I want the drugs. I need the drugs. Give me the drugs.

I am vaxxed and boosted. I am, in fact, hoping that a second booster for oldsters like me will be approved before my trip in May. I want to be loaded up with all the protection I can get.

My doctor — because she is a sensible and responsible professional and not an alarmist hypochondriac, terrified of getting Covid — has been telling me each time I email her about a second booster that I need to wait, that a second boost hasn’t been approved yet, hasn’t been shown to be helpful/necessary. And, each time we talk, I nod and agree that it’s best to wait … while inside I am screaming: GET THE DRUGS INTO MY BODY!!!

It’s still interesting to me how pro-vaccine I am. Or, to be more precise, how pro this vaccine I am. When vaccine talk first started in 2020, I was pretty certain I would wait a good long while before getting a shot. I wanted to wait until a lot of people had been vaxxed before I offered up my own precious self for some drug that would have been tested for about twelve seconds before being touted as the answer to our prayers. Did I want a vaccine? Yes. Did I trust Big Pharma or Caligula’s administration? Not hardly. I already have a strong, evidence-based distrust of the medical profession. There was no way I was going to raise my hand for experimental drugs.

Ha.

Fast forward to the moment it became possible to get a shot. When I say I would have elbowed kittens, Mr. Rogers, and the Dalai Lama out of my way to get my first shot, believe me. I didn’t think twice about signing up.

Same with the booster. The moment I was eligible, I was online booking a shot for the next morning. I got to the pop-up vax spot before the staff, sitting outside closed, empty trailers ready to roll up my sleeve and get my dose.

My trust of the medical profession hasn’t grown by leaps and bounds. It hasn’t grown at all. My recently canceled surgery and the lack of care that has come in the wake of that mess have shown me that I can be assured that the medical profession still doesn’t care a whit for me.

Clearly, however, my fear of Covid is stronger than my distrust of doctors and drug companies. I am acutely aware of how likely I am to have a terrible time with Covid, how much more likely I am to die from it. That fear is what makes it easy for me to stay masked, easy for me to follow all the protocols (and wish other people would, too). That fear is what sent me hurtling toward my first Moderna shot, and what has me desperate for a second booster.

I just saw an article saying the Biden administration is pushing for second booster for people over 50, and I am so here for it! It hasn’t been approved yet, and there are good-sounding reasons to maybe wait … but none of those reasons are stronger than my fear, none of those reasons can drown out the drumbeat of GET THE DRUGS INTO MY BODY!!

Fingers crossed.


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
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Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Serendipity or Divine Intervention?

At the last adult education program I ran, the program assistant used to smile and shake her head at me when she’d see my heart melting over some of our more in-need-of-a-hug students. My “benditos” she called them. (Don’t misunderstand: quiet as it was kept, her heart was just as squishy as mine. In fact, all of my benditos were hers, too.)

Admittedly, I was then and I continue to be a pushover, especially for young people who’ve been thrown away by the system — education, justice, employment, legislative. My heart yearns to adopt every last one of them. In that years-ago job, I had the opportunity to offer them kindness and acceptance, to give them a little bit of a soft place to land. And every time I bent a rule or gave one of those young people yet another chance, our program assistant would shake her head and smile. Because I was being my usual bleeding-heart self … and because she expected no less of me.

Some of my beloveds were able to find strong foot- and hand-holds and fight their way up from whatever was holding them down. Some weren’t. Or, were only able to go so far. All of them deserved so very much better than the hands they were dealt.

I left work tonight and walked a subway stop so I could get some more steps in. When I got to the train, I saw that I’d missed a call from the coworker I’d left in the office. Turned out, she’d locked herself out of the suite, so I walked back, went upstairs, and let her in.

When I left the building the second time, I contemplated getting on the train but decided to walk the stop again, get some more steps. (All told, I added about 1500 to my daily total with this extra to-ing and fro-ing.) I thought this story would be my story for tonight, short, kindly, done.

As I went down into the train, a deep voice called behind me, “Excuse me, miss, ma’am?” 

