Day #105 Writing Through COVID-19: School, COVID, Secrets

I spent considerable time thinking about teaching today. 

Last evening I contacted an old friend who now works in Gov. Reynolds' office as an education liaison (something like that). I'd been looking at the IDOE site for guidance on how to step up our schools' anti-racist response to social justice issues. I have seen bold statements from the Des Moines Public Schools and Sioux City Schools asserting that Black Lives Matter and addressing systemic inequities. But rural, mostly white districts like mine have not yet moved to the starting blocks. We need assistance to address policies that have sustained inequity.

When I checked the IDOE site, I saw many committees and task forces, but none related to racial equity and social justice. I asked my friend what the governor's office was doing to help schools during this important and painful time.

She responded this morning with the following: 

"The Department of Education is working to bring together resources to support schools in addressing social justice and racial equity. The State Board of Education also is working on next steps. We will have more information available this fall, if not sooner."

I hope sooner.

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Also this morning, a new colleague in the English department called with questions about the curriculum and accessing tech services. We both wondered aloud how our discussion-based classes would function with distancing recommendations, which I've heard include all students facing the same direction.

We know our district has prepared three return-to-learn plans for how we will teach in various scenarios. But none of the plans has been rolled out to the teachers yet.
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My math-teacher daughter in Colorado learned today that when students are allowed to return to the building, her district will use a modified schedule to limit passing time, which is when there is likely to be the highest transmission of the virus. Students will be given a block schedule, with one class in the morning, another in the afternoon. They'll rotate through their eight classes and over four days, then begin the sequence again. 

I can't say that I LIKE that plan, necessarily, but I do like that it's a PLAN. My daughter said her superintendent rolled it out articulately, explaining the reasoning behind the decision, while acknowledging that no plan is without drawbacks. 
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Around noon I got an email from my school and hoped it would reveal some progress on our plans. It was a communique explaining that we will hold a modified Prom on July 11. Students will participate in the traditional Grand March across the auditorium stage, for an audience comprised of two guests for each participant. The guests will be distanced in the auditorium. 

The students will then enjoy a sit-down meal in the gymnasium, served by masked and gloved waiters. After this, they will be entertained by a hypnotist. 

As I understand it, there will be no dancing.

I appreciate the work people are doing to lift spirits and find ways to safely re-engage in activities. But I'm simply not there yet. I am too consumed by the reality of this virus--manifested at the moment by my lonely (symptom-free!) husband (upstairs).
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My second daughter, who spent the past 10 months in Spain, has just returned to--of all places--Jacksonville Florida, where the virus is rampant. Florida is one of three states that remains under a military travel ban of 150 miles, which means she and her husband may not be allowed to travel to New York for his sister's wedding--an event that has already been scaled back to a whisper of what was originally planned. 
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My dear friend Emma gave birth to a beautiful baby boy yesterday. I could not, in good conscience, visit her, with COVID Dan in my living space. I'm not sure if the hospital is even allowing visitors. 

I'm writing this down because I don't want to forget how during COVID-19 we shifted, recalibrated, reversed, and rethought thousands of choices and actions. 
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When I called my parents today, my mom said she was playing a game of Doodle Dice with my niece that was "all luck, no brains." I heard resentment in her tone--not directed at my niece, or even the game, but maybe at her own brain.

"I'm looking forward to you coming back to the farm in 10 days," I said.

"Oh?" she asked, "I didn't know that! Thank you for telling me." She sounded as if I was finally letting her in on a secret everyone else has been keeping from her.

I'll let her in on the secret again tomorrow.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #104 Writing Through COVID-19: Sad and Angry

Today is the fifth day since Dan's exposure to COVID-19. From what we've read, this is the most common day for symptoms to appear. Dan has felt fine, complaining only about his achy knees, and that's from climbing grain bins, not COVID.

He will be tested tomorrow morning. Even if he tests negative, he'll continue isolation until day 14, when he'll be tested again.
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This afternoon I pulled up the online Bridge game to practice, and as soon as I saw my hand, I called my dad. We talked through my bidding options, and he told me to bid 4 spades, higher than I would have without his prodding.

"Call me back and let me know how you do," he said.

I did.

"I went down by three!" I cried, lamenting my positon as 83 of 99 players.

He laughed and admitted he's second-guessed his bidding advice after he'd hung up.
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"How was your day?" I asked.

He said it was good, then went on to say he'd leaned on my sister's dining table and broken the top off its pedestal. My sister and her daughter had spent a good chunk of the day rebuilding the table.

"Did you fall?" I asked.

"Well, no," he said. "The top tilted and I slid down to the floor!" I love how my dad can turn a near-disaster into a laugh-out-loud quip.
--------------------------

This evening Adrienne texted. She said that our sister caretaking our parents in Newton is feeling blue.

Our mother is confused. She is unhappy. She said, "Allison is the best nurse at Friendship Haven. Why can't I have Allison?"
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I looked back on my blog entries tonight. My first weeks with my parents were fraught with confusion. I am so sorry that my parents will have barely enough time to settle in and begin a sense of normalcy in Newton before we will uproot them again.

I think I feel angry.
But if I look deeper, I am mostly sad.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #103 Writing Through COVID-19: Lonely Dan, and Wild Raspberries

After yesterday, I took today to get my bearings.

Dan and I are trying to figure out what our 36-year marriage looks like in COVID isolation. We've agreed to separate bed/bath areas.

"I slept so hard!" I sang out, well-rested when I finally awoke at 9 after my first night in the basement.

"Me too!" he said, happy as the morning lark.

Who knew sleeping alone could be so pleasant?
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Our only shared indoor space is the kitchen, and we are not in this area at the same time. We've agreed to wash our hands before we touch anything and again after we've touched everything (the refrigerator, the cupboards, the coffee pot).

"Don't touch your face when you're in the kitchen!" I scolded Dan as (from a room away) I watched him prepare an after-supper bowl of Peanut M&Ms.

"I'm not!" he said, as he ate another.

"You're putting them in your mouth! That's touching your face!"
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Twice today we met outside, once on the deck, once on the porch, for distanced conversation time. Dan's work as a farmer is by its nature quite isolated. But being TOLD to isolate makes him antsy. He's thinking of all the things he CAN'T do.

This reminds me of Carl Sandburg:

"Why did the children
put beans in their ears
when the one thing we told the children
they must not do
was put beans in their ears?"

Nothing is as tempting as the thing we are told not to do. 

This evening, with the entire upstairs level of the house available to him, Dan came downstairs to change a water filter. I don't think this counts as essential. Then he sat on the couch (across the room) and mused about how if he doesn't show symptoms tomorrow (day five), he probably doesn't have the virus. 

It's strange how awareness of space can feel so lonely.

