Writing in a Time of Peril: Friday June 19, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard reported 2.20 million US cases and 118,695 deaths as of 12:30pm on June 19, 2020.

 Remembering the 100000 Lives Lost to Coronavirus in America

I read each of the thousand names in the pages of the May 24, 2020 edition of the New York Times. It takes me almost an hour I read each entry. Since there are no Johns Hopkins updates on the weekends, the updated Covid-19 numbers appeared the Friday before on May 22, 2020: The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard reported 1.59 million US cases and 95,276 deaths. 

The New York Times features one thousand deaths out of nine hundred twenty–five thousand, two hundred and seventy–six dead. To read the names of all those who have been documented as dying from Covid 19 by May 22, 2020, it would take me take nearly forty hours. I would gladly read them out loud were they available. I would gladly mourn their passing in honor and respect.  

Meanwhile, U. S. police kill nearly one thousand people each year. Most of the people killed are children, women and men of color. This is a pandemic of violence. 

Police kill about 3 men per day in the US, according to new …

Covid–19 has burrowed into the DNA of the U. S. It is exploiting the European founding fissures of colonization. The genocide and removals of indigenous people and the enslavement of African people has created a health pandemic, a miseducation pandemic, a food insecurity pandemic, a housing pandemic, an unemployment–under employment–non–livable wage pandemic, a domestic terrorism pandemic, a denial of civil– human–constitutional rights pandemic, and an ecological pandemic. A toxic capitalism pandemic overarches all. The valuing white power, white caste, white property and white profit while devaluing, exploiting, segregating, over policing and imprisoning indigenous, black and brown children, women and men who make up nearly forty percent of U.S. citizens. The intersectionality is clear, glaring.  

 George Floyd tested positive for Covid-19. His life and death are still being honored. His remains have been interred. His daughter believes her father has changed the world. His brother testified on Capitol Hill. The course of justice, to hold those most immediately for his death accountable, is in the making, and protests continue in our nation, our world. 

Brionna Taylor was grieved, celebrated and interred with the suppression of the circumstances of her death. Two months later the nation knows of her sweet life and horrific death only because of the insistence of her family and their lawyer. This natation and we, as a people, struggle to remember the lives of black women and children murdered, assaulted, raped, and injured by police and other authorities of the state, and civilian vigilantes. 

I live in a gated community or people over fifty–five in Rio Vista, California. Gay friendly and diverse, this community is mostly middle class retirees. On the other side of the wall of my back yard is Airline Road. Cherish Thomas, a black woman, was pulled over for an expired registration with three passengers on Airline Road with three other young family member occupants. One of the occupants called a relative for help when the police decided to impound the car rather than give the driver a warning or a ticket. When Thomas’ mother arrived, she began filming her daughter’s encounter with police. While she filmed, a police officer body slammed her daughter, Cherish to the ground. 

Rio Vista Police Officer Body-Slams Woman to Ground After …

How many times have black women and girls be intimidated, assaulted, falsely imprisoned, raped, and killed by police and civilian vigilantes? Do we, black and brown women, report these incidents, and if we do, what are the police and court responses? And when we don’t, why don’t we? Who keeps the statistics? Why don’t we include gender and age disparities in our conversations about police and vigilante violence, and the school to prison pipeline?

From Preschool to Prison: The Criminalization of Black Girls …

The school-to-prison pipeline is getting worse for black and …

I turn to the blues this morning. Bessie Smith sang to me on Pandora. When she began singing Careless Love, inexplicably, I began to cry. I puzzled over why I was crying. I pushed a button and placed Careless Love on repeat. I listened to Bessie Smith sing this song three more times. The piano holding the melodic line and swinging the pace along lulled me close to this altar of sound. The trombone growling low and keeping syncopated time with the high sound of the trumpet repeating and embellishing Bessie Smith’s voice, opened and washed through me. 

I’ve heard this song in the background of my life growing up in New Orleans. I listened on thirty–eight records, albums, blues and jazz radio stations, instrumental jazz versions played during jazz funerals and street parades, and in blues and jazz night clubs. 

Love, oh love, oh careless love.

You fly through my head like wine.

You’ve wrecked the life of many a poor girl

And nearly spoiled this life of mine.

My throat and chest kept tightening and swelling. Tears kept spilling and dripping to the edge of my grief and rage. I knew this song. I knew the places the sounds and emotions came from. The song of was of betrayal, but worse, self– betrayal. 

Love, oh love, oh careless love.

In your clutches of desire

You’ve made break a many true vow,

Then set my very soul on fire.

I have been betrayed by my country. But much–more elementally, I feel, like my ancestors, African slaves and free people of color, and my generation have allowed ourselves to be seduced and duped by the ideas and promises of the United States Constitution all of its amendments, declarations, and pledges, its justice system, along with all its Judeo-Christian morality. 