There was no way I wasn’t going to turn around at the landing. Unsure if I’m a miss or a ma’am? Yeah, that sounds like someone I’d have bent the rules for at my old job. That probably sounds silly, but I have a good gut instinct most days, and I trust it. I turned around.

A very young, slight man, grown-ish, but still more baby than brother, not nearly grown enough that he couldn’t have been my grandson.

He handed me a paper and asked if I could help him find the precinct noted in the upper right corner. “They just let me out and I’m trying to go get my stuff.” He took a step back from me. “I don’t need to touch your phone or nothing. I know how that goes. But maybe you could look it up?”

I did, found that the precinct he needed was nearly an hour away.

Let’s think about that. This kid was arrested for something. Was arrested in the neighborhood where that precinct is. They brought him downtown, I have to assume, for court. And they just released him because, I’m going to assume, whatever they’d arrested him for didn’t stick (or they had no good reason to arrest him in the first place but could so did). They brought him downtown to go to court and were so certain they’d get to keep him locked up, they didn’t bother to bring his things downtown with him. It’s winter. This baby had on a t-shirt and a wisp-thin hoodie. They didn’t even let him put on a damn coat. And then, when they didn’t get to put him back in jail, they just put him on the street all the way downtown, no money, no anything, just a piece of paper telling him where he could go to pick up his things.

We are, more often than not, a pretty hideously cruel species. What the actual fuck?

I told him the precinct wasn’t close, showed him what train he’d need to take to get there. We kept going down the stairs. I asked if he had money for the fare. He said no, that he figured he’d show the paper at the token booth and hope the agent was nice. I’m not saying that wouldn’t be possible, but we were going into an entrance that didn’t have a token booth. I told him I’d swipe him in. But then it turned out I didn’t even have enough money on my fare card to swipe myself in. I asked him to wait, so I could load up my card. Again, he stepped away from me, clearly wanting me to be aware that he wasn’t a threat to me, wasn’t going to try grabbing my wallet when I went to the machine. As if I would have been afraid of this kid. My gut had already passed judgment. I knew I was safe.

I put money on my card and swiped him in. He thanked me very sincerely. I told him I was happy to help. We heard his train coming. He put his hands over his heart, bowed a little, and ran down to the platform.

Obviously, my evening went exactly as it was supposed to. I was supposed to walk the subway stop rather than get immediately on the train so that I was above ground to get the message from my coworker so I could walk back and let her into the suite. I was supposed to walk the subway stop again so that I’d be the person heading into the station in front of that sweetheart of a boy who needed a little kindness to send him on his way.

I accept that, the serendipity of all of that.

What I don’t accept is the casual lack of care with which that boy — and far too many boys and girls like him — was treated. For him to be turned out onto the street after his trip to court is ugly. You know you’ve taken him far from home, far from an area that is familiar to him, far from his belongings. And yet you throw him out like so much chaff. Into a winter night when he has no coat. As if you hope he jumps a turnstile to get himself home so that you can arrest him again. As if you don’t want him to have a chance. As if he is worth not the briefest nanosecond of thought.

How could you not see his soft eyes? How could you not hear his warm voice? How could you not notice the way he moved his body so carefully to make sure you would know he was not a threat? How could you not feel the knife in your heart when he hunched into himself, ready for sharp rejection when he asked for help?

If Linda had been with me tonight, she would have shaken her head and smiled. She would also have put that boy in the backseat of her car and driven him to the precinct and then home. And not because she and I are the world’s biggest softies (though we might be) but because that boy was a boy, a child, a young person who deserved better than what he’d been handed. He was someone’s baby. And, for those few minutes we spent together at the Jay Street station tonight, he was my baby.