Keeping Dan isolated for two weeks is my new full-time job.
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This afternoon I called my parents to check in. My dad gave a happy report. I told him I will practice Bridge online so as not to get rusty while he's away.

T-Bone Trail, Exira, Iowa
June 28, 2020

When I talked to my mom, I told her about my morning run on the T-Bone Trail. The heavy-hanging mulberries are now falling off, purpling the asphalt. The plum blossoms are gone, and in their place are small green nuggets of plums.

The wild raspberry bushes are coming into fruition. When I saw them on the trail this morning, my first thought was "I'll gather some for Mom on my way back! She'll like that!" 

A few steps later I remembered she's in Newton. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #102 Writing Through COVID-19: The Difference a Day Makes

Today, my parents' 98th day in my basement, began with three Emily Dickinson poems alongside toasted bagels with cream cheese. I noticed my mom had strapped on her fanny pack, which was odd, since she usually only wears it when she is traveling. Maybe she was prescient.

After breakfast as I cleared the table, my mother bent over precariously to pluck a dried grape stem from under the table pedestal. She held up what looked like a tiny Christmas tree tinseled in Vern's dog hair. I put "vacuum" on my to-do list.
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Moments later Dan called. He'd just hung up from the bank president who'd called to tell him that the clerk who had helped Dan with his safety-deposit box on Wednesday had been tested for COVID on Thursday and had this morning received a positive result.

Our tenuous Jenga tower toppled: keeping Dan isolated from my parents wasn't too hard, as long as we assumed he didn't have the virus himself. But after known exposure, our worries multiplied.

We jumped online but couldn't find a definitive answer to how safe it is to share air circulated through a COVID house. Housing Dan on one floor and my parents on another no longer felt safe enough if Dan has, in fact, actually contracted the illness.

We needed to alter our arrangements for the next two weeks at a minimum.

I called my sisters. I called my brother. We batted around options and scenarios, including isolating Dan down the road in the old house or isolating my parents in the old house. Every solution had drawbacks.

By noon Dan, my siblings, and I had settled on what we felt was the safest option. We would send my parents on a wee vacation to stay with my sister and her daughter in Newton for 12 days until two weeks past Dan's exposure. Meanwhile, Dan and I would stay here, with him upstairs and me...in the Vern-furred basement!

Yes, Dan and I will be sharing the recirculated air. But while I do not want to contract the virus, I'm not nearly as worried about myself getting it as I am my parents.

If Dan stays healthy and tests negative after July 9, we will move my parents back here for the last three weeks of July.
-------------------------

By 2 p.m. I had my parents (and Vern) loaded into the Suburban, heading east. My mother was teary. "I hate to be a burden on you kids," she said.

"You are not a burden. COVID-19 is an inconvenience to everyone, but it's not something we can't handle."
-----------------------

As we drove to Newton, my parents were at first uncharacteristically quiet. I asked my mom to recite "Kentucky Belle" with me, and she did. We laughed with delight at the line: "On came the Michigan Calvary!" My mother is from Michigan and always takes personal ownership of that line.

When we stopped at the DeSoto exit, I helped my parents get out of the car for a stretch and to walk Vern on a grassy area next to Casey's while I filled the gas tank, using plenty of hand-sanitizer and wearing my mask.

My dad had lain down under the shade of a tree while I was gassing the car, and when I returned it took both my mother and me together to hoist him back up on his feet. Again, we laughed.
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When we arrived at my sister's, we were greeted with a lawn overflowing with flowers and fruit trees. My mother will love this flora over the next two weeks. My niece said she is eager to use Grandma's recipe to bake bread while they are there.

I did not go inside. The protocols for passing off elderly parents from one close-contact to another rely less on clear directives than on a wish and a prayer.

I hugged my mom on the doorstep.
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On the drive back to Atlantic I called Adrienne. I told her I felt sad, like I was handing off my children to a babysitter. I kept thinking of my parents' idiosyncratic preferences. There was a small part of me that harkened back to sibling rivalry and wondered if my parents would find my wide farm yard boring after two weeks in my sister's Eden.

Adrienne reminded me that my parents have, in a way, been my children for these past 14 weeks. It's okay to feel blue as I send them to "summer camp."
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Once I got home, I went to the basement to start the Roomba (still on my list) and gather any leftovers from my parents' small refrigerator. I saw Vern's carton of boiled eggs and realized they'd forgotten to take them along.

I needed to call them immediately!

My dad said they were settling in. He assured me that even without the eggs, Vern would be fine.

I asked to talk to my mom.

It was when I heard her voice that the day's tears at last brimmed over.

I told her that as evening approached, I realized I would not be bringing her medicine in a tiny teacup. I missed her.

She said she missed me too.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #101 (part 2) Writing Through COVID-19: Enjoyment?

My sister had a Zoom visit with my parents today. Early in the conversation, my dad said, "We've outgrown our usefulness, and now I think we've aged out of our enjoyment of life."

"STOP!" I interrupted. I reminded him we had just played a lively 40 minutes of Bridge. It was a beautiful day. He's reading a good book. He loves his morning coffee!

He laughed a little sheepishly, then amended his comment: "I mean we might run out of enjoyment in a few years."

"That's better!" I said.
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I watch for any signs of depression. Their sleep seems regular and deep. They eat well. They laugh often. They engage in upbeat conversations. My mom has what I call "dark times" or "jags" when she needs some help getting back to the here and now. But I'm living quite closely with these people, and I see them enjoying their lives far more than not.

So where is this "outgrowing life's enjoyment" coming from?

I know my dad wishes he were more agile. Today when I dealt the cards, he commented that he can no longer deal that fast. He walks faster than he is able and then weaves as his sense of balance tries to catch up with him. This guy biked through Belgium at age 67. He played tennis until he was 75.

Heart-valve repair gave him some renewed energy, but for the past 10 years, he's easily winded and simply old. Still, he has more mobility than many 90-year-olds.
--------------------------

I nudged my mom to tell my sister about our asparagus patch, how we've been visiting it every couple of days and gathering a few spears at a time. Instead, she told my sister about how Vern likes to eat the dried asparagus stalks. This is true, but her response reminded me of how random her memory is. When I chimed in to tell MY version of the asparagus story, my mom nodded in agreement, enjoying the idea if not actually remembering the many times we've collected asparagus on the terrace.
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Later in the day my dad said, "Alli, this was such a nice afternoon." It was. But I wondered if he made the comment to assure me he hadn't lost all of life's enjoyment.
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Birthday Boy, Dan Hoegh (circa 1964)

Dan turned 62 today. To celebrate, we called in an order to Darrell's Place in Hamlin and took the back roads to pick up our takeout order. The only masked people in the place were me and another woman picking up her takeout.

This reminded me of something I saw on Twitter today:

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #101 Writing Through COVID-19: Rule Bending

My dad has been asking if my sister and her daughter who live in Newton can come for a socially-distanced visit on the lawn.

