursing and bursting into flames in the sunlight.

Both kids have classes they want to test out of in the fall, which means they are going to have to study this summer. Both kids have band in the fall. I am paying over $550/month for music lessons, so both kids MUST MUSIC. Both kids have sports practice starting back up. Both kids need to go outside occasionally. And both kids need to help out around the house at least once or twice this summer. Good god, their lunch boxes from March are still on the back table. Their backpacks are still full of school. There are 127 shoes by the back door, and I'm fairly certain most of them don't fit.

In short, there are things both kids need to do.

I am working basically full time --more than full time-- between facilitating the summer institute and freelance work. In the in-betweens, I'm trying to put away a thing or do a dish or fold a t-shirt or make a meal. And I'm trying, desperately trying, to get the kids to do what they need to do, for their mental and physical health, and for mine.

I decided that they need to do the following things Monday through Friday:

• Do 1 hour of test-out school work.
• Be outside for 1 hour.
• Clean something, dear god, anything, for 1 hour.
• Do something physical for 30 min.
• Practice music for 30 min.

That's it. That's all I ask. The rest of the day is theirs. The weekends are theirs. For 4 hours per day, just do something healthy and productive. It seemed like a really good plan.

Yesterday, Sam practiced piano for 10 minutes. That was the sum of the checklist total. For both kids.

Today, Sam did some 6th grade math. At 8 p.m. he decided to ride his bike to the park. Score! He can double-dip on the exercise and the be outside! Helena, on the other hand...did not do any of the things. She didn't even make it to derby practice. Instead, she hid out in her room, a disaster of teenage anxiety and emotional exhaustion. Clearly, yesterday's blog post of hope was short-sighted and ill-conceived.

Tomorrow, we will do it all over again. I can only hope that we get a little farther down the checklist, that we get a little bit more done, that we all get a little bit healthier. 

But today, I am feeling like we took two steps back.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 92

By Evan-Amos - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0

Fingers Crossed

The email said, "Looks like we will have something resembling a baseball season this year." Sam's team, the team he was so excited to make, is going to start practicing on Wednesday. It won't be easy. The boys have to somehow stay 6 feet apart. The coaches have to wear masks. There is no sharing of equipment. This is also the year that baseball gets real: you can steal on any base; overthrows can result in home runs; there are only 3 players in the outfield. There are so many drills that the teams need to run and it's going to be really difficult to figure out how to run them at a safe distance. There is no crying in baseball this year. There is also no dugout.

Sam usually plays first base. I'm not exactly sure how he can play first base and stay 6 feet apart. I don't think anyone knows what this is going to look like. But the smile on Sam's face when I told him that practice started Wednesday...I think this feels a little bit like hope.

The Facebook post said, "Hello everyone! LDV/LJV practices are still on hold due to current WFTDA/JRDA guidelines so there will be no formal practices, but we can still get outside and enjoy our skates...If anybody wants a socially distant skate friend you are welcome to join me. I'll bring my training cones and might even lay a sidewalk chalk track if I'm feeling ambitious..." Helena's team, although not back to formal practices, is going to get together and skate.

It won't be easy, trying to social distance and wear a mask and run drills in an outdoor hockey rink. But the smile on Helena's face when I told her that some of her teammates and the adult team were going to get together and skate this week...I think this feels a little bit like hope.

The curve in the state has definitely flattened.

The crisis isn't over; the virus is still out there. We still don't know what the summer holds, or what the fall holds.

But right here, right now, this week, this evening...this feels a little bit like hope.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 91

Almost

Things almost feel like normal. Almost.

I spent the morning writing, sitting in the front yard. A year ago, I probably would have been at Biggby's on a Sunday morning while the family slept in. But the front yard --my home office-- has its own ambiance. The squirrels and the chipmunks gorged themselves at the birdfeeder buffet. I sprayed down with bug spray. My coffee got cold. I wrote for three hours and managed to pound out my demo for the upcoming Remote Learning Literacy Institute that I will be helping to facilitate over the next two weeks. It almost felt like a normal Sunday morning. Almost.