It’s the 15th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
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Continuous Passive Motion

Today, in a BIPOC antiracism group I co-facilitate, we talked about Atlanta, and one of the women in the group brought up the belief that Black people and Asian people don’t get along. She talked about some of the responses to the Atlanta attack that were coming up in her friend circles and in her family. And that conversation reminded me of this:

After my first knee surgery in 2016 (not my first knee surgery, but the first one I had that year … it’s a long and un-pretty story), I left the hospital and did the first couple of weeks of my recuperation in a really nice rehab facility in Manhattan’s Chinatown. Most of the nursing assistants in that place were Asian women. Many of the patients were Asian, too, but not all.

I had brought a lot of pass-the-time stuff with me, imagining that I’d need the distractions, that I wouldn’t just be doing physical therapy or sleeping, which is generally what one does after knee surgery. One of the things I brought with me was the baby blanket I was knitting for a friend’s newly-arrived first child.

Everyone was interested in my knitting. They would all ask what I was working on, and I’d tell them, and they’d say it was a nice gift. One morning, I’d gotten some super adorable pics of my friend and her baby, so when the first person asked me about the blanket, I decided to also show her the picture of the gift recipient. I pulled up the photo on my phone and handed it to the nursing assistant. She looked shocked, which wasn’t the response I was expecting. She turned the phone to face me.

“Your friend is Chinese!”

And that was true, but so? I acknowledged the yes, my friend was Chinese. She nodded and handed back my phone. “Wow,” she said quietly. I’m not sure she actually looked at the baby at all. I was puzzled, but let it go. I showed the picture to some of the other Asian women who took care of me and got almost the same response each time.

Months later, after my second knee surgery that year (as I said, a long and un-pretty story), I was back in the same rehab place. A friend had come to visit me, and then another friend arrived. Both are women I knew from my old job. The first woman who’d come by is white. The second woman who came by is Chinese — not the mother of the baby, whole different friend group. For the purposes of this story, I’ll call the white woman Anne and the Chinese woman Miao. While we were hanging out, one of the nursing assistants came in to check on me. She looked stunned to see Miao and immediately excused herself. Thirty seconds later, another assistant came to the room, got a look at Miao and dashed away. This continued. Maybe five or six more times.

Anne remarked on the incredible attentiveness of the CNA staff. It seemed pretty clear, however, that the staff were coming to see Miao with their own eyes, some in-the-flesh proof of my having Chinese friends. When I said this and told Miao and Anne about the baby photo, Miao nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s surprising that you have Asian people for friends. I was taught to think Black people don’t like us. Maybe they were, too.”

Which made me feel sad and naive at the same time. The idea that Black and Asian people don’t get along wasn’t new. I just hadn’t thought about it or seen it play out in such a glaring way in my own life.

my friends wondered if seeing Miao would mean I’d get better treatment. I waved that off as ridiculous, and am happy to say that I was proven right. I was already getting fabulous care. The only way they could have improved on their treatment of me would have been for one of them to morph into my mom and come sing me lullabies to put me to sleep each night.

The idea that Black and Asian people don’t like one another is absurd … or it should be. In the BIPOC group today, we talked about the ways anti-Black racism builds walls between groups, keeping everyone under its thumb, keeping everyone busy laying blame on one another rather than looking at White Supremacy. The careful and intricate constructions of racism keep doing their work, keep humming along under everything.

One of the tools used to support recuperation after knee surgery is a CPM machine: Continuous Passive Motion. You put your leg in this device and it moves your knee through its full range of motion until you turn it off. I both loved and hated that machine. And in our BIPOC group today, thinking about the shocked women in the rehab center, I made the connection that one of White Supremacy’s powerful tools is that it functions like the CPM machine. You don’t have to move a muscle. You are strapped into the apparatus, and it cycles you through the various ranges of hateful motion. It functions in the background with no need for your awareness and will continue to do so until you take deliberate action to shut it down.

When will we be ready to turn off that switch?


It’s the 14th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
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Original Slicer - GirlGriot

What I Didn’t Do

Content warning: Atlanta shootings

I had a crap day today. I’m overtired and cranky. I discovered a huge error in the big project we’re slogging through at work. There was a worsening of a pain in my right arm that feels distressingly similar to how my rotator cuff tear started four years ago. I left work too late to make it to the UPS store, which likely means it’s too late to return a nonsense purchase I made a while ago.