When they first moved here, another sister asked to visit, and I simply said no. Hard and fast parameters make my job easier. I established our safety boundaries early on, ducked my head, and barrelled ahead.

Besides myself, the only person who has physically touched my parents in the past (who's counting) weeks is my daughter who masked up, sterilized down, and cut their hair.

They have chatted with my masked children from across the yard.

But I think my dad's recent request for a visit from my sister and niece is reasonable. I know they'd be respectful in masking and maintaining distance. Furthermore, when my parents return to Friendship Haven, their visiting restrictions might be tighter still.

But what happens if this sibling (who has been conscientious about isolating) wants to visit and I say yes, then another who has not been as careful in COVID-preventing behaviors asks to do the same?

I'll need to be ready for conversations of why what's good for the goose is not necessarily good for the gander.
--------------------

As I prepare to break my months-long rule, I think back to my parenting style, and also to my mother's.

I was an infinitely negotiable parent. If my kids could explain their position, reason, or (often cockamamie) idea, I would listen and reconsider. I tried to encourage them to think through and defend their proposals. Some might call this wishy-washy, or even indulgent, since my children seemed to talk me out of every rule I put in front of them.

My own mother drafted long lists of rules and then held them up as stone tablets: No dating until 16. No makeup until high school. Early curfews. No swearing. No sleeping in past 8 a.m. on Saturdays. The list goes on.
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While my mother's rules were likely founded in reason, during our arguments (and there were many), I grew disdainful of her unwillingness to bend, to reconsider, to make exceptions. When she refused to budge, I dismissed her guidance with the full force of a nasty teenager.

You can probably see why my mother and I fought from the day I entered seventh grade until I left home the day after high-school graduation. Our difficult relationship oozed into adulthood, and led to the quasi-estrangement we maintained until she moved into my basement in March. The fact that COVID-19 has given us a never-dreamed-of chance to repair our connection is a shining star in this dark time.

It's interesting to me now, as I listen to my dad explain how careful they'd be during a visit with my sister, that he is asking me to reconsider a rule established when they moved here.

And as 35 years of parenting my own children has taught me, I can--and should--bend this rule.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #98 (part 2) Writing Through COVID-19: Church of the Long Run

At 42, and with my daughter's encouragement, I took up running. 

For the past 18 summers, I've run about four to six times a week. I've run a few Dam-to-Dam half marathons, but usually, my long race of the summer is the July 4 10k in Exira. 

It is my willingness to practice humility as I gasp (last) across the finish line that has allowed me to find joy in the run, rather than shame in my 13-minute miles. 

When school starts in the fall, any running energy is relegated to classroom prep and planning. But when summer returns, runs are again the joy of my day. 

COVID-19 invited me to start my 2020 running season a little early. It's also given me a guilt-free pass on Sunday church. While Dan watches the video stream of St. Paul's service, I look to the gravel for my spiritual ritual of the week. 

My friend Missy calls this the Sunday Morning Church of the Long Run. This poem is in her honor.

I genuflect to tighten the laces,
breathe in the spirit of the dawn.

I offer the body
and the blood
pumping as my heartbeat
rises to sing praises
to the gravel
dust to dust
beneath my soul.

The Iowa sky stretches to infinity
pulling me into
the universe
where I am full
and fed by all
that is
Good

Amen

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Day #98 Writing Through COVID-19: Countdown to August 1

On Sunday my parents again asked about over-staying their welcome. This time I did not second-guess my hospitality or comb through my every word and action of the past week.

I recognize now that this is an ongoing concern for them. My response was steady and honest: they are the easiest of houseguests. We are having many lovely times together. They will not be living with me forever.

It was this final point that deserved new attention Sunday. I told them that August 1 is the day we are looking at to either help them return to Friendship Haven or find another safe place for them to be. My school, in some form, will be re-starting. Even if I could hire someone to tend them during the day, I will no longer be able to isolate myself to a safe degree. I will be coming in contact with dozens if not hundreds of students, depending on what our school day looks like.

Having August 1 as a target date is simultaneously comforting and distressing. It is comforting to my parents when they are anxious about imposing on me. My mother especially fears igniting in me the resentment she felt while caring for my father's aging mother and her own elderly parents.

I assure her there are significant differences between her experience and mine. My parents do not demand physical care; they are cheerful and appreciative; their stay is ultimately temporary. Repeating these facts to my mom makes her laugh a little.

But the countdown to August 1 is also distressing. This virus is not contained. Every day I read about the coming of the second wave this winter, doubling down with flu season. If moving them back to their care center amounts to out of the frying pan and into the fire, we'll need to consider moving them to the care of other family members, which involves the stress and confusion of another move, new routines, new challenges.

I keep hoping a good solution magically appears within the next weeks. Or, as I heard a certain someone say in February: like a miracle, the virus will disappear.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #96 Writing Through COVID-19: Father's Day

Tomorrow is Father's Day.

Before my parents moved in with me, I was under the impression their lives were pretty much over. They were living in a nursing home. I knew my dad's heart was weak. My mom's memory was slipping.

My dad, age 30. I'm the baby.

But during their time here, I've learned how much life they still have in them. I know they are the pre-existing-conditions folk who are both most susceptible to the virus and also the ones a contingent of our country seems willing to "sacrifice" get the economy going again.

Having lived 90 years, they both admit they've had their share of earthly days.

But they are not in pain. They are not unhappy. They enjoy walking the dog, reading the paper, telling stories, watching movies, playing Bridge, talking to their children, blowing bubbles, reading books, writing emails, reading letters, remembering their courtship, sipping coffee, arguing over who's right, taking naps, reciting poems, re-telling stories, feeding the dog, remembering school days, working on puzzles, and eating bing cherries.

They appreciate the sunrise, clean sheets, honeybutter on toast, puns, the view of the corn, and a soft breeze.

They are generous in laughter and compliments. They have wonderfully soft skin.

These two people have lived productive, contributing lives. They've worked hard and uplifted many. I want them to live as many days as they can still comfortably enjoy.

If they contract COVID-19, they will have difficulty surviving it. Statistically, they would be expendable: 90-year-olds at the dusk of their lives.

But tonight, as I'm thinking about Father's Day, I want to focus on why I am glad my dad is still alive, and here with me.

Ten Things My Dad Can (Still) Do

1. Read a 600-page biography in a matter of days
2. Write stories about Alan, who was killed in the war
3. Explain why I shouldn’t have led that card 
4. Feed the dog
5. Apologize 
6. Cackle at his own jokes
7. Hold my mother’s hand
8. Listen to the whole of the person
9. Delight in a Klondike Bar
10. Recite the final stanza of "Thanatopsis" from memory:

“So live, that when thy summons comes…”

Enough.

Stay well.

Write.