Later, a daughter and I went to VanAtta's to try to find some pepper plants and some corn, the only things I hadn't managed to find when I planted the garden in May. There was an employee there, counting people as we went in, in order to manage the numbers. There was a sign that said "absolutely no one admitted without a mask." I briefly thought that the girl at the door was a former student, but then remembered that I truly am faceblind when people are wearing masks. I have no idea who anyone is, when all I can see are the eyes and hair. Daughter and I looked for plants, but they only had landscaping left; no veggies anywhere. We settled for seeds that will never grow in time, tried to maneuver the cart around the plexiglass guards, raced after the packets of seeds when the wind picked up, and ended up giggling on the way back to the car about the clumsiness and ridiculousness of it all. It almost felt like VanAtta's. Almost.

For dinner, Michael and I decided to venture to the Mayfair. He had run by there earlier in the afternoon, and announced that the roof was open and not crowded. We grabbed our masks, some hand sanitizer, took a deep breath, and ventured out. It was difficult to relax into it at first. Sometimes, after so much togetherness 24/7, I wonder what else we even have to say. Michael was keenly aware of who was wearing masks and who wasn't. I was keenly aware of a lingering sense of guilt, like maybe we shouldn't be allowed to enjoy beers on the roof when the virus is still out there going strong, layered with a sense of exhaustion of the futility of it all, coupled with a profound sense of relief to finally --finally-- be outside, on the roof, having a beer, just like we would on any given night in the summer.  It almost felt like a normal summer evening. Almost. 

Now we are sitting by the fire, ankles coated in bug spray, having a nightcap. The dog is wandering around the yard, a great shaggy adventure muppet. The boxes and bags of returnables glint in the firelight, mountains of unreturned deposits that we'll probably donate in the next few weeks.  The bats are flying overhead; the sounds of cars driving by echo in the distance. The lawn is mowed.  The laundry is not done. I'm ready for the Institute tomorrow. It almost feels like normal. 

Almost.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 90

Recovery is Hard

I broke my ankle December 1st and had surgery December 9th. After months of PT, I started running again, slowly, about 6 weeks ago. Yesterday I was cleared for all activities. And yet.

Edoardo Frola | Credit: Getty Images/Flickr RF

It is a long, uncomfortable process to regain my fitness. I've lost muscle tone. I've gained weight. And the more unfit I am, the harder it is to get back out there. 

I was swimming steadily, but then all the gyms shut down. I've been walking obsessively, but just ask my Freshman 15: it doesn't matter how many miles I walk per day, the weight will still pile on. Now, a solid COVID 19 later, it is clear that not much has changed in that area. With no access to cardio machines and no ability to do anything high-impact, I feel like I've aged 20 years in the last 6 months.

But I'm just making excuses. I can work out in my living room; I'm just embarrassed with a house-full of people always here. I have hand weights. I could do my PT like I'm supposed to. I'm not afraid of falling any longer, so I could get down my bike. There are things I could do.

And I am running again, just so much slower than I was. I got 1 1/2 miles in today and then it just hurt. I walked the rest of the way home.

I know that I'll get out there again tomorrow. But it's hard to come back. And I have so far to go.

Recovery from being broken takes a long time. It takes a lot of patience, a lot of work, and a lot of self-care.

But I know that I am worth it. I just have to get out there, dust myself off, and try again.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 89

Sliding Slowly

It's a Friday night. The kids are out riding their bikes. All the doors and windows are open; the bird feeder is swinging wildly outside as the cats stare out the window, mesmerized.

With no hard stop to the school year, no end-of-year closure, we've just slowly slid into whatever the summer will hold. I've tried to maintain the semblance of a schedule for us, getting the kids up at a reasonable hour, and demanding that they do something productive a least a few days a week.

I started a freelance ghostwriting job this week and am part of the facilitating team putting on CRWP's Remote Literacy Learning Institute starting next week. And there is no end in sight to the projects that need to be done around the house. Summer vacation is always a chance to regroup and try to remember how to breathe. but this year feel much different. More professional opportunities for me, and fewer things lined up for the kids. Michael is still working from home, lending another layer of complications. It's all just kind of disconcerting.

Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

The school year is over...but not exactly.

Summer vacation has started...but not completely.

The state is opening back up...but not quite.

The curve has flattened...but it's not over.

It's like we're sliding slowly into some new continuation of more of the same.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 88

Sometimes You Gotta Burn it Down

You know what doesn't dismantle a corrupt system? Staying silent. Silence is complicity.

