And I have been for going on 30 days. This does not make me unique, far from it. Everyone knows we’re in the midst of a global pandemic and the way to control it is to shelter in place, everyone except those stupid and murderous Republican governors and politicians who worship at the altar of our wicked and deranged 45th President. We are, in New York, in the midst of the midst of the pandemic–the epicenter, as Amy Goodman insists on pointing out daily on her TV and radio broadcast Democracy Now. I love Amy; she is definitely one of my s/heros, a ground-breaking journalist whose news stories and the people she interviews have widened my world. Her eyes are clear and preternaturally kind under those now nearly steel gray side-bangs, her questions are informed and pointed, but I’m thrown off by the thrill of sensationalism that I hear in her voice every time she says “the epicenter of the pandemic.” I guess even truth-telling progressive newscasters are not immune to the perverse fear-laced frisson humans experience when we contemplate sickness and death on a catastrophic scale.
As of yesterday there were at least 222,284 confirmed cases and 12,192 confirmed deaths in New York. One of the people who died a couple of weeks ago was my cousin, Kelly. I have not seen Kelly in 40 years. She was a young girl when we visited her and her brothers and sisters in Far Rockaway, shortly after my husband and I were married in the late Seventies. They made me and my mother, their beloved aunt, and my new white husband feel at home in a run-down apartment and circumstances of utter poverty that I had escaped by dint of my mother’s indestructible will as well as the incredible luck of having been chosen to receive a Seven Sisters education. Kelly, I hear, from another cousin’s Facebook post was living in a homeless shelter. I don’t know, for sure, but I’m guessing she might have suffered from asthma. Our cousin posted a picture of Kelly and her teenaged daughter, a pretty girl who looked a lot like Kelly with long black braids and the pale complexion they inherited from my uncle.
Yeah, so I’m staying at home. I am fortunate to be able to. I am privileged, even though I am a 60 something black woman with heart disease and hypertension and borderline blood sugars. But I have good health insurance from my job. It allows me to access excellent medical care when there isn’t a pandemic–a cardiologist who calls me out of the blue to make sure I am following her orders, a primary care physician I’ve known for 25 years who is always available. Unlike those in the medical and helping professions who have pledged to serve and routinely expose themselves to danger, and unlike the “essential” workers who make less than $15 a hour in shitty service jobs with no sick leave that make it possible for the rest of us to live, I can stay at home. And unlike the 1 in 7 Americans who have lost their jobs in 4 short weeks, I can work from home and teach my classes and discharge my administrative duties (doubt I’ve ever used that phrase before) on my university issued computer. Unlike millions (billions) of people around the world who lack access to clean water, food, and shelter, I can do what is necessary to protect myself from infection and increase my chances of staying alive. And even as I question why we live in a world in which my life is deemed more valuable than theirs, by virtue of my circumstances, I am still able to live it, at least today.
Pedagogy as Poetry 