I took my bit of luck and felt guilty but mainly relieved that I have so far made it through this pandemic without getting sick, without anyone I love getting sick, and was now receiving the vaccine. It’s the way I’ve felt since the beginning: lucky that I didn’t have a job that required me to be face to face with the public; lucky I could keep my children home; lucky, in essence, that we had enough money to secure ourselves against the world.
I’ve long known my life is easier because of factors beyond my control, factors that influenced my mother’s pregnancy, and her mother’s. I’m a mother now; I know I was treated a certain way during my pregnancy and delivery because I am white, because I have health insurance, because I am married. I live an hour away from Julia Tutwiler Prison, where imprisoned women give birth and then say goodbye to their infants.
I told an old friend that Covid had exposed a lot of flaws in this country’s higher education system; it’s exposed a lot of flaws everywhere, he said. A few Sundays ago at Dunkin’ Donuts, I saw a white woman with her daughter, both dressed for church, both maskless, and I felt a rage so pure and immediate, it seemed to disturb the air. In the early days of the pandemic, our hospital begged people not to go to church, where most of the cases seemed to be contracted. Mighty Christian of you, I thought, but said nothing, because it would do no good, because I was afraid if I said anything, I would lose my mind.
Even in the early days of the pandemic here, no one knew what would happen. The world felt perilous, and on certain days it tilted even further. First, a preschool classmate of my son’s was lost in the woods, a tall, red-haired girl who shares a birthday with me. The news was everywhere. Hundreds of volunteers combed the forest looking for her. She was found behind her house unharmed two days later. It would have been so easy for her to have been lost forever.
In October, as cases were spiraling out of control, a different preschool classmate watched as his father was murdered and his mother was stabbed dozens of times by a renter who had lived with them. I remember the boy well, and his father too, who each morning guided his son to the door of his classroom, said goodbye. Like all the other parents.