Bessie Smith’s voice, the wail of the trumpet, the moan of the trombone, and the melodic swing of the piano uncovered layer upon layer of the consequences of the United States of America’s carelessness within me. Promises of acceptance and equality coated in beguiling lies and inducements that were wrapped in forced dependence, self–exploitation, and unspeakable violence waiting at the ends of billy clubs, fire hoses, and ropes. I imagine generations of slaves and former slaves laying twisted and shattered or hung while smiling faces spoke to the terrified bereaved of boot straps, resilience, the healing power of forgiveness, and the faults and responsibilities of the vanquished for their degradations and deaths, those never fully human, those never white. 

Bessie Smith sings songs of lost love in ways that remind me of the ways that black women have preserved our union while being enslaved, abused, and marginalized by men, white and black, with little recognition of our worth or our fragility. Yet, while we have never had the value, respect and rights of full citizenship, we have hoped, lived and worked to constantly create a more just and equal society and world. And miraculously, we have insisted on justice and freedom instead of revenge.  

Bessie Smith on Spotify

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home-except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. I drive the speed limit, I keep to all social norms. I avoid all contact with the police. I Channel fear, grief, and rage into expression, action and art. 

I continue to chronicle these times.

Still, In Joy,

A

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.blog

https://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a Time of Peril: June 12, 2020

The US CDC reported 1.84 million total cases (14,676 new) and 107,029 deaths (827 new) – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The US CDC reported 1.99 million total cases (20,486 new) and 112,967 deaths (834 new). The United States will likely surpass 2 million cases in today’s update – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

When Will the Crepe Myrtle Tree Bloom?

I am waiting for the crepe myrtle tree outside my window to bloom. It leafed later than the ornamental pear and maple trees. The clustered buds at the end of the slender limb are dry looking and rust-colored. I am worried that a deep pink frilly blossom will not emerge. The sweet peas, crocus, tulips, and azaleas have bloomed in their finest glory and burned out in the heat. Roses, geraniums, bougainvillea, and night-blooming jasmine are flowering and thriving, but not the crepe myrtle.  I have been looking forward to its coloring and constant flowering in the summer heat. I’m afraid it will not bloom.

The mourning doves begin to coo at precisely six-thirty in the morning. They perch on my shaded garage roof. After singing, they flirt and dance and flutter from branch to branch until they mate. I worry that the crepe myrtle tree is waiting for their courtship to be over, that maybe its blossoms might compete with their passion. But I hope that their singing and fluttering and mating will coax out the timid blooms. 

I am not hopeful, no matter how many people of color and white and people protest, run from pepper spray police advancing with weapons of war, and then return again to protest with their signs, singing, dancing, praying, teaching, learning, speaking up and out.

I am not hopeful even though politicians, police departments, media, clergy, former military generals, and high-level Pentagon officials support protestors and condemn the current administration.

I am not hopeful no matter how many photographs of our dead children, women, and men are named and shown and grieved again and again. Emmett Till, Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carol Robertson, Denise Mc Nair, Travon Martin, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Michael Brown, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd.

All those before. All those between. All those coming.

I am not hopeful no matter how few Republicans whisper their tiny apologies.

I am not hopeful no matter what Nike, McDonald’s, Netflix, Amazon, Uber Eats, U Tube, and–and–and donate to Black Lives Matter, the NAACP Defense Fund, and the Southern Poverty Law Center, and put out statements of support and new ads.

I am not hopeful when the U.S. Attorney General, the FBI, the DHS, the DEA, the Bureau of Prisons, the Pentagon, the Republican-led Senate, and the rest of the federal government are functioning in swamps of incompetence, corruption, silence, white profiteering, white dominance, and white nationalism.

I am not hopeful when voting access is closed, downsized, defunded, or blocked by dysfunctional voting machines, and it takes U. S. citizens six to eight hours to vote in the sweltering heat in Atlanta during the Covid-19 pandemic. 

I am not hopeful when a global pandemic is being incompetently and ineffectually managed while people of color are dying in punishingly disproportionate numbers compared to white people.

I am not hopeful that the killing of black and brown people and their allies will stop.

I am not hopeful when the head of our state dog whistles –law and order–very fine people–when the looting starts the shooting starts–don’t be so nice. 

He is calling to arms and to harm the Alt Right, Holocaust Denyers, Neo-Nazis, white supremacists, and white nationalists. I believed Dylann Roof, who murdered nine members of a prayer circle, and announced he was hoping to spark a race war. I believe that’s this is the plan, before, during and after national elections, win or lose. 

I am not hopeful when hundreds of thousands are making the decision to risk the death from Covid–19 rather than continue to die from police brutality, poverty, mis-education, preventable illnesses, toxic living and work conditions, fear death walking, jogging or driving or riding or birding, or grilling or sleeping in your bed.  

But I am hopeful that the doves will sing and flirt and mate and coax the myrtle tree into bloom.

