People ask me how I’m faring after three months in relative isolation. The answer is complicated, and changes as the hours drift along. So many days are a rerun of Monday, but Friday, my old friend, is ever the optimist. Weekend ahead! Party time!
Then my inner Dr. Fauci scolds me about social distancing as guidelines come from all directions: experts to the left of me, experts to the right of me. There’s Govs. Sununu and Scott, Fox News, MSNBC, the CDC and even Larry Kudlow, director of the U.S. National Economic Council, who says a second virus wave isn’t coming. I wonder if he could diagnose this minor pain in my side.
People my age take the risk seriously, not only because we fear ventilators, but also because we fret about Medicare billing. (Just wait until you get six pages of paperwork, double-sided, explaining why you owe the doctor $5.41.)
Right now fast times in the Upper Valley for seniors involve chatting in a circle of lawn chairs placed 6 feet apart. The luckiest among us still have good hearing. In this I am blessed. I can hear noises from two states from my deck in West Lebanon, thanks to the toots and clangs of the trains in White River.
But the “new normal” can be, to use an old boomer saying, kind of a drag.
When I do go out, mainly to grocery stores, the majority of people are what I consider “good,’’ that is, they wear a mask and keep their distance. But a fair number do not and I resent their aerosolized indifference.
When I walk daily in West Lebanon and White River Junction, some pedestrians take a very wide berth. They look wary, as if they are trying to work out in their mind why my face is familiar. They seem to be recalling mug shots or wanted posters.
Even the door-to-door missionaries have stopped knocking, similar to when our 90-pound German shepherd was still with us. Not only did he have a bark of thunder, he held extreme theological positions on the nature of good versus evil. He placed all unannounced visitors in the latter category, and free pamphlets about the afterlife or universal harmony could not change his mind.
Meanwhile, Google proposes snappy responses for Gmail inquiries, such as “Count me in!” when what I’d really like to say is “Although I’d rather be stung by a murder hornet, I’m willing to stream your video meeting if it’s necessary to preserve my social standing or my job status.”
Some think we will adjust to virtual familiarity, but I wouldn’t be happy in a world where my wife, Dede, and I connected from different parts of the house via Zoom. The mute button would only lead to troubles.
I understand that my fellow Americans have similar feelings of discomfort. The moorings of solid routine grow slack. The mood du jour shifts and surprises. Two steps forward, one step back, three steps to the couch and the cushions of despond.
But then tomorrow is another day, and the old normal stops by for a visit. So do pep and hope, two old chums from better times. Some days I wake up revived and ready to go, even if it feels there’s no safe place in the world to go to right now.
Which reminds me that we’re fortunate to live in the Upper Valley, with its green hills, healthy air and, in the main, social agreeableness. If you have to hunker down, this is a fine place to do it.
I don’t know how I feel about our distance from the epic national showdown over racism. I don’t even know if I have much to say. But this moment, I feel, is when white people need to shut up and listen. Listen to “Black Lives Matter” without trying to edit it — to “All lives matter” — to deflect, or perhaps soften guilt. Listen to the pain, anger, the recitation of a long line of tragedies. Listen to someone else’s truth. Offer no defenses, no counter-narratives. Listen, and take down the statues in your heart.
When I first heard of white privilege I resisted the label. I’ve worked hard, and my parents and their parents did as well. But they had obstacles that could be overcome. The nation sneered at Irish-Catholics when they first stepped off the boat, but it didn’t curse them forever.
I live in the Upper Valley where there are many jobs and many comforts, a land of milk and maple creemees. I sit and whine of confinement in a cozy house in a cozy place.
If that’s not privilege, what is?
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