You know what also doesn't dismantle a corrupt system? Peaceful protests. Peaceful protests can make a statement; they can heighten awareness; they can highlight a movement. But peaceful protests aren't enough. They can only go so far.

During a peaceful protest in 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr. announced that he had a dream. In 1968, he was murdered. 50 years later, we live in a country where racial profiling literally judges us by the color of our skin, not by the content of our character. King's words were thoughtful and profound. We've all listened to them. We've all been amazed by their eloquence and their power. But have we really listened? Have we actually changed our ways? Are we truly different, as a country, than we were in 1963? Sometimes words aren't enough. They can only go so far.

Photo by Miguel Bruna on Unsplash

2000 years ago, Jesus tore up the temple when the money changers had turned it into a shopping mall. He flipped tables and chairs; he poured the money out on the ground. He carried a freakin' whip up in there. He didn't stand silently, he didn't protest peacefully, and he definitely didn't take a knee. Had he been respectful and nice, sung "Kumbaya," or just prayed for them, would anything have changed? Would that story even have made it into John 2 and Mark 11? Thoughts and prayers aren't enough. They don't go very far at all.

If you want to dismantle a corrupt system, you can't do it on your knees. You can't do it silently. You can't even do it with fancy words. You have to forcefully get around the barriers. You have to throw bricks. You have to flip the tables and chairs. You have to destroy the foundation from inside. You have to burn it down.

It's not enough to hope for reform. We have to demand to defund.

We have been silent for far too long.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 87

The Distancing Dilemma

When is the right time to end social distancing? Or to modify it? When is it okay to visit again with family? With friends? When should we just stay home?

Photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash

We just traveled through 6 states and back again. Less than 25% of the people we saw were wearing masks. Restaurants and bars are open in all 6 states, at varying capacities. Indoor gatherings of 10 and outdoor gatherings of 100 are now allowed. Salons are opening back up. Almost everything is opening back up.

The "maintain social distancing and wear a mask" rules are still in effect, even when no one seems to be listening. And, in many states, the numbers are creeping back up.

It's hard to know how to behave right now. We haven't seen my mom and all of my Michigan family in 5 months. First daughter hasn't seen her best friend since March. Second daughter is back to work. And my son has had weekly outside "playdates" all along.

We tried to follow the rules, as best as we could with our odd family structure and custody situation, throughout all of this. But we also pushed the envelope. We were at the Mayfair, sitting at the rail, on the last day that bars were open in Michigan. Second daughter stayed with us off and on over the entire time, bouncing between homes. We went for walks with friends. We tried to balance sanity, family, and safety. We used a lot of hand sanitizer and Lysol wipes.

And now that the rules have changed, it just all feels so weird. Is it okay to finally see family? Is it okay to get a hair cut? After maintaining distance for so long, it feels like we're coming out of the bunker, eyes squinty in the sunlight, furtively glancing around, looking for the invisible danger.

Today we got together with family. My sister-in-law, a salon owner, cut our hair. The adults sat far apart on the couches and talked about all of the unknowns. What will the summer look like? What will the fall look like? What will our jobs look like? What will school look like? The cousins all ran around outside in the rain; they rode the 3-wheeler as the thunder echoed overhead; they stomped through the puddles; they tracked mud in and ate watermelon and hotdogs and rhubarb slushies and cake and ice cream. At the end of the day, we adults tentatively leaned in for hugs, faces awkwardly angled away from each other, bumping shoulders, a quick pat on the back.

The odds are in our favor. We most likely won't contract or transmit this virus. And we're trying to do it right. But it also feels strange and unnerving, tiptoeing back into whatever the new normal will be.

      Risk factors as compiled by Dr. Matthew Sims, Beaumont Health director of infectious disease research, Dr. Dennis Cunningham, McLaren Health Care medical director for infection prevention, Dr. Mimi Emig, retired infectious disease specialist with Spectrum Health, Dr. Nasir Husain, Henry Ford Macomb medical director for infection prevention.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 86

The COVID-19 is REAL

Symptoms of COVID 19: 

Puffy face. Puffy upper arms. Puffy ankles. Puffy knees. Puffiness.

Distended midsection.

Generalized Sweating.