*

I receive the Covid–19 case and death count from Johns Hopkins each morning. I play the music that allows me to sink down into grief and lifts me again. I curious. What ethnic, cultural, and generational rituals and music allows anger, fear, and sadness, along with, promise’s ambitions, and joy’s wells of tears, to tell the victory stories of our beloved departed, and celebrates the precious lives of those of us left behind?

I surround myself with the music of Donny Hathaway, Angela Boefil and Sweet Honey in the Rock

Spotify Play List: 

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear, grief, and rage into expression, action, and art.

I continue to chronicle these times.

A

Writing in a Time of Peril: May 22, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 1.42 million US cases, and 85,974 deaths as of 10:30 am on Friday, May 15, 2020. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard reported 1.59 million US cases and 95,276 deaths as of 12:30pm on Friday, May 22, 2020.– From Johns Hopkins daily update.

“Art invites us to know beauty and to solicit it, summon it, from even the most tragic of circumstances.” ― Toni Morrison

In the middle of a double pandemic, amidst the cacophonous drumbeat of rising hate and division and Covid-19’s raging wildfires, wild rabbits lay sunning beneath ornamental pear trees. While I chronicle, immigrant children are being deported in the middle of the night without protection or representation into more certain danger, the sun shines in sparkling–clear air, and cottony clouds make giant rabbits and dragons in the sky. As I sort through the strangling, drowning, skin, and hair on fire–feelings of anger, sadness, fear, and hopefulness, honey bees and hummingbirds visit each bridal veil and morning glory bloom in my back garden. While I struggle to make use of my feelings, how to make them of use, save my life, the lives of those I love, rather than ineffectual ranting or going silent or still or all of those, Charlie Hayden’s Beyond the Missouri Sky plays on Spotify. As I struggle to lead a writing life, I am relatively privileged, resourced, and safe; yet, I am assaulted daily by the incompetent–double-bind–death assuring responses to Covid–19 by our current leader and his government. I awaken to the voices of my mother and father, aunts and uncles, blood kin and named kin, all gone before me and never gone, insisting that I remember what  I was taught by my grandmothers and grandfathers’ great and grandmothers and fathers. They insist on action and service to ensure the protection of all life as sparkling–peach sunlight rises over the garden wall. I am afraid, angry, humbled, and in constant mourning as delta breezes carry the scents of night-blooming jasmine and the sounds of morning birds calls filled with the healing treasures of the day.

I receive the Covid–19 case and death count from Johns Hopkins each morning. I play the music that allows me to sink down into grief and lifts me again. I curious. What ethnic, cultural, and generational rituals and music allows anger, fear, and sadness, along with, promise’s ambitions, and joy’s wells of tears, to tell the victory stories of our beloved departed, and celebrates the precious lives of those of us left behind?

In the middle of a double pandemic, amidst the cacophonous drumbeat of rising hate and division and Covid-19’s raging wildfires, wild rabbits lay sunning beneath ornamental pear trees. While I chronicle, immigrant children are being deported in the middle of the night without protection or representation into more certain danger, 

the sun shines in sparkling–clear air, and cottony clouds make giant rabbits and dragons in the sky. As I sort through the strangling, drowning, skin, and hair on fire–feelings of anger, sadness, fear, and hopefulness, honey bees and hummingbirds visit each bridal veil and morning glory bloom in my back garden. While I struggle to make use of my feelings, how to make them of use, save my life, the lives of those I love, rather than ineffectual ranting or going silent or still or all of those, Charlie Hayden’s Beyond the Missouri Sky plays on Spotify. As I struggle to lead a writing life, I am relatively privileged, resourced, and safe; yet, I am assaulted daily by the incompetent–double-bind–death assuring responses to Covid–19 by our current leader and his government. I awaken to the voices of my mother and father, aunts and uncles, blood kin and named kin, all gone before me and never gone, insisting that I remember what  I was taught by my grandmothers and grandfathers’ great and grandmothers and fathers. They insist on action and service to ensure the protection of all life as sparkling–peach sunlight rises over the garden wall. I am afraid, angry, humbled, and in constant mourning as delta breezes carry the scents of night-blooming jasmine and the sounds of morning birds calls filled with the healing treasures of the day.

I receive the Covid–19 case and death count from Johns Hopkins each morning. I play the music that allows me to sink down into grief and lifts me again. I curious. What ethnic, cultural, and generational rituals and music allows anger, fear, and sadness, along with, promise’s ambitions, and joy’s wells of tears, to tell the victory stories of our beloved departed, and celebrates the precious lives of those of us left behind?

Spotify PlayList: Beyond the Missouri Sky 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7qgb9gAlUfW0URVECeirkk?si=GXz98yApR-ex-IP6djDL8g

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. I channel fear, grief, and rage into expression, action, and art.

I continue to chronicle these times.

A

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

Writing in a Time of Peril: 5.1.2020

April 1, 2020:The US CDC reported 186,101 cases (22,562 new) and 3,603 deaths (743 new) on April 1. The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 217,263 US cases and 5,151 deaths as of 11:00am on April 2, 2020 – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

May 1, 2020: The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 1.07 million US cases and 63,019 deaths as of 8:30am on May 1. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

May 11, 2020: The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 1.33 million US cases and 79,825 deaths as of 1:30pm on May 11.

