I'm Lucky (Anderson)

I’m lucky. I know that.

While the coronavirus swirls around and people are out of work or are working in jobs that bring them dangerously closer to the virus, I’m home. My days consist of Reading. Gardening. Cooking. Practicing yoga. Taking long walks or hiking in one of Northeast Ohio’s beautiful parks. Writing. Since I’m retired, my income has not changed, my health insurance is intact, and I am not required to be someplace…at a specific time.

When I “stick to my knitting” (i.e. doing only the things I just mentioned), I feel okay.

But each evening when I begin to consume news—radio (NPR, of course!), local and national TV news, and online articles—crushing reality seeps into my quarantine cocoon. And that’s when I reflect more deeply on my life.

To be clearer:  my life of privilege.

In my reflections, I have come to believe that any steps I take have minimal (if any) impact on the situations that plague me today. But as a “doer”—a person who wants and likes to solve challenges by taking action—I am unnerved by my feelings of helplessness. Yes, I wear a mask when I’m near other people. Yes, I social distance to the best of my ability. Yes, I wash my hands.

At best, those simple actions are just a matter of checking the boxes…

What I have not done is marched with protesters who justifiably want (need…expect…demand) our country to change the horrific blows leveled every day against our own citizens (not to mention the brutal “founding” of our nation that cruelly marginalized and successfully sought to devastate the Native Americans who lived here when “we” arrived). I also have done nothing from a political standpoint, save placing a pitifully few complaining phone calls to elected officials in Ohio—and a couple of emails praising Governor DeWine on his (and Dr. Amy Acton’s) handling of Ohio’s coronavirus pandemic.

I have done nothing to rail against the treatment of immigrants and immigrant children or threats made to displace our country’s Dreamers. I have not openly expressed my disgust over America’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Accord. I have not written letters to the editor of any newspapers. Nor have I done anything to make my voice heard on social media outlets.

My outrage—my fears—my love of this land and of all of the people who live and work here are only whispers sent into a cacophony of sound and soundbites.

And, so, I wear my mask. Wash my hands. Phone and write letters to the people I love, rather than visit them. Read. Garden. Cook. Meditate. Practice yoga. And write.

Oh, and…you can be sure…in November, I will vote. My one, small, screaming murmur of protest…enough.

Pam Anderson (pamelaranderson.org) is a lifelong Northeast Ohio resident and graduate of the NEOMFA Program. When she is not writing, she likes to observe the world by taking photos of windows, doors, and lightbulbs. Her poetry chapbook—Just the Girls—is now available from The Poetry Box Press.