Shortness of breath, especially while climbing stairs.

Uncontrolled outbursts of cursing while putting on a bra.

Loss of manual dexterity resulting in inability to button pants.

Continuous urge to consume alcohol.

Overwhelming sense of ennui.

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

Available Treatments

Mirror removal and disposal.

Bra removal and disposal.

Old Navy pajama pants.

Boxed wine.

Kaftans.

Elastic.

Ranch housing. (Do not confuse with Ranch dressing.)

Clothing sizes with "X" prefixes.

Online shopping. Free returns.

Low lighting. Maybe even darkness.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 85

Home

3600+ miles.

11 days.

14 meals eaten while driving the car. 10 meals from McDonald's. 1 meal from Culver's. 1 "meal" from Dairy Queen.

2 family style meals eaten on a hotel bed from O'Charley's. 

6 cafeteria meals eaten in a hospital room.

2 nights in a hotel. 8 nights at my Dad's house.

2 boxes of wine. 1 case of beer. An undisclosed quantity of bourbon.

1 dinner out. 

5 days of driving through torrential rainstorms.

4 times someone merged into our lane and we had to slam on the brakes, lay on the horn, and swerve, hard.

1 time we accidentally did that to someone else.

100's of text messages.

2 bottles of hand sanitizer.

11 tanks of gas.

20 hours of SiriusXM radio.

4 tired and cranky people.

1 new pet.

Dad is home.

And we are home.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 84

Photo by Ian Schneider on Unsplash

Posting From Somewhere in Tennessee...Let's Talk About Life Goals 

Tom Morello's mom is 96 years old. If you know anything about Tom Morello, founding member of Rage Against the Machine, Prophets of Rage, and Audioslave, you know that he says what he means and he means what he says. And Morello clearly gets it from his mom, Mary. His "One Man Revolution" show on Lithium (SiriusXM) is my favorite thing, ever. Tom Morello gives no fucks about what you think. He plays whatever he wants, he talks about whatever he wants, and I always learn something new. Ask Michael: Tom Morello is my free pass. Today, on One Man Revolution, Tom had his mom on the show. They talked about police violence in the United States. They talked about what we have to say to our Black children. They talked about Cuba. They talked about the perpetual violence against Black bodies that is a very foundation of our country. They played some amazing, obscure music, some stuff that I knew and loved, and some stuff that I'd never heard before. It is clear that Tom Morello loves his mama. And I do, too. She is my idol.

Tom Morello's mom, a single white woman, raised him, her Black son, on her own. As someone with more street cred than me proclaimed, "Tom Morello is cool, but his mom, Mary Morello, is cooler." She has her own Wikipedia page. She has taught English in Germany, Peru, Japan, and on an international freighter. She married Tom's dad, Ngethe Njoroge, when she was living in Kenya. They moved to Harlem, and then divorced when Tom was 1. Mary then moved Tom to Libertyville, Illinois, an incredibly white town, and taught African history there for 22 years. After Tom went to Harvard, Mary quit her job to found "Parents for Rock and Rap," a response to Tipper Gore's PRMC. (Fuck the PMRC. Amirite, Gen X?) Mary then taught adult literacy at the Salvation Army, and has worked for years to lift the embargo against Cuba. Throughout her life, she's been heavily involved with the Civil Rights Movement, and with the NAACP. She's been to Russia three times. She's been to Cuba six times. She's been all over the world, constantly advocating for change.

So, when we choose to say nothing because we claim that we don't know what to say, let's take a look at fucking Mary Morello. She has traveled all over the world. She has worked in so many countries. She has taught so many students of all races and nationalities throughout the years. She has been an activist her entire life. She raised, on her own, one of the most amazing activists and voices we have today. She was --is-- a white woman, a single mom, a high school teacher. She is 96 years old and still making waves.

I want to be Mary Morello when I grow up.

No excuses.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 83

Photo by Niilo Isotalo on Unsplash

Watching the Storms from a Distance

Today, after 11 weeks of no eating in restaurants, we took the plunge and went out. Dad had been insisting that we should all week, as Don Jose's has a huge outdoor covered patio. And then Justin wouldn't take no for an answer. After all, Florida is completely open; it seems strange, to us, since Michigan was still very much closed when we left. And so, after much debate and deciding that we would only be comfortable sitting on the patio, we went out to eat.