Covid Mourning

There are no national Native American honorings of Covid dead. There are no national Jewish mourning observances for the dead each Friday. No national services for Seventh Day Adventist or Church of God or Jehovah Witness dead on Saturday. No national Protestant or Catholic or Mormon observances for the dead-on Sunday. There are no national observances for Buddhist or Hindu or Sikh dead. Nor ecumenical or atheist or agnostic dead. No national observances of American dead.

Church leaders, ecumenical councils, the U.S. House of Representatives, the U.S. Senate, and the president have not called for national daily, weekly, monthly mourning observances for all our dead. 

There are no comprehensive lists of the names of the departed in local and national newspapers each Friday, Saturday and Sunday. There are no moving tributes to 75,000 deaths on television or the radio. There are no PSAs about grief’s rage, despair, loneliness and injustice. 

As the number of the dead increase exponentially, so do my shock, disbelief, desperate prayers for a cure, anguished calls for special dispensation from worry, desolation, keening grief, and compound suffering as beloved ones may become sick, become sick, are sick, are dying, die. 

A month before Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans in 2005, my mother, Dora Ester Ransom Bridges, had a small stroke. The only significant complication was she could not swallow. Doctors placed a feeding tube in her stomach to deliver nutrition. My mother entered a skilled nursing facility in Uptown New Orleans in order to restore her ability to swallow and return home. Three days before hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, my mother was informed that safe locations were being prepared for skilled nursing home residents in the path of the hurricane. They could not give her the exact location before she was evacuated. After the hurricane hit, communications were so compromised, it was a full week before we located her at the East Louisianan State Hospital, formerly the State Insane Asylum, simply Jackson to most black people in the region. 

Over the phone, my mother gave me a long list of food and supplies to send to her and for other patients and the staff. She let me know that patients and staff would be returning to The Home that November, because miraculously it had not been damaged during the storm or its aftermath. In addition, my mother explained that she would not be coming to live with me in San Francisco. Instead, she would be returning to New Orleans, because she was not going to leave her friend. Her friend was a woman in her thirties who was rendered paraplegic after an automobile accident. I was sure I would convince my mother otherwise when I arrived in Jackson to see about her. 

I traveled to New Orleans during the first week of October. I drove north on I- 12 along wide grassy medians. The southbound lanes were filled with trucks bumper to bumper traveling sixty-five miles an hour hauling temporary housing units, FEMA trailers. I picked up food and supplies from Winn Dixie and Walgreens. I had also taken orders from my mother for herself, other patients and staff for Popeyes, Wendy’s, Pizza Hut and Burger King. I was greeted like a hero with clapping, smiles, and thanksgiving. The trunk of my rental car and every seat were packed with supplies, food and takeout.  The staff carried all of the supplies to a room to organize them for distribution and the food into the dining room for a feast. I returned home without my mother. 

I made a second trip back to New Orleans to bring my mother to live with me in July of 2006 after my mother’s friend’s home was repaired and she was able to move back in it. The Ransom family celebrated my mother’s eightieth birthday with family who survived Katrina and her aftermath in Natchez, Mississippi. When I arrived at the Home to drive her the nearly three hours to Natchez, I found that my mother was oxygen dependent and not recommended for air travel. My mother complained her doctors had refused to remove her stomach tube even though her ability to swallow had returned. My mother insisted that the stinking opening that needed constant cleaning and care be closed. 

I spoke with the doctors who believed that the surgery, while minor, was not minor for my mother. My mother insisted and surgery was scheduled for January 2007. I scheduled a flight based on the date of the surgery. I decided to visit my paternal aunts that Christmas, instead of going to New Orleans as usual, since I would be with her for her surgery. Just before Christmas my mother’s surgery was changed to Thursday, December 21, 2006. I didn’t change my plans. I didn’t go home to be with my mother. I didn’t. 

On Wednesday, December 27, 2006. I received a call from my mother’s longest and best friend. She said my mother was failing and for me to come home. I scrambled to get an earlier flight home. My mother died on Thursday December 28, 2006 alone because I didn’t change my plans. I didn’t go home to be with her.

I wasn’t there when my mother died, but my mother didn’t die alone. I spoke with her nurses and her doctor. The choked up as they described her last hours. They had held her hand, sang to her, prayed with her. They had stayed with her until her last breath. When I went to the hospital to retrieve my mother’s belongings, I brought flowers and food to the hospital staff. While I wept with unrelenting guilt and shame, they held me without judgement with tears spilling down their faces as well.  

I wait for the John Hopkins Covid–19. Update each morning. I feel my mother’s death every day. Only now, I count along with my own regret and loss, the Covid reported deaths. 79,825 deaths as of 1:30pm on May 11, Monday , May 11, 2020.