I had a crap day on Monday when I hurt my hip and smushed my finger in a door and had a snarky interaction with a neighbor who refuses to wear masks or respect socially-distant space.

I could have an entire blog dedicated to writing about the crap days I have. The days when I come home feeling defeated. The days when it’s hard to get out of bed because what’s the point when everything sucks. The days when I’m more sad, angry, lonely, tired, fed up than I am anything nicer. I generally have pretty good days, but I have quite a number of super-bad ones, too.

I don’t imagine I’m all that unusual. Don’t we all have crap days sometimes?

I had a lousy day. What I didn’t do was pretend that my unfortunate day was a reasonable catalyst for terrorism. What I didn’t do was go on a killing spree and explain my actions by saying I was in a bad mood. What I didn’t do was make my victims out to be villains who left me with no choice but to end their lives. Somehow I managed not to do any of that.

I had a crap day and this is what I did: some impulse grocery shopping when I was finally on my way home and got back here with watermelon, tortilla chips, and ice cream (hey, my binge doesn’t look like everybody’s binge). What I didn’t do, it bears repeating, was kill anyone and then blame them for my violence.

I’m not surprised that a police officer (one who has been revealed to be — surprise! — a racist) would talk about Robert Aaron Long’s act of domestic terrorism in a way that offered up excuses for the murder of eight innocent people. I’m not surprised that this racist police officer told the killer’s story and erased the victims from the narrative as easily as Long did with his racist, misogynistic violence. I’m not surprised. But I am, too.

I had a bad day. And it was made worse by the reverberations of this latest act of white male violence against people of color. Robert Aaron Long isn’t some lone wolf, some individual crazy guy who had a bad day, some unfathomable mad man. Long is one more in a line of violent white men we are asked to ignore over and over again. This morning I wrote on FB that he looks like all of his brothers — like Dylan Roof, like Tim McVeigh, like Biggo with his feet up on Nancy Pelosi’s desk, like every murdering incel. They all look alike, because they are all alike. And we are asked to ignore everything that is plainly similar about all of them, asked to pretend that each of them is a stand-alone case of mental illness rather than force the conversation about the violence of angry white men, rather than act.

I had a bad day, but I’m still here. I wish I could say the same for the eight innocents who were gunned down yesterday.


It’s the 14th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
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Original Slicer - GirlGriot

Mantra of the Mundane

Tomorrow I’ll be working at my office instead of at home. I’ve been going into the office once a week or once every two weeks for the whole of quarantine. I go because my plants are there, and they need regular watering. Yes, I could do what so many of my friends have had to do and just let them go, replace them whenever we’re back on site. I can’t do it, though. Can’t bear to surrender them to the pandemic. I’d love to be able to bring them home, but they don’t much like my apartment, and at least half of them aren’t cat safe, so in the office they stay … which means that to the office I go.

Rather than being a chore or a headache, having to go out pleases me. It’s nice to have a reason to be out and about every week. And my day in the great outdoors gets expanded by including all my errands — the post office, the bank, the drugstore.

Even with my regular runs to work, however, going out remains so foreign that I have to talk myself through getting out the door. At first, I would remind myself to put on a mask. A few false starts later, and I was reminding myself to don a mask, check for my keys and wallet … and put on shoes. Yes, shoes. That’s how unused to the world I’ve become in all these days and weeks and months of seclusion. I should probably add “contacts” to the list, too. I’ve gone out too many times and had to turn around when confronted with the blur of my surroundings.

The list is a kind of chant, a kind of song. Mask, keys, wallet, contacts, shoes. Mask, keys, wallet, contacts, shoes. The  most boring mantra in the history of mantras. I laugh at myself, but I need the crutch to keep myself from being half-dressed, fuzzy-sighted, and locked out!


It’s the 14th annual Slice of Life Story Challenge!
Head on over to Two Writing Teachers
and see what the rest of this year’s slicers are up to!

Original Slicer - GirlGriot