Allison

Day #95 Writing Through COVID-19: Cross Words

For years my mother cooked low-fat, low-salt (tasteless!) meals for my dad. She likes to claim her conscientious meal prep added years to his longevity. She may be right; he has lived longer than any of his brothers. His longest-living sister is now 104.

Here at my house, my goal is for my parents to enjoy every meal to its fullest. This means I aim for tasty, colorful plates with lots of fruits and vegetables. But it also means I do not scrimp on butter, cream, salt, and sugar! At 89 and 90, with dementia and a very weak heart, my parents have succeeded at longevity. I now want them to succeed at mealtime pleasure.
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This afternoon I again invited my mom to do a crossword puzzle with me. I read the clues. She offered her best guesses. My dad and I chimed in only if she struck out, which wasn't often. She sometimes went on four- and five-clue streaks of right words.

But when she occasionally struggled for an answer, I sensed she thought the activity was testing her in some way. That is, when she didn't know the answer, she seemed disappointed in herself, her mind.

I want our game time to be engaging and fun. But I realized today that she might feel as if I'm quizzing her, testing her, trying to push her to higher mental functioning.

I do not offer crosswords to my mom as the mind-longevity equivalent to saltless potatoes. Reversing--or even slowing--her dementia is not really a goal.

I offer activities as I offer buttered croissants: pleasure.

I'm taking crosswords off the menu.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #94 Writing Through COVID-19: New Learning (Or Bridge, Revisited)

When I turned 60 in December, I was sad to bid my 50s goodbye. I'd loved that decade, during which I'd learned to ride a unicycle, crochet, and play the accordion. I'd begun writing poetry. I felt wise but not old. Physically strong. At ease with myself.

How can my 60s top that? They probably won't. But during the past few weeks, as my dad's been teaching me to play Bridge, I've felt a welcome surge of happiness: I am again learning a new skill.
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Last month, knowing my dad was missing his Bridge group back at Friendship Haven, I found an online Bridge site for him. And since he needed help with the computer, I was at his side while he played. I began asking questions. He explained why he was making this bid or leading that card.

I soon found myself clicking on a tutorial section for beginners. As I progressed through modules, I read parts aloud to my dad, quizzed him on terminology and asked for further explanation.

Computer Bridge became one of my mid-afternoon diversions of choice. It not only provided my dad a chance to play the game he loves, and slide into the role of expert, it also was fun for me.
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Then yesterday my dad kicked it up a notch: he invited me to try 3-handed Bridge. This involved my mom, who has played the game for decades, but never to my dad's level of skill or enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, my mother is, in her bones, a good sport. If she was game, so was I.

So yesterday we made our first attempts at a complicated version of a complicated game. One player (Dad) knew what he was doing. One player (me) barely knew what she was doing. One player (Mom) immediately forgot what she was doing.

But we had fun! My parents indulged my second-guessing and need for clarification on esoteric moves; my dad and I accommodated Mom's need for ongoing reminders of which suit was trump; my mom and I endured Dad's penchant for over-explaining each card we'd misplayed.

In other words, we granted each other maximum grace in order to keep our Bridge Lite game afloat. Our tenuous arrangement required all of us to give a little. The dynamic was in balance: we also got our own needs met.
---------------------------------

Tonight my parents ate supper early: bratwurst on fresh Hy-Vee buns, steamed broccoli with brown rice, baby greens salad, and a bowl of tiny fresh strawberries from the farmers market! (Obviously, I'm in need of some positive reinforcement.)

This gave us a 45-minute window before Klondike Bars and movie time.

"Would you like to play some 3-handed Bridge?" I asked.

My dad agreed eagerly. My mom came along for the ride. We then laughed and scolded each other through another three deals. When my dad won, he gloated. My mother quipped, "Have you ever seen a head so big?"

"He may be the winner," I said, "but he has no friends!"

My mother and I shared full-throated laughs while my dad couldn't help smiling himself.
--------------------------------

Our 3-handed Bridge was unorthodox. We bantered and rescinded bids and engaged in outrageous table talk. At one point my dad devolved into a labyrinthic explanation of why I shouldn't have led a particular card. I glanced over at my mom, who has listened to my dad pontificate on the fine points of Bridge for 65 years. Her eyes were glazed over.

It was then I realized the similarity of learning Bridge and learning grammar: both are layered and complex. Very few rules are absolutes. Words (and bids) change their parts of speech (or meaning) based on how they're used in a sentence (or what has previously been bid).

Just when my students finally understand that "affect" is a verb and "effect" is a noun,  I have to tell them that (sorry) this is not always the case.

Bridge feels like that!
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My dad was still excitedly explaining the reasoning behind my mother's and my erroneous moves.

"That may be so," I teased him, "but no one's listening to you!"

We all three laughed. And then we put the deck away for the night.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Day #93 Writing Through COVID-19: Bad Options

At this time, my first day of school is set for Aug. 19. It's likely to be moved up, as we'll need extra training for whatever our new school day will look like.

If we return as normal, or with a hybrid-version that has kids come half-time (teachers teaching full time) for social distancing, I will be in contact with more people in a single week than I have in total since March 13.

If we go to online school, it will be mandatory and structured, stressful and time-consuming. I can do it, but I don't think I can do it AND take care of my parents at the same time.

This means that come August, isolating my parents in my basement will no longer be workable. They are here now because I can offer them a buffer to the world through hyper-vigilant minimizing of my own contact with others. That won't be the case if I'm back in the classroom.

The second reason they are here is to buoy them mentally and socially, since all their friends in their care facility are quarantined in their rooms. If I am teaching, I will no longer be able to spend an hour at breakfast listening to their stories. Or dream up mid-morning games and activities. Or spend a chunk of the afternoon fiddling with a jigsaw puzzle, playing bridge, or vacuuming Vern's dog hair.

The fact is we will need to go to Elderly Parents in a Pandemic Plan B in early August.

But we don't have a Plan B.

What we have are miserable options, each with drawbacks.

OPTION 1: Keep them here and quit my job, which I won't do.

OPTION 2: Move them back to Friendship Haven where they will face the same situation we moved them out of three months ago (except now there are at least two active cases of the virus on the campus--one resident, one worker).

OPTION 3: Move them in with one of my four siblings. The reason they are with me now is that I have the space, setup, and time (given that my school was cancelled) to accommodate them. The other four have varied and legitimate reasons they cannot house my parents.

Each day this quandary takes up more of my brain space. My parents were troopers in adjusting to their sudden uprooting in March. I do believe they feel at home in my basement now. I wish they could stay here until it is safe to move back to Friendship Haven, so they could avoid the turmoil of re-homing.