I shatter when I think that their family members would have given most anything for the choice to hold, sing, to pray with, to say goodbye in person with their loved ones, what I could have given to my mother and myself. I weep knowing how much hospital, nursing home, and congregate living staffs wish for more time, fewer patients, to have all the material, equipment and gear they need, to save more, not have the additional responsibility to do hospice and familial substitute care as their patients died alone, as well as, being in constant fear for their own lives and the lives of their families.

There is no national mourning. I will mourn anyway. In my intense sorrow I will ruminate over the loss of beloved ones. I may focus on little else but our loved one’s deaths. I long to have them back with us. I struggle accepting their deaths. Yet, I become deadened sometimes and shutdown. Sometimes I lose the ability to feel anything but sadness and loss. Sometimes I’m angry, bitter even. Sometimes I feel hopeless and helpless as Covid deaths increase exponentially. 

I receive the Covid–19 case and death count from Johns Hopkins each morning and play the Spotify Playlist I made of the music that allows me to sink down to my knees in grief and lifts me up again. I wonder about what music others would select. What cultural and generational rituals and music that allows grief’s well of tears, tell the victory stories of our departed, and celebrates precious lives left behind. 

Covid Mourning Spotify Play List

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear, grief, and rage into expression, action and art. 

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.blog

https://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a Time of Peril: 4.21.2020 Sacrifice The Weak-Re-Open TN

Texas Lt. Governor: Old People Should Volunteer to Die to … 

Anti-lockdown protester wields vile ‘Sacrifice the weak’ poster …

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 672,303 US cases and 33,898 deaths as of 12:45pm on April 17. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 762k US cases and 40.7k deaths as of 11:30am on April 20. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard** is reporting 788,920 US 

cases and 42,458 deaths as of 10:30am on April 21. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

It was on television. A newswoman is in the foreground looking directly into the camera. All around are men and women standing quite close to each other. The sun is bright. Three men and a woman are standing behind the newswoman. A sign is being held by an unseen person. One of the men is holding and American flag. The unseen person is holding up a sign. Three lines.  Sacrifice The Weak   Re-Open   TN.

Writing in a Time of Peril: 4.21.2020

Sacrifice

The

Weak

Re–Open

TN

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 672,303 US cases and 33,898 deaths as of 12:45pm on April 17. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 762k US cases and 40.7k deaths as of 11:30am on April 20. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard** is reporting 788,920 US 

cases and 42,458 deaths as of 10:30am on April 21. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

It was on television. A newswoman is in the foreground looking directly into the camera. All around are men and women standing quite close to each other. The sun is bright. Three men and a woman are standing behind the newswoman. A sign is being held by an unseen person. One of the men is holding and American flag. The unseen person is holding up a sign. Three lines.  Sacrifice The Weak   Re-Open   TN.                  

I Am the One

I am the sick

I am the dead

I and the buried

I am the unburied

I am the cremated

I am the unclaimed

I am invisible

Erasable.

I am the nurse assistant

I am the porter

I am the physician’s assistant

I am the security guard

I am the janitor

I am the cafeteria worker

I am the hospice care worker

I am the coroner assistant.

I am the postal worker

I am cannon fodder

I serve and die on Covid-19 battle fields

Without armor or weapons

I am the mortuary assistant

I place the precious remains of the departed into coffins

I transport the precious remains of the departed to places of burial and 

Crematoriums

I return with ashes. 

I am exploitable

I serve and live and die

Without armor or weapons

On U. S. soil

During the times of

The Covid battlefields 

Where is the 

Marshall Plan the 

A Manhattan Project the 

Total mobilization of 

America’s resources and geniuses.

I am expendable

I am the medical provider

I am the nursing home aid

I am the prison guard

I am the mental hospital attendant

I am the detained

I am the cook

I am the visitor

I am the just released. 

I am invisible

I am the transportation workers

I am the grocery clerk

I am the pharmacist

I am the fast food worker

I am the agriculture worker

I am the produce processor

I am the meat packer.

I am the ones named

Weak

Erasable

Cannon fodder

Exploitable

Expendable

Invisible

Untested

Untreated

I am the ones sacrificed

I am the ones to be sacrificed

I am the one who finds the way

I am the one who makes the way

I am the one who shares the way

We always do.

I turn to Sweet Honey in the Rock, Donny Hathaway, and Roberta Flack.

I Remember, I Believe performed by Sweet Honey … – YouTube

Donny Hathaway – Someday We’ll All Be Free – YouTube

You’ve Got a Friend

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. 

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.bloghttps://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a Time of Peril: 4.16.2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 610,774 US cases and 26,119 deaths as of 12:00pm on April 15. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 640,291 US cases and 31,015 deaths as of 11:45am on April 16. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

I began this writing listening to Abdulla Ibrahim’s, “Water from an Ancient Well.”

Ibrahim’s music was prayerful and calming. I played it as an attempted antidote for my anger, dismay and memories that are rising above the constant boil of our country’s criminally negligent and homicidal response to Covid–19. 

