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Monthly Archives: June 2020

The Virus Is Someone Else’s Problem, and Racism Doesn’t Exist

23 Tuesday Jun 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

1990s, 80sRock, Black Lives Matter, COVID19, Freddie Mercury, HIV/AIDS, pandemic, racism, virus, wearthemask, YesItsAboutAllOfUs

The late, late 80s was a time when I was boy crazy and music crazy and doing whatever I could to buttress myself of my family life. The best of times was Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, Whitesnake at the Orange County Speedway. The worst of times, going home after the shows. In between was trying to figure out a life post-high school, anchored to my dysfunctional family who “needed” me to save them. I remember Tiananmen square and the Challenger tragedy and grieving. I remember the concert in Germany, a host of galactic stars performing The Wall to commemorate the wall coming down and rejoicing for democracy.

I remember hearing about HIV/AIDS and feeling bad about it and a measure of concern but it didn’t really touch me. It was a problem that needed to be solved and it was sad, but I was too busy thinking about dating and my family and basically, whatever. One afternoon I was joined by a male crush down at the river. He said, “So hey your boy died.” I was like, “What?” He said, “Freddy Mercury.” It felt like a punch to the gut. What the hell? How could this be? And how could he be so callous? Let it be known we weren’t close after that, and it was the first time I felt like an epidemic touched me, by one enth. You see, HIV/AIDS was something I heard about and felt bad about in the most fleeting way. Sounded awful, this is a problem, but I didn’t hear or feel a call to arms to help in any way. This wasn’t an “all of us” problem, it was “one of those” problems, that I hoped someone could figure out how to fix.

I recently watched an episode of “Last Week Tonight,” hosted by John Oliver. He was passionate as always for righteous causes. But as I listened to him advocate for the dilemma of covid-19 and how it affects those in jail and prison all I could think of is “Where was this passion and demand for those suffering HIV/AIDS?” It rather caved me in. A terrible guilt came over me, one that I can only shield myself from by saying “I was too young and too involved with other things to understand,” and that’s still not good enough. Well now I am not too young and too involved with other things to understand that unless we personally are affected by injustice of any kind we rarely do anything about it whether it’s a traffic stop, five-figure hospital bills, inability to pay bail for having some marijuana in your pocket. So too the stigma of contracting novel coronavirus-19. To understand the weak excuses and swatting away of “Well, it doesn’t effect everyone the same. Well, I don’t hang around in areas where I’ll catch it. Well, even if I get it I’m healthy and it’ll be ok. Well, I don’t need a mask because herd immunity will help us. Well, this is a vast left-wing conspiracy to dominate the presidential election”

NO.
NO.
NO.

Stop you all in your tracks before it’s too late and realize the world don’t revolve around you, baby. You’re healthy and employed and educated and prayerful so you’ll never catch a virus or spread one to someone who isn’t so lucky? Oh really. Or you’re not part of a group or a state that might be carriers so you’re not worried? WEAR YOUR FUCKING MASK in public. Do all you can in your power to slow down and stop this virus for the love of people you don’t even know in states you don’t care about. Support social distancing, handwashing, respecting others who do. Support local businesses, mask on, as they work through this pandemic. Love your children and partners as you are sheltered-at-home. Reach out for help when they’re driving you crazy. There are resources to help you during this time … as there were not when our fellow Americans were struggling with the physicality and the stigma of AIDS.

All these very same things can come along with Black Lives Matter. “Oh, I can’t support that, that’s a black thing.” “Oh, I can’t watch that movie, it’s a black thing.” Time and time and over and over again I hear us saying why we can’t be a part of something because it’s not something that has to do with ourselves. Ask our neighbor if they ever read “Between The World and Me,” and they’d probably be like, “I’m not into books, ” or “That’s a black thing, not for me.” I ONE HUNDRED PERCENT GUARANTEE IT. And THAT is why the virus is someone else’s problem, and racism doesn’t exist.

Birthday, Mom.

12 Friday Jun 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

Birthday, Camaro, love, Mom, mother, New Jersey, NJTP, parents, questions, road trip

Whose dumb idea was it to get in the car and drive to Jersey, huh?
Probably yours, glad I came along for the ride, though.
Good thing I did because if I hadn’t you’d still be standing there on the
turnpike weeping.
(As I have done several times.)

That was in the days when I loved you and wanted to be your rock
and your friend, a companion of sorts. Our road trip to Jersey
sheltered in the deep sheepskin seat covers of an ’81
Berlinetta Camaro, beautiful bronze, you remember?

We limped past road signs with names and numbers
we sat on the side of the road and counted the pieces of
amber glass, green glass, white glass, and loose cement
while we waited for the car to cool down.

I made it my job to make you laugh, you remember?
What the fuck is a Cheesequake and why is it a state park?!
Matawan. If that’s not a Native American word nothing is,
“bad riverbank” indeed, the name of our trip.

Well Chummer, we’re not standing on the side of the road anymore
wondering what to do next, phoneless, clueless, helpless.
I have Google, now, to solve all my problems, haven’t I?

8 minute morning

04 Thursday Jun 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

amwriting, Black Lives Matter, breathe, dragonfly, George Floyd, measuring, police brutality

Popped a big chicken pot pie in the microwave and tapped in the cook time: about 8 minutes.

Streamed 1/3 of a TV show while waiting: about 8 minutes.

Sitting at a writing prompt staring at the page for 8 minutes trying to figure out something creative and wild and awesome to say, and it felt like forever.

Asked to hold a plank position for 10 seconds, 20, 30 seconds and it felt like forever.

Remembering all those summer days poolside at our neighbors house, learning how to hold our breath and swim laps around the pool under water. I wish I could remember how long I held mine, the longest of long. I know it was pretty long and I can remember now as I hone in on those days the feeling of my heart pounding and my lungs getting hot. Breaking the surface for air was a bummer of an instinct, wanting to keep going.

Writing in my journal this morning for 8 minutes saying not much of anything. Mostly committing to page details of a quiet life and the emotions that come with it.

I want to write and tell you about the new cat on the sill across the way, keeping me company at 5 in the morning. It’s the first hot morning of the year and the dragonflies are here trying to find their way, and the cat is deeply interested in their appearance. I wish them well and hope they find nourishment and rest and achieve the apex of their life journey.

All I know right now is 8 minutes is a long, long time to be on my stomach with hands in cuffs and somebody keeping their knee in my neck. Why hell, I could be into a chicken pot pie and the tensest part of a Deadwood episode by now! Doubt me? Put your timer on your phone 8:46 and see how long “long” is. That’s your child, your brother, your sister, your father down there. But hey, what do I know.

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