I need to begin conversations with my siblings about the plan for August, but five people arguing the pros and cons of three bad options sounds even worse than just struggling through it on my own. So for at least a couple more weeks, I'm biding my time.
---------------------------

We read poems by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON this morning. We played three-handed bridge. We took a mid-afternoon popsicle break, worked on a new puzzle, walked around the yard, had lamb chops (lamb chops!) for supper, and talked about bats.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #92 Writing Through COVID-19: Dan Snaps

Maybe this should be titled Bat Shit Crazy.

Two of our children are living in our old house 1/2 mile down the road right now. Harrison is farming with us, and Palmer is on summer break from teaching in Denver. For the past few weeks, they've been complaining of scratching in the walls, a bad odor, and stains on an upstairs closet ceiling. Bats.

Dan is trying to spray, keep the 50-year-old baler working for Harrison's haybale project, deal with (another) truck breakdown, get grain moved, shoot the raccoon the dog has cornered on the front porch...you get the picture.

Dan sometimes complains that everyone expects him to fix everything around here. We do. But that's because he insists on fixing everything: the doorknob, the microwave, the accordion, the baler, the semi. He also feels compelled to weigh in on decisions big and small: how to load the hayrack, how to weed the garden, when to mail my contract, how to mow the headland, when to shut the refrigerator door (now).

Granted, he knows more about this stuff (and certainly CARES more) than the rest of us do. But if he is the hub of the fix-it wheel, it's because he's put himself there.
--------------------------

So naturally, my kids turned to him to solve the bat problem. But (see paragraph 3) he didn't want to hear about it. They kept talking about it. He told them it wasn't a problem. They said it was.

Then last night, the kids sat in lawn chairs in their yard and counted 35 bats emerging from The Bat Hole on the roof (#COVIDentertainment). Their Internet search told them not every bat will come out each night, but at this time of year, bats in a colony are all mothers with an average of two baby bats apiece. In other words, we have a Major Bat Infestation* on our hands.
--------------------------

There were a few bats in the old house 15 years ago when we lived there. Once one got into a bedroom and Dan threw out his back trying to capture it under a blanket. It is a traumatic family memory we'd all like to forget. What's going on down there now is a whole new level of Bat Crazy.

Today, confronted with stats from the 35 Bat Exodus, even Dan had to admit something would need to be done. So at lunchtime (while Palmer sunned herself on the back deck), Dan researched Bat Removal.
--------------------------

Do you know about bats? They are wonderful creatures that eat bugs and deserve our love and affection. But they also create mounds of guano (great word to know for crossword puzzles) and loads of piss that will destroy your house from the attic down if the residence incurs a Major Bat Infestestation.*

I will not go into the details of Bat Removal, though you're welcome to read about it here.
---------------------------

What you need to know for now is that no quick, cheap, easy Bat Removal methods exist, and the slow, expensive, complicated methods must be done outside of the protected "mothering season" of summer, when Bat Mothers are tending their Bat Babies, and removing the mothers causes the babies to basically turn into wall-crawling vampires, serving up histoplasmosis and rabies to all within their path (something like that).

None of this calmed Dan in his agitated mood. He shouted at Palmer on the deck, telling her to "get in here" and look at a site he had pulled up.

She snipped, "SAY 'PLEASE.'"

He didn't.

She left.
------------------------------

Then Dan snapped.

"How long are your parents going to be here?" He (loudly!) wanted to know.

I know this doesn't make sense. How did we go from Bats to Parents in the Basement?

Similar to my plunger snap two days ago, there was an invisible buildup to this moment.

Dan misses his cozy basement recliner and TV. He likes to pick up his OWN mail from the mailbox at noon, rather than find that my parents have shoved it under the dusty doormat (as he had moments before his snap). He's a bit jealous of all the time I spend with my folks. And if the old house is unsafe to live in (that dang histoplasmosis), shouldn't our kids move into our basement (currently occupied by you know who)?

Mostly, like all of us, he is sick and tired of COVID-19, manifested by the two benign nonagenarians in our basement.

At this point in our well-volumed "conversation," the clock struck noon, meaning (you guessed it!) time to feed my parents! I threw their pizza and green beans (and fresh plums!) on a tray and headed to the basement.

As is often the case, they were oblivious to the time and were happily reading the paper. The table wasn't set. I plopped the tray on their table and said, "Enjoy your lunch!" then left without helping them prepare for the meal.

This was the first time in their 87 days here that I have not made sure they had their milk poured, their silverware in place, their condiments aligned. I know they managed fine without me, and they may not have even noticed my lack of attention. But I did.
-------------------------------

Tonight as I'm writing this, I got a text exchange from my kids:

Enough.
I said ENOUGH.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #91 Writing Through COVID-19: $1.61 per day

My mother and I worked on a puzzle while my dad reconciled his bank statement.

"It looks like you haven't given any money to charity since we moved down here," he said to my mom.

The two of them bobbled this idea back an forth, deliberating the unexpected $160 surplus in my mom's checking account.

Like so many of their conversations, this one progressed haltingly as they each flung fragments of ideas, loosely related:  Were they getting their mail? (They are.) Had her charities solicited her? (They had.) Then why hadn't she sent them any money? Oh, my dad remembered, they did not bring my mother's checkbook with them when they came from Ft. Dodge. Mystery solved.
---------------------------

This topic sparked a memory for my mom: "Your father always gave me an allowance," she simpered, as if revealing a romantic secret. "I called it my mad money. Every month he gave me $50 spend however I chose!"

My father, across the room in his chair, did not chime in, but my mother went on: "I got to choose what I wanted to spend it on, and I didn't have to ask for his approval!" She was beaming, delighted with the happy memory of her "allowance."

I gritted my teeth and focused on the puzzle to hide my eye roll.
--------------------------

Every marriage is an enigma. By many standards, my parents' 65-year union is a success. But I cannot imagine the power imbalance in a partnership where one holds the purse strings and "gives" an "allowance" to the other.  It made me cringe.

What made it worse was my mother's palpable pleasure in extolling my dad's generosity. She was telling me this with pride, and I was hearing it with a shudder.

I wanted to say, "Wow. He GAVE you $1.60 a day? What a guy."

I'm not mad at my dad. But I am sad to think that my "liberated" parents have for years shared this paternalistic model of financial decisionmaking.

We've come a long way, baby?

It's taking too long.


Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #90 Writing Through COVID-19: I Snapped

Sundays are the only day of the week I don't start my parents' day with a poem. Instead, I set their breakfast tray alongside my laptop so they can participate in their Zoom Sunday School Class. An hour later I switch them over to watch their church service on Facebook.

While my parents worshipped this morning, I bent to the god of long, slow distance and ran four glorious miles on the T-Bone Trail. I love this part of summer. My running routine is falling into place. The temperatures are still bearable. The green is exotic.
----------------------

So I felt good when I got home from the run. I had 20 minutes in front of me to relish the endorphins while reading on the deck before preparing (another! another!) meal.