We adults ordered a pitcher of margaritas, while the kids explored the deck and the long dock that stretched out into the waves of Lake Jackson.

As we were sitting there talking about the lake and the shoreline, a storm blew in. It was sudden and dark. The wind picked up; the rain blew in sideways; we all moved our tables away from the wall of screens and closer to the wall of the restaurant. The power flickered; the tvs went black. It was raining so hard, you couldn't see more than a few feet out into the water. The end of the dock that the kids had been on just moments before was completely obscured. The storm was so close that you couldn't even say "one" after the lightning crashed before the thunder clapped, deafening, shaking the water in the glasses and the ground under our feet. It was awesome and electric.

But we didn't get wet. We didn't even have a break in our service. We sat and we watched and we talked in awe about the power of the storm, the suddenness of it, the fact that we knew it was probably coming but we'd gone out to eat anyway.

And then, just as suddenly, the sky cleared. The shoreline reappeared. Our food came. We'd witnessed something spectacular, and then it moved on, leaving us amused and unscathed.

And now as I sit here on my Dad's patio, drinking a cheap glass of wine, watching the little lizards run around and do little lizard push-ups, I realize the metaphor that has just played out.

Through all the driving rain that I've been driving through this last week, throughout all of Dad's ordeal, throughout the hours of NPR and BBC that I've been listening to, I've thought a lot about what I can do, how I can be a part of the fight, when I can't be on the front lines right now.

As so many towns are in upheaval from violent encounters with police, as black men and women are continually losing their lives, as people are tear-gassed and worse, as the pundits continue to pundit their political playbooks, as photo-ops continue to occur, as people continue to die from the seemingly forgotten Coronavirus, I and my family casually went out to dinner.

This is privilege. And it's up to me to use my privilege for good. It's not enough to be an ally, if I'm not also fighting on the front lines. And if I can't physically fight today, then I can use what I am good at --writing-- to continue to fight for those just causes that are so important for the humanity of us all, for the very humanity of our country.

It's not enough to recognize the storm, be awed by it, and sit a safe distance away from it, whilst claiming to be an ally. It's not enough to tweet, or post a meme, or repost an article, and then go on with our day.

It's up to us to use our privilege --the audiences we have, the safety we have-- to get in there and fight with the tools that we have: with our words, with our dollars, in our communities, with our bodies.

Otherwise, we're just taking and reposting videos of the power of the storm, but doing nothing to actually aid those who are constantly out in it.

It's up to us. We have to be the change. We can't just watch from a distance.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 82

Thankful

I have so much to be thankful for.

I am so thankful that Dad went to the doctor when he did. Another hour, another day...the outcome might have been very, very different. Instead, 11 days after he was diagnosed with stroke-like symptoms and admitted, I just dropped him off at the residential rehab facility; they said he is doing so well, that they don't expect him to be there for long at all. There are no visitors allowed there, so I hugged him goodbye. Tomorrow, I'll drive over there with the kids and take him some clean clothes; we can wave to him through the window, make heart hands, and let him know how very much he is loved. I am so thankful.

I am thankful for my partner who held down the fort here at "home," dealing with sheltering-in-place in a "foreign land," and figuring out how to work from "home" so that I could stay with Dad until he was discharged.

I am so thankful that, even though my kids are often emotional roller coasters and have not been on their best behavior, they are mostly self-sufficient. Some eye-rolling, a curse-word or four, and a door slam here or there. Otherwise, they are mostly fine. And I am so thankful for second daughter, who stayed home and took care of the house and the dog and the cats. Knowing that we didn't have to worry or make arrangements, that everything back home would be fine for as long as we needed to stay...that was an amazing gift.

I am thankful that Dad's house was available, so that my family wasn't bouncing off the walls of a hotel room this whole time. Instead, they could spread out, each person claiming a room, while the new kitty pounced from person to person, eating their hair.

I am so thankful that I have a car that is reliable, comfortable, and fun to drive. Dorothy has been amazing during the 2000+ miles I've put on her in the last week. She handles the driving rain; she passes semis like a champ, she holds to the road, and she gets good gas mileage. This trip wouldn't have been possible with a lesser car. Dorothy is a champ.