I ‘m witnessing the increasing lethality of the toxic abandonment and neglect of the vast majority of Americans in the behind–our–backs, and the in–our–faces actions and inactions of the current republican administration. It is statistically clear that people who are most at risk of having extreme cases of Covid–19 and dying are; people who people who were already poor before Covid–19, people being made poor by Covid-19,  peoples of color, elders, and people housed in congregate living housing and prisons. It is also abundantly clear these are also the same people living with medical conditions that can be directly traced to the historic and current ravages of systemic and institutionalized racism, classism, and misogyny. The co-combinations of the ravages of systemic and institutionalized racism, classism, and misogyny, and the toxic abandonment and neglect of major american populations are being directly connected to comorbidities with Covid-19. 

2.127.2020            President said Covid-19ncould disappear like a miracle.

3.2.2020                President call Covid-19 a hoax.

3.13.2020              President takes no responsibility for his disastrous lack of response to Covid-10. Blames President Obama.  

3.14.2020              President announced total authority over reversing state  governors stay at home orders. 

3.19.2020              Encourages the use of an unstudied or approved drug for Covid-19 with clear indications that the drug has lethal side effects. 

3.26.2020              President praised the blamed China for Covid-19. Pressured WHO to use racial language to name the virus. Was very upset with WHO when it refused to so. Eventually led to breach between president and WHO leaders.

3.27.2020              President suggests that the Covid-19 threat would be over by Easter.                   

4.10.2020              President said he would be looking at Easter services on the television.

4.14.2929              Threatened to shut down both houses of Congress in order to make recess appointments without congressional  oversight.

4.14.2020              Threatened to defund the U. S. portion of WHO funding.

4.17.2020              Released vague plan for reopening the country without coordinated governmental departmental supports or funding, and further, while making states responsible for testing, his administration has intercepted and confiscated vital testing other critical medical supplies. 

Trump can’t decide whether to blame China for the … – Politico

Donald Trump Archives – FactCheck.org

A Trump Pattern—Claiming ‘Total Authority,’ Then Backing …

I took a break. I went for a bike ride in the sunny and windy clear day. 

My neighborhood had little traffic. Everyone is practicing physical distancing. There were more turkeys and rabbits relaxing in the sun. Mating birds made hot pursuit sex noises. The bees were very busy sampling evening primrose and the ornamental strawberry.  When I returned home I put on Wynton Marsalis’ Standard Time Volume 3 The Resolution of Romance. When it came to, “Never Let Me Go,” I hit repeat each time.

The Resolution of Romance – Standard Time, Vol. 3 – Wynton …

Growing up in New Orleans, I often heard a saying, “Lord, please don’t let me make my move too soon.” In a blues song, B.B. King sings about a woman who didn’t appreciate a man who was down on his luck. It is about the loss the woman endured when she left him before his ship came in. I listened to B.B. King’s song to remind me of the meanings of other similar proverbs; “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” 

The current administration delivered two-faced, whiplash inducing, pseudo public health messages. Follow the federal guidelines and resist public health orders, science, common sense, and one’s own self-preservation. 

Is he is making his move too soon?

The current administration is gambling that we will not be able to metabolize the horrific number of the dead. We will become numb and repress our co-responsibility and grief. 

The current government is banking on Americans not remembering how many were delivered up as cannon fodder on Covid-19 battlefields in hospitals, nursing home, congregate living facilities, jails and prisons without the most basic public health interventions with full armor and weapons for all who served infected Covid–19 people.

This president and this republican administration are dead worn. We will not forget. We will take care of ourselves and each other. We will not forget even one preventable death. We will vote him out. 

Put on B.B. King’s “Never Make Your Move Too Soon.”

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. 

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.blog

https://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a time of Peril: 4.15.2020

April 14, 2020

The Johns Hopkins US COVID-19 dashboard* is reporting 572,689 US cases and 23,134 deaths as of 11:45am. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

April 15, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard* is reporting 610,774 US cases and 26,119 deaths as of 12:00pm on April 15. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

Intimate terrorism, domestic violence is a co-morbidity of Covid-19. 

I sat at a desk in a building on the second floor of the YWCA, overlooking the back-parking lot on Tulane Avenue in New Orleans, Louisiana. The six-floor building had once been a residence for young single working and professional women. The Young Women’s Christian Association was founded in England in 1855. The Worldwide YWCA was founded in 1889 with Great Britain, the United States, Norway and Sweden as founding countries. It had been delivering women empowerment services in New Orleans since the turn of the 20th century. 

By the early 1970’s the YWCA was located in the Mid–City neighborhood of New Orleans. The six-floor former residence still housed recreational swims and swimming lessons, child care, sports and summer camp programs. It also served women with various social, educational and empowerment programs, including the New Orleans Rape Crisis Service and the New Orleans Battered Women’s Service.  