I do enjoy serving my parents well-balanced meals, and doing so has provided needed structure to my days. I've discovered that for breakfast, my dad only drinks coffee--unless I bring him a toasted muffin or bagel. My mom eats a bowl of cereal, but will also drink orange juice and slice up a banana if one is available. For lunch and supper, I make sure they have all the food groups. (My parents hearken to that dated, but basically solid model of the healthy eating.) My parents are on the slim side. Keeping them eating well is important. Providing variety and flavor, while using up the leftovers, is almost a game!

But I have not had a break for the past 84 days. That means I have prepared and delivered (attractively! creatively!) 252 consecutive meals, times two, since I then lay out a similar meal for my husband and myself upstairs.
-------------------------

So yes, meal prep has been a pleasant and purposeful part of my days during this interminable quarantine. But too much of a good thing is still Too Much.

I tell you this because this morning I may have already been feeling an undercurrent of resentment that my post-run relaxation would be drawn to a close by the demands of lunch when my mom called from the basement: "Alli, can you bring down a plunger?"
------------------------

Let's examine this next layer of resentment.

I have celebrated many things about my parents living with me during the pandemic. But I am not a saint. At least in this moment, I don't think I could willingly tend my parents if their physical needs were intimate and messy.

A call for a plunger was not what I wanted to hear as I relaxed after my run.
-----------------------

Nevertheless, I took a plunger downstairs, bracing to perform the needed plumbing task, when my dad met me at the door to the bathroom and said he'd take care of it.

I abdicated plunger duty to my feeble and faltering father. He headed toward "the problem" while I gathered the remains of their breakfast onto a tray.

Only a couple of flushes later, my father emerged from the bathroom, victorious, proudly announcing success in the de-plugging endeavor.

Frankly, I didn't want to hear about it.

"At first I just plunged straight down," my dad began.

(TOO MUCH INFORMATION) blared my inner thoughts.

"Then I went at an angle," my dad continued.

And as if he needed a visual reenactment, he pushed the plunger against the floor--my carpet!--to demonstrate.

I SNAPPED.

"STOP!" I used a tone of voice buried deep within me these past 12 weeks. "PLEASE!" I shouted before bringing my reaction back under check. "Don't put that on the floor...." my message trailed off as my dad lifted the wet plunger off the carpet, where it had collected a fringe of Vern's omnipresent dog hair.

I felt myself recoil. I almost gagged.

My dad sheepishly halted his demonstration while I tried to soften (but not entirely) my reaction with a joking tone.

For crying out loud. Who pushes a wet plunger into the carpet?
------------------------

This evening I brought my parents a supper of chicken breast on a bed of rice pilaf (with corn and peas), steamed broccoli, fresh mango and apple slices.

When I came down an hour later with my mother's evening meds, they were still at the table, having finished nearly all of their meal.

"Did you enjoy the mango?" I asked.

"Oh! I didn't know that was mango," my mom said. "I thought that was peaches."

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #89 Writing Through COVID-19: A Wedding; Tenderness in Decline

My parents have been living with me now for twelve weeks. At this time there are two confirmed cases of COVID-19 in their care center: a patient in one wing, and an employee in the building my parents lived in. Webster County has 95 confirmed cases; Cass and Audubon each have 13.
-----------------------

This afternoon I dressed up (earrings! lipstick!) to attend an online wedding. I didn't realize until it started that the video feed was mono-directional. I looked nice for no one but myself and my daughter who joined me for the ceremony on the porch where we could avoid breathing each other's air.

It was lovely to sit outside and watch a dear friend's daughter say her wedding vows. All the wedding feels were there--just distanced. And it did me good to scrub up a little.
----------------------

Most evenings, I help my parents choose a movie to watch. Usually, my dad makes the selection and my mom demurs, both because this has been the dynamic of their relationship for 65 years, and also because she will watch anything and not remember it the next day.

But tonight my dad planned to do some writing on the computer, so the movie choice was up to Meredith. I clicked onto Amazon Prime. We were presented with a list of films that "ACCORDING TO YOUR VIEWING PREFERENCES" we'd likely enjoy.

I clicked on a "West by Orphan Train" as a possibility.

"I've seen this one," she said.

She hasn't. She did, however, watch "The Railway Children" a few days ago. I clicked past it without arguing.

The next description began with "During Stalin's reign of terror..." That was all I needed to see. Click.

Then "Breathe," a film that claimed to bring to life "an inspiring true love story..." After 12 weeks of living with these nonagenarian lovebirds, I know the only love story my mom wants to think about his her own. Click.

"Barn Red" looked like a contender. "Ernest Borgnine gives one of his best performances in this heartwarming, award-winning drama ...(about) a simple farmer who refuses to sell his family farm..."

"I've seen that one," she said again. (Not possible.)

When we previewed  "Mokolai" about a priest who worked on a remote island tending people with leprosy, I thought we'd nailed it. My mother, the organizer of the United Methodist Church School of Missions every year for as long as I can remember, should have jumped at this film. Religion! Documentary! Leprosy! Instead, she gave it a shrug. I clicked on.

We looked at a film about Holocaust survivors and my mom said, "They all look old. I look at old people every day."

She dismissed the 1968 "hilarious true story" of "Yours, Mine and Ours" by saying "Hilarious for whom?"

On we clicked. As I read the descriptions, she either dismissed it as "seen it" or shrugged it off with indifference.
---------------------------

This is why writing is important. After 10 minutes of clicking through rejected movies, I should have felt frustrated.

"Barn Red"? She'd seen it.

"Saint Ralph"? Yawn.

Instead, I watched our slice of life, June 13, 2020, unfold. I would put it on a page.
----------------------------

When my children were young, I watched intently each day to see their new thinking. At two, Brigham called the toilet paper tube a "bone" and I delighted in her clever metaphor. I remember Eloise at four explaining that yes, she was the one who had drawn with marker on the furniture, but  she'd done it because she "didn't have any manners."

These silly and confusing moments of growing were treasures to me.
----------------------------

Is it possible to watch my parents' decline of mental function with a sense of wonder and appreciation of the body's arch, rather than with only dismay? How can I tilt my lens to accept my mother's and father's denouements as gracious patterns in the human experience?

Is it possible to honor lives well lived by holding moments of decline with tenderness?

I want to try.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #88 Writing Through COVID-19: Swimming and Wrestling, Tragedy, and Finally Bubbles

At breakfast, I read aloud the first two sections of "I Sing the Body Electric" by Walt Whitman while my parents ate English muffins with mango-peach jam I bought at yesterday's socially-distanced farmers market.

My favorite lines:

"The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water"

and 

"The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work."

You see, my mother loved to swim. She learned while at college and eventually became a lifesaving instructor. My dad was flailing and awkward in the water. On Friday Family Nights at the YMCA. He tossed us in the shallow end while our strong-bodied mother swam laps, all the strokes.