I am thankful for Sirius Radio. Without it, I might have lost my mind. The radio station choices down here are...not good. I can't find an npr station to save my life. If I manage to find classic rock, the announcer then comes on and spouts some right-wing rhetoric and I shudder in horror. There are a lot of country stations, but they all play country music. And the pop stuff coming out of Orlando is just way too pop for me. Thank you, Sirius Radio, for keeping me sane. (And thank you, Michael, for gifting it to me.)

I am weirdly, selfishly thankful for the shutdowns that gave me the opportunity to come down here. In a normal year at this time, I'd be knee-keep in final exams, dealing with student drama, and trying to keep my head above water. Instead, I could just work on my Chromebook from Dad's hospital room, answering emails and grading papers and entering grades. In a normal year, an emergency trip to Florida during finals week would be an insane idea. This year, it was nbd. It's strange to say, but if this had to happen to Dad, this was the right time for it to happen.

And, finally, I am so thankful to the entire AdventHealth system down here in Florida. They immediately knew something was wrong when he went to the doctor in Sebring. They immediately transported him to Tampa. The Sebring staff drove his car back to his house and kept the keys safe. They called me to check on him. The doctors in Tampa were incredibly skilled, thoughtful, and kind. They took the time to call us, to let us know what was going on. The nursing staff and support staff were amazing. Always there, always willing to crack a joke, bring us a cup of coffee, bring Dad a charger for his phone, give Dad a fist-bump. They took care of "Mr. Kim" like he was their dad. They hung out with him after their shifts were over. They were incredible, and it was clear that they loved their jobs.

And I am so very thankful for all of you, who have been reading along and rooting for us during this entire time.

Tomorrow, we will drive over to see Dad, we will wave through the window, and we will say goodbye. We will stop by the liquor store and re-stock his Bourbon supply. And then, on Sunday, we will head home.

For all of this and more, I am so very thankful.  

Photo by Courtney Hedger on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 81

Photo by Aw Creative on Unsplash

All Things Winding Down Into Their Last Days... 

Things are winding down. Dad should be transferred out of the hospital tomorrow and into rehab, if his COVID results ever come through. He is walking laps around the hospital floor, cracking jokes with all of the nurses, and trying to not be bored out of his mind. When the occupational therapist comes, Dad always announces that he's retired and doesn't want an occupation. When the nutrition aide comes and asks what he wants for lunch, Dad always requests scotch. He's got a wisecrack for everyone, and he is so, so bored. He's also in awe --we all are-- at how close this whole event was to something truly catastrophic. A few more hours, a few more days...he could have had a full-on stroke and be paralyzed or worse. Instead, he's got a bad-ass scar and a few bruises, and a whole new understanding of the last few months. His last few days have opened up a whole new chapter for him --and for us, as his family.

The last day of Bath High School is tomorrow. It's been a strange year, a year of rebuilding, but also a year of loss. I'm not sad to be finished. I'm not sad to be done with the "fully remote" teaching. I have my doctorate in educational technology, and I can tell you that I absolutely do not believe that fully online courses are good for our students or good for our teachers. I can create thoughtful lessons for students, but when I'm not there to tease or nag or encourage or just stand next to them, it's incredibly difficult to motivate and engage. I hope that we can somehow get back to some sort of face-to-face in the fall. Whatever it looks like, for the mental health and physical health of us all, we need to be back in a classroom. These last few days have been a slog of grading and emails and phone calls and text messages and just hoping --hoping-- that students will come through and earn credit. This school year needs to be over.

My last day as union secretary might very well be Monday. Out of the blue, someone is running against me for my position. I've never been challenged; no one wants the mundane task of sorting through the contract language year after year, and spending hours negotiating for benefits and working conditions for our staff members. But now, someone wants my position. It might be the end of an era, of 10+ years working for and with staff members, mentoring them and sitting in meetings with administration, and fighting for what is best for students and staff. I hope that I don't lose my position. I don't want these to be my last days on the team. But I have to acknowledge the very real possibility that I might be written out of the leadership team, and that the staff might want different representation. These last few days have been soul-searchingly hard.

