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.