 
My dad was a wrestler. Buffalo Center did not have a wrestling team, but when he was at University of Iowa, he joined the team and even got to wrestle once or twice. When we were little, he'd wrestle with us on the living room floor. I knew lots of the terms and moves when I became Ft. Dodge Senior High's first female wrestling manager in 1977. 

------------------------

After lunch, my dad read us a piece of writing he's been working on the past few days. It was a heartwrenching story from his early years as a doctor. 

An older doctor, a surgeon and a mentor, told my father he wanted to tell him about his hardest experience in medicine. Before he told the story, he asked my dad to promise to not ask questions or refer to the episode after its telling. 

My dad nodded, and then sat silently as the man told of surgery to set the arm of a 12-year-old who had experienced a compound fracture while sliding into home plate and crashing into the catcher's mitt.

Twenty minutes into the surgery, the boy's heart stopped. When shocking the heart failed to get it beating, the doctor sliced into the boy's chest, pushed apart his ribs, and hand-compressed the heart to keep blood circulating. Every few minutes he paused to see if the child's heart was yet beating on its own.

When the doctor's hand cramped with exhaustion, the anesthesiologist took over. The two then alternated, for more than 30 minutes, before accepting defeat.

The doctor then had to tell the parents their son had died. The mother collapsed wailing: "It was only a broken arm! It was only a broken arm!"

------------------------

This evening I heard Vern barking, which drew my attention to the window. On the back lawn were my parents, blowing bubbles on what was perhaps the most perfect Iowa evening of the year.



Bubbles 2020





Bubbles 1985


Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Day #87 Writing Through COVID-19: A Bike Wreck, a Missing Letter, Asparagus, Bubbles.

My daughter Palmer and I exercised on the nearby trail this morning. I ran a glorious three miles at a 12-minute pace. There was a time I would have been ashamed at such sluggishness, but now I'm proud of it. Age does that to you.

Meanwhile, Palmer rode her bike for 20 minutes before turning around to head back. Shortly after her turn-around, she reached up to adjust her headphones and went down hard on the asphalt. Bloodied on her right shoulder, elbow, hip and thigh, she got up, put the chain back in place, and biked back to our parked car, where I was waiting. 

We headed home to clean her up.

The gash on her elbow looked nasty, so we asked my dad to come outside for a masked and distanced evaluation. He said she needed stitches. He also quipped, "You can't sue me for malpractice because I no longer have a medical license!"  

Eight stitches later, Palmer, bruised and achy, is on the mend. We're glad she was wearing a helmet. 

-----------------------------

While Palmer and I were on the trail, my mother received a phone call from her old neighbor, a pleasant day-brightening surprise. 

But later in the afternoon, I found my mom agitatedly searching through her bedroom. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"I'm looking for a letter. I got it yesterday. It was a good one," she scowled in frustration. 

It is in her times of confusion that she seems most unhappy with living here. It's as if she thinks if she were back in her own place, she would know where her letters were, she could do her own laundry, the paper would come on Sundays, and she wouldn't be confused. 

This isn't true, of course. She would still be confused. And she would still feel embarrassed and angry in her confusion. But when it happens here on Eagle Avenue, this location absorbs the blame. 

"Who was the letter from?" I asked. 

"My old neighbor. It was a good letter. I want to read it again." 

Of course, there was no letter. What she was misremembering was the phone call from a few hours before. My dad, busy at the computer, seemed all too willing to let me guide my befuddled mother back to a happier here and now.

I don't blame him. Helping my mother out of her confusion takes patience, cajoling, and an abundance of delicate maneuvers calibrated in response to her tone of voice and facial expressions.

My dad lives with my mother's confusion 24 hours a day. It must be exhausting to have her so frequently repeating herself, mixing up memory slices, asking questions already answered. He needs a break too. 

"I know you had a good phone call from your neighbor this morning," I said, guiding her from the bedroom toward the lightness of the main living area. "I wonder if that phone call felt like a letter," I suggested, hoping she could see where the confusion transpired and exit with her ego intact.

"I think it was a letter," she said, now uncertain. 

I subtly adjusted my sails in this finicky wind. "I bet it was good to hear from her," I said, focusing on the content of the conversation rather than on the mode in which it was delivered.

But the fact is, my mom couldn't really remember what was said in the conversation, only that it made her feel good. This was why she was hunting for the letter in the first place. 

She said nothing.  

But now we were in front of the windows, and the green Iowa farmland stretched under a bright blue sky. "Would you like to check the asparagus patch with me?" I asked gently, hoping some fresh air would dispel the dusty disappointment of her letter search.  

It did. 

At the asparagus patch, she told me (again) how to bend the stalk to allow it to snap. She found three spears. I found one. We ate them raw as we walked back toward the house, laughing at how there is not a more delicious treat than asparagus, fresh from the garden. 

"Would you like to blow some bubbles?" she asked as we reached the door. 

Of course. 

We took turns with the bubble wand. We said the same things we always say while blowing bubbles: 

"How pretty!" 

"How perfectly round!" 

Enough. 

Be well. 

Write. 

Allison

Day #86 Writing Through COVID-19: "Middle Passage" and Energy Crisis Revisited

This morning my parents and I listened to a recording of Robert Hayden reading his wrenching poem about the slave trade "Middle Passage" as we followed along with the printed text. The poem is in the style of Elliot's "The Wasteland," with multiple voices telling layered stories. It is not easy. But as I tell my students, if we can enjoy songs without understanding every word, we should grant that same grace to poetry.

The Black Lives Matter protests of the past two weeks have pulled open our nation's eyelids. There is so much work to be done to right the wrongs that allow racist policies and practices to flourish. No one person can reform and heal our country. But we can each start by listening to stories other than our own. Reading Black authors and poets is an important part of the re-education we must commit to if our country is to have hope of righting racist wrongs.

I urge you to listen to this recording Robert Hayden reading "Middle Passage" as a small step forward. Let the imagery and pain of this important poem wash over you.
--------------------------

Today my mother (again) washed a few undergarments by hand and then was (again) fretful when she discovered I don't have a clothesline. I reminded her (again) that I am happy to throw her laundry in with ours. As I type this, I realize I could make a certain someone in my basement very happy if I would just jump on Amazon and buy a skein of clothesline and a pack of clothespins.
--------------------------

I grew up during the '70s energy crisis, when Americans were called upon to lower their driving speed to 55 mph and reserve energy however they could. My mother embraced this call for action with the self-sacrificing-doing-my-part attitude I see myself enacting in COVID-19.

As her teenager, my fingers always felt cold, no matter how many layers of sweaters I put on, because she kept the house at 62 degrees (doing her part). I was embarrassed as she rode her 3-wheeled bike all over town, hauling groceries and library books to avoid using gasoline (doing her part). I was angry that she refused to let me dry my jeans in the dryer for the tight fit fashion called for, and instead hung them on the line where they dried stiff as cardboard (doing her part).