These last few days have been hard on my family, too. They are displaced and out of sorts. They are sick of pasta and sick of each other. Since Dad is on the mend, we plan to head home from Florida in just a couple of days. Driving back home, after being down here for a lot longer than we'd planned, will be a celebration, of sorts. We desperately wanted to leave Michigan a week ago. Now, we are ready to go home, to get back to our beds and our pets and our familiar routines.

And finally, with the shelter-in-place being lifted, the Coronacation Diaries are in their last few days. When I started this journey, I naively thought that it would be just a few weeks. A nanowrimo of sorts, blogging throughout the pandemic, trying to entertain the masses with the annoyances of it all. Instead, it became something bigger, a force that has driven me throughout these past 12 weeks, forcing me to reflect and to put into words what it all has meant to me and to those I love.

None of these stories are over, yet. But they are all winding down into their last few days.

And I am looking forward to new chapters, whatever they might hold.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 80

Travelogue #ILostCount. Florida.

Although there is so much I could write --and maybe should write-- about what is going on in our country today, I also don't know what, exactly, to write. I keep pushing back at the "all lives matter" people on Facebook. But that's not a story. That's just a fight that I choose to fight. And I realized that, once again,  my own #blacklivesmatter hashtag was ill-timed, and that I was trying to elevate my own voice instead of listening to black voices. Every day is a learning moment, a time for reflection, a time to do it better. I still have so much to learn.

My own kids are not dealing well with being stuck in a house all day while it rains outside. The glow of the road-trip has worn off, and they are spending way too much time on electronics, sniping at each other, and existing on a diet of hot dogs and pop tarts. It's not going well. It needs to quit raining so they can get outside and get some fresh air, get away from each other. But it's also Florida, so it feels like an armpit out there.

I did finally get Helena to tell me what was wrong, and she announced that she hates that she can't do anything, that she can't be out protesting, and that she just wants to "burn shit down." Well, at least she's not depressed.

Sam, on the other hand, spends his day fighting with his homework and watching youtubers. The end result is a lot of pent up frustration and rage.

Michael is trying to re-install Windows on the little laptop he brought so that he can work from here for a couple of days. It's not going well. We already drank all of Dad's Bourbon. Please sent more.

I spend each day driving across the State of Florida to hang out with my Dad in his hospital room while he waits to be released to in-patient rehab. He is cleared to be released as of today, but they can't transfer him without a clean COVID test in the last week. He has been tested 3x in the last two weeks, but the last test was last Wednesday...which is now 8 days ago. So, he got another test and we get to wait another 24 to 48 hours for the results, so that he can finally go to in-patient PT. It's frustrating, to say the least.

It's a 97 mile commute from here to Tampa, one-way. And those 97 miles drive through Florida farm country and ranch country. "Eat More Beef!" is proclaimed next to the field of 100's of calves, roaming adorably and aimlessly. Spanish moss hangs eerily from every scrubby tree like cobwebs. Phosphate mines are abundant; eerie cranes like dinosaur skeletons dot the landscape. Tiny trailers surrounded by cars and buses and kiddie pools and lawn chairs line the road. Migrant housing is everywhere, and all the signage is in Spanish. Trump 2020 flags are sporadic, but a constant reminder. Every town has several taco trucks, a Dollar General, a gun store, an auto-parts store, and more boarded-up buildings than open signs. It is confusing and desolate and beautiful and eerie and sad. It feels like I'm trespassing.

Photo by Jessica Furtney on Unsplash

My GPS can't decide which way to Tampa is the shortest, so every trip is a new adventure down side roads where the posted speeds are ignored by everyone. I have mastered beating the Google Maps arrival time by 20 minutes on average. I have mastered passing a semi in the pouring rain on a two-lane road. I have mastered going through the checkpoints at the hospital. I have mastered sitting with my Dad, grading papers, making absent-minded small talk, keeping an earbud in during Zoom staff meetings while taking with the occupational therapist, and waiting, waiting, for the paperwork to come through so that he can get out of here. I have mastered coming back to the house, throwing a weird meal on the table from what I bought in a panic at the grocery store. I have clearly mastered drinking Dad's Bourbon.

But I have not mastered this unease of guilt, being where I need to be (with my Dad), while ignoring where I feel like I should be.

I have not mastered how to mom and daughter and partner and #blacklivesmatter and teacher and MEA and CRWP and writer. And I have definitely not mastered how to #Florida.

I'm not sure I ever will.