In 1977 the YWCA was funded for one paid staff position for a battered women’s counseling and support service, and that person was me. Battered women who called the rape crisis line were counseled that spousal and intimate partner sexual violation was rape, and that physical, emotional and fiscal abuse were forms of violence against women. When women said they wanted to leave but were afraid to leave, they were counseled that they had every reason to be afraid, that they would, in fact, be in increased danger as they planned to leave, when they left, and for an indeterminate time after they left. 

When women left violent domestic situations, whether a planned or unplanned departure, many came to my second-floor office in a separate building in the YWCA property’s parking lot. Shielded from the major intersections of Tulane Avenue and Jefferson Davis Parkway, the location was relatively safe because it was not a governmental office or agency. Facing these women from behind my clunky, military-issue desk, I asked questions and had them fill out paperwork. I filled the paperwork out for them if they could not read or write well or could not stop crying or shaking or constantly looking at the door. When a woman needed medical care, I called an ambulance to take them to an emergency room. I arranged for a volunteer to accompany each woman and continue giving her support. More often, a volunteer escorted her to a woman-friendly medical clinic for confidential services. Remember there was no HIPPA back then, no expectation that seeking these services could be kept from a current or former male partner, father, brother, or son.   

I called a legal advocate when a woman needed to discuss the legal realities of dealing with an abusive male relative or partner.  The advocates explained the possible negative consequences of reporting abuse to the police and the possible legal ramifications and consequences of not reporting abuse to the police. In addition, they informed the woman about the legal ins and outs of child custody for women who were mothers, even in cases in which children were being abused as well. The legal advocate also informed women about the dubious efficacy of restraining orders: often, men didn’t stay away and police didn’t respond when they called. and allowing the abusive person back into the home made the restraining order null and void. When women elected to pursue a restraining order–which was not often on first-time contact–I called for a volunteer to escort and support the woman through the legal process. 

I gave the woman information and  referrals for shelter, housing, education, medical care, child care, transportation, income resources, and food resources. I also directed them to ongoing counseling and a support group. 

When a woman requested shelter, I made an immediate call to the only battered women’s shelter in the Deep South to see if there was an opening. If there was an opening, I made an immediate referral. If there was not an opening, my volunteer team, the woman, and I made an emergency contingency plan to keep her as safe as possible until safe housing was located. This all took four to six hours, depending on the need for medical care or a restraining order and other referrals and supports. I kept drinks and snacks, along with lots of tissues, in my file drawer. We had a limited budget for lunches, bus fare and cab fare. Some days no women came, a rare occurrence.  Some days there were as many five women in my office. 

After more than a of year working with battered women, I started to wonder why more women didn’t kill the men who repeatedly raped and beat them near to death. I began to have an ongoing fantasy that at the end of each counseling session, I would pull out the heavy metal bottom drawer of my desk. I took out a thirty-eight special, a box of bullets, a gun cleaning kit, a snug pouch for the gun and a brown paper bag to carry it all. I took the woman down to the parking lot where a human target was stationed. I taught her basic self-defense, gun safety, gun cleaning, and target practice. I told her that she had the God-given right to protect her children and herself  from rape and assault. 

But that was fantasy.  As my session with each woman ended, I was filled with rational fears about her safety, the strength of the supports we were able to provide, and the faint glimmer of hope that she would become survivor rather than victim. I filed the paperwork, tidied up the office and packed my things to leave for home. 

As I drove to collected my two-year-old daughter from day care, I breathed  in my commitment to anti-violence, the empowerment of women and girls and all of those harmed by intimate terrorism. I breathed out my vivid imagined response to violence. I shook off my invitation to harm another. I looked forward to my daughter’s unconditional love, constant questions, run-on telling about her day, and her zest for life and joy. 

In these times of Covid-19, many children, women and elders find themselves on lockdown with perpetrators of incest, rape, batterment, and emotional and psychic violence with no place to go for respite,  no way to keep the perpetrator at bay and  no one to tell. I recommitted to engage in safe ways to protect, support and preserve the lives of vulnerable children, elders, women and men against domestic violence and terrorism.

It is clear that intimate terrorism, domestic violence and woman slaughter is a co-morbidity of Covid-19. It will become ever clearer during the weeks and months of quarantine to reduce the spread of a deadly virus that another destroyer of minds, bodies and souls flourished in epidemic proportions.          

A New Covid-19 Crisis: Domestic Abuse Rises Worldwide

PROTECTING CHILDEN DURING THE COVID-19 OUTBREAK

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. I go to my bookshelf and pull Pat Parker’s book of poetry, Woman Slaughter, from the shelf.  I bring up her reading of the title poem, “Woman Slaughter” on YouTube. I read along with her remembered beloved voice.

Woman Slaughter: Pat Parker: 9780884470168: Amazon.com …

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.blog

https://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a Time of Peril: April 14, 2020

 April 10, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 467,184 US cases and 16,736 deaths as of 10:30am. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

April 12, 2020

Coronavirus: Mass Graves Dug In New York City As Morgues …    From Buzzfeed, April 10, 2020.