Her environmentalism may have hatched in the '70s, but it has since flown circles around the rest of us. She dresses in a wardrobe purchased from GoodWill and the church rummage sale (doing her part). She shops the "nearly expired" produce section. She. Does. Not. Waste. Anything.
-------------------------

As an adult, I have felt alternately guilty and satisfied when I've turned up the thermostat to comfortable levels. I use a clothes dryer. I recycle (lite), but I don't compost my garbage. I do not willfully litter or over-consume. But my mother has me beat hands-down when it comes to living lightly on this planet.

Thinking about it, I should not jump on Amazon and order my mother a clothesline and clips. I should find these items used at GoodWill.

Enough.
Be well.
Write. You'll be surprised at what you uncover. Share your stories with me.

Allison

Day #85 Writing Through COVID-19: Shipwrecked

Over the past several days, I read my parents Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner." This seven-part poem was assigned to me during college, I'm sure, but that doesn't mean I actually read it. I only remembered the most famous lines ("Water, water, everywhere/ Nor any drop to drink!") and a skeleton of the plot: a crazed old seaman corners a wedding guest and pours out his mystical tale of albatross and woe.

Reading my parents a poem each morning has allowed me to revisit works I haven't read for years, or haven't read at all, alongside attentive (albeit captive) classmates.

This morning we paused in our reading of the final section to look up definitions of shrieve (archaic "shrive," meaning confession/penance/absolution) and kirk (meaning church). Did our love of words grow from our love of literature, or vice versa? Chicken-or-the-egg, folks.
-----------------------------

On Saturday, our second day into "Mariner," my dad said the poem reminded him of one he read in his youth, about a sailor who was shipwrecked for years, then returned and, looking through the window, realized his wife had remarried and was living a new life. I searched "shipwrecked husband whose wife marries a new man poem" and the first hit was "Enoch Arden" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Bingo!

As we read "Enoch Arden," my daughter Palmer called. When I explained what we were up to, she said, "Oh! You've got to watch 'Cast Away'!"

So that's what we did Saturday night! Next, we dove into some online research and learned that "Enoch Arden" was based on a true story, and "Cast Away" was likely influenced by "Enoch Arden." For kicks, I threw in my own retelling of "The Odyssey," maybe the oldest of man-lost-at-sea stories.
----------------------------

One of the things I love about teaching English is the invitation to explore how writers and thinkers process experiences and use words to translate their thoughts and feelings into stories, poems, and films that then challenge us to both explore others' lives and reflect upon our own.

School is out for the summer in Atlantic. But out here on Eagle Avenue, three lifelong learners are still cracking the books. Tomorrow, we will revisit "Middle Passage" by Robert Hayden. It's time.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #84 Writing Through COVID-19: Reflecting on "Friendly Town," Unintentional Racism, and Shame

I've lived in a bubble of White America my entire life. At age 60, I am now realizing I have mistakenly believed the goal was to "not be racist."  Ibram X. Kendi's book, "How to Be an Antiracist" along with "White Fragility" by Robin DiAngelo and Michael Eric Dyson (both books are temporarily out of stock, which might tell you something) have forced upon me some much-needed reckoning.

Kendi asserts that actions and words allowing systemic inequality to thrive are, by definition, racist. He urges us to stop running from the word "racist" and instead accept it as a descriptor of very real and prevalent policies that keep inequality in place. Once we see the word "racist" as describing systems that maintain or promote inequality, we can move on to "antiracist" to label actions and words that demand policies that right years of wrong.

Kendi examines how his own parents raised him with assimilation attitudes to "better himself" and "lift up his race." He then goes on to explain how such attitudes are, in fact, built on the racist thinking that puts races on a hierarchy, and then tells one race to assimilate (behave more like another). Anti-racist thinking demands acknowledging the racism in hierarchical thinking. We must tear down the systems and policies that prevent equal opportunity and treatment for all people (and there are many).

My intent is not to summarize Kendi's book here, but to introduce my recent thinking about the tendency of well-meaning people in my parents' generation--as in mine--to believe that refraining from overt racism was the goal (a goal made easier if people of color acted "more White"). As I talked with my sister Adrienne about this, she reminded me of the summer our family participated in "Friendly Town," a program that brought inner-city children into White communities for a month of "experience."

Bobette and Connie were the 14-year-old Black girls who lived with us for a few weeks in the summer of 1972. Adrienne, who was their age, remembers it more clearly than I do. Bobette and Connie braided her waist-length brunette hair almost daily. They told her they loved its smoothness. They tried to twist the ends to finish the braids, as they could their own, but Adrienne's hair was slippery and wouldn't hold without a rubber band. They put Vaseline in their own hair to make it shine.

Adrienne also recounted a day she went shopping with Bobette, Connie, and our mom toward the end of their visit with us. Bobette and Connie slipped some candy and various sundries into their pockets, shoplifting undetected right under our mother's nose.

Adrienne--who had herself shoplifted at Wallgreens six months before!--knew from her own experience what would happen next: after confessing to our mom, Bobette and Connie would then need to return the merchandise and apologize, and then everyone would feel the sweet balm of forgivness! Ta-da! Adrienne took it upon herself to report the theft to our mom.

But unlike her stern reaction to my sister's shoplifting, my mother's response to our "Friendly Town" guests is now hazy in my sister's memory. "I'm pretty sure she didn't do anything about it," Adrienne said last night. "She just seemed so sad."

Adrienne said that years later when she asked her about it, our mom said the Friendly Town experience was a cruel mistake. To take Black children and dip them into White Life for a few weeks dripped with the judgment inherent in assimilation thinking: to be "better" is to be "more White."
----------------------------

On the continuum, my parents were more progressive than most in our community. They made well-meaning seasonal commitments to teach Bible School in "the flats," the mostly Black community who lived Ft. Dodge's flood zone of the Des Moines River; they invited the ONE Black teacher at Ft. Dodge Senior High to dinner at our house.

I can't chastise my parents' behavior; the truth is, in the 1970s, progressives were trying to "help" Blacks "be more White." My parents were using their hearts and hands to live out their valuing of people of all races, as they did when they led our church's effort to sponsor Vietnamese refugees at the end of the war.

Through a clearer lens of anti-racist thinking, I see that my parents' attitudes were well-intentioned, but underpinned with the racist thinking that the "goal" is for YOU to be more like ME.
-----------------------------

I am isolated on a farm in rural Iowa. But I am also listening to the voices of humanity crying out for change. I am reading books and reflecting on my past, my assumptions, and my potential for growth. I am trying to put all of this into words on a page. Eventually, I want to feel hope. But tonight, I'm feeling shame.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison