On the past two years
The passage of time, values, and normalcy
On March 31, 2020, in a fit of frustration and incredulity, I drew this little diagram.
The week before, I’d been laid off from my job. It was a month after I visited New York City for the first time with my husband and two kids. We had a wonderful time in the city (at least, I did) and the memory of that trip will be forever ingrained in my mind as, “The one where I saw NYC before the pandemic.”
Little did I know—as I’m sure many of you didn’t either—that in just a matter of weeks, the world would be turned upside down. Frankly, I was having trouble comprehending what was happening the day I drew that image.
It was supposed to be a temporary recluse, a way to remind myself to keep going, that all of it was temporary, and if I somehow figured out a way to manage my day through a checklist, then I’ll be okay. A semblance of normalcy mistaken for agency.
Of course, none of us had any agency over the coronavirus. It ravaged the world, killing millions of people, and changed all of our lives—some for the better, while others for the worst.
No matter what side you’re on, we can all agree that the pandemic changed all of us, one way or another.
This week, I was presented with some poignant reminders of time.
Someone reminded me that we are reaching two years of the pandemic. That we must move on from whatever “normal” is because it no longer exists.
Someone else reminded me that a normal day isn’t seared with vivid memories. It’s the mundane things that add up over time to create a big collage of experiences.
I don’t remember the last day I spent in an office working, but I suppose it was around this week two years ago. Perhaps March 10th? I do recall that by the second week of March, the principals (that is, the management of the company I was working for at the time) were talking about relinquishing the office space for a more remote-friendly option. Their IT department got busy with setting everyone up for home-based work. They’ll continue to be busy for months to come. Nobody else said anything, but we all knew what was coming.
In late April, after being unemployed for a month, and trying to grapple with the uncertainty of the future, I came upon something in the New Yorker’s Shouts & Murmurs section, which is their version of a humor column. It showed an image of a man hanging by a thread (symbolically true) while his cat rests underneath him in with a blasé look on its face as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The column made me laugh, for its about a man whose imagination has run wild while he attempts to write his novel.
“Danger followed him everywhere. Sometimes danger would get ahead of him and have to wait for him to catch up.
There was no telling when danger might strike. In the middle of the night, he might feel something crawling on him. Usually it was his cat, but sometimes it was something even more dangerous.”
I don’t know about you, but I feel like being stuck inside has allowed my imagination to run wild as well.
The next eight months became a blur. A blur that involved home schooling (which, like many parents, I will ill-prepared for), writing hundreds of cover letters and revising my resume for jobs more times than I can count, phone and virtual interviews that were more awkward than anything I’d ever done, decorating my house for holidays like Easter, Halloween, and 4th of July (I was never that kind of person) just because there was nothing else to do.
We even got a pandemic dog.
Every once in a while, we’d go to the river, and take the dog with us. She loved it. A bundle of high energy from the very beginning. I think it was the dog and the government assistance that made the act of staying home 100% more bearable. That, and having time with my kids.
I spent many months just trying to stay afloat. The majority of my day involved tending to my kids, trying not to go stir-crazy, all the while applying for jobs at companies that weren’t truly equipped to bring on a virtual employee, nor were they interested in hiring, period. I felt like they posted the job simply for the illusion of progress.
It was during this two-year period that I began to write more. I did what a lot of people did when the world shut down. They turn to the (online) paper and pen to cope with the myriad of feelings they were having. Many continued to write. Many did not. I think I fall into the former category.
Regardless of whether or not one continues to write for therapy, the fact remains: we’ve lost a lot. We’ve lost a lot of lives. A lot of socializing. A lot of opportunities to interact with people in person. A lot of intimate conversations. A lot of concerts, restaurants, events, festivals, and the like. A lot of chances to touch people, to hug them, to see them beyond their mask, to read body language, to feel connected.
But we’ve also gained too. Money was poured into the economy, giving everyone a boost, or at least some buffer in their savings account. We gained back the time we didn’t have before to spend toward things that matter—having dinner with your family, seeing your children every day, intimate family conversations that went beyond the basic, “I gotta go, I’ll talk to you later” sort of thing.
Back when we all had lives outside of the house, we didn’t spend much time within our house. We didn’t notice the things that needed to be fixed, nor did we feel an urge to fix it. This includes both physical and mental things. Relationships were built and dismantled, or can be within the confines of a home. (Hell, some people didn’t even have a home, so I feel guilty using that word.)
Perhaps the best thing that came out of this was the fact that my relationship with my mom changed, and it all started with going to the food pantry.
Writing is a journey in and of itself. It is difficult to see on a daily basis how much I’ve achieved, but upon reflection, I see the trajectory I’ve made. I’ve gone from someone who just writes an essay or blog post every once in a while about random topics to someone whose writing focuses on food, family and connection.
I also learned that I have a story to tell. It is probably not the most interesting story, but then again, you don’t need to have the most interesting life story. You just have to figure out how to tell your story. That’s the advice I got from a journalist and writer whom I reached out over the phone months ago. That advice has never left me.
But to write about food and its related web of interconnected things is a challenge and a work in progress for me. To borrow words from Jet Tila, the chef who’s made a name for himself as a Thai food ambassador who broke Guinness world records, he said,
“Food is a language that is non-political. Food is an experience that has multiple senses and, usually, those experiences are positive and it is the ultimate way to start the journey into someone’s culture.”
This is exactly how I feel about food, and thus why I’ve gravitated towards writing about it.
Recently, on an episode of A Slight Change of Plans podcast, I heard words spoken by a talented Vietnamese American chef named Christina Ha, also known as “the blind chef” who won season 3 of Master Chef. She spoke so eloquently about the nature of loss—what to do when you lose something that are beyond your control.
“At times I felt sorry for myself, like wondering why this was happening to me and not somebody else. And then I think I, I had to allow myself to sit in that space and feel that sadness and feel that loss.
I basically allowed myself to pity myself and allowed myself to cry about it and ask, why is this happening to me? and tell myself this really sucks. And it took some time, a lot of thinking and just kind of ruminating with my own thoughts in my head. It helped me come to the realization that no matter what happens, the world is going to, keep on moving on. So the sun will continue to rise, continue to set, regardless of what happens.”
The pandemic is not over yet. But still, the sun will rise. People will continue their days. Then the sun will set, and everything will begin anew again the next day. It’s comforting to know this.
In case you missed it…
Question of the week:
I’m trying out a slightly new, shorter paragraph format this week (because we’re all so distracted, right?). This is what I see a lot in works of fiction and memoirs, even nonfiction sometimes. Did it work? Are the dividers distracting or helpful? Should I go back to longer paragraphs or keep it short like this? Reply and let me know!
I love everything about this post. It's wonderful to be a witness to your journey as a writer from the earlier posts to your decision about where to focus. I sense that is exactly right for you because as you've continued your voice has strengthened with the confidence of someone who has found her path.
And yes, the separations and shorter paragraphs are great and they set your writing off perfectly. I came of age as a writer for newspapers where no paragraph was more than five sentences long. I sometimes violate that now but it is still ingrained in me my eye appreciates it too.
I like the dividers and shorter paragraphs. I liked this whole post. I love reading your writing.