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.
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.
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.
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| Photo by Jessica Furtney on Unsplash |
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.
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