President Trump said on Twitter that he would watch the online service of First Baptist Dallas, led by Robert Jeffress, a prominent Trump supporter who has said that non-Christian religions are sending their followers to hell. Vice President Pence said he would also attend church virtually, from his living room.    

–From The New York Times 

April 12, 2020

In Dallas, Mr. Jeffress thanked Mr. Trump from the pulpit of First Baptist for defending religious liberty. In his service on Sunday, Mr. Jeffress portrayed Mr. Trump as a supporter of religion, although the president does not regularly attend church or exhibit deep knowledge about the Bible.        

–From The New York Times

April 12, 2020

Mr. Jeffress has lashed out at other faiths, calling the Catholic Church an instrument of Satan, describing the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints as “a cult,” claiming that Islam “promotes pedophilia” and saying that Jews, Muslims and others would go “to Hell.” –From The New York Times

April 13, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 557,590 US cases and 22,109 deaths as of 9:00am (US EDT). – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

April 14, 2020The Johns Hopkins US COVID-19 dashboard* is reporting 572,689 US cases and 23,134 deaths as of 11:45am. – From Johns Hopkins daily update.

pastor who defied social distancing dies after contracting Covid-19 –From New York Times April 14, 2020

April 12, 2020

What there is to see on my bike ride: small, round, green berries hover beneath the domes of white pyracantha blossoms, promising that green will turn to red as spring makes a way for summer’s return.  Birds of paradise bloom in blushing oranges, yellows, and blues. California buckeye and saucer magnolias fluttered their last blossoms. Fat rabbits hide in the tall grasses, only their improbably large sun–illumined ears visible. Falcons, eagles and hawks circled high in the blue sky, searching, searching. 

 I lift my head. 

I pray.

Let us call upon our mothers and grandmothers, our great–great–grandmothers and their mothers’ mothers to sing to us, soothe, comfort, allow our keening to connect us past and present, memory to memory, knowing to knowing, healing to healing. 

Let us take in their scents of pepper mint, bergamot oil and dusting powder after Saturday night baths.

Let us be lifted up by their prayers of strength, determination, insistence on life, love, service and bettering.

Let us serve sips of broth and water and tea and use every embroidered handkerchief we own when every tissue box is empty.

Let us wipe faces with cool cloths, sponge bodies of waste and sweat and tears. 

Let us touch comfort, soothe, assure and be calmed, as we bend under suffering, anticipate our heartache.

Let us remember how to open so that we may be a companion. 

Let us whisper the love and honor that makes all our lives dear.

Let us weep.  

Let us offer what we can as friend, sister, aunt, neighbor, co-worker, and even as a stranger to those who need us. Let us bring balms to comfort and ease suffering. Let us make a meal for ten and leave it at our neighbor’s door.

Let us call upon our mothers and grandmothers, our great–great–grandmothers and their mothers’– mothers’– mothers to sing to us, soothe, comfort, allow our keening to connect us heart, mind, body and soul, past and present, memory to memory, knowing to knowing, healing to healing.  

The gentle wind cools the tears on my face. I’m almost home.

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home–except for the pharmacy & the grocery & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. 

Every few hours I play Andrea Bocelli singing acapella at Duomo Cathedral in Milan, Italy again. 

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

https://andracanaan.blog

https://www.facebook.com/Andrea-Canaan-Author-456010704809232/

Writing in a Time of Peril: April 10, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 432,579 US cases and 14,830 deaths as of 10:45 am on April 9. 

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 467,184 US cases and 16,736 deaths as of 10:30 am on April 10. Do the math.

There is more to fear than fear itself

I spent two hours doing what I swore I would never do. I watched Facebook videos of cute babies and children doing breathtaking things, cute animals doing wonderful things, spectacular soloists, duets and choirs singing awe–inspiring songs, and I cried and cried and cried.

And when my national binge watch preoccupation was over, I realized. Orange Julius was not a hellacious dream. I was furious. I was more than furious. I was wildly That forgetfulness and head-in-the-sand and drugs and alcohol, and gambling, and binge-watching-what-ever, and denial, frozen in a deer–in–the–headlights–stance, poor–me–helplessness, and impotent rage will not save me, will not save any of us. 

More than three years of failed presidential leadership, and now Covid-19, reveals we are a fourth world failed state led by an incompetent … you fill in the blanks. 

I am committed to staying informed, praying, meditating, moving, staying connected, loving, and engaging in positive–caring action, remembering, not forgetting. I am also asking the same of you. 

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, love, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

America Is Acting Like a Failed State – The Atlantic

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, love, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

COVID-19 TRANSCRIPT: 4/6/20, The Rachel Maddow Show …

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

Donald Trump stokes fresh coronavirus row as Wuhan reopens

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget.

Trump’s failed presidency – Brookings Institution

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

Jay Inslee sounds an ominous warning as Trump’s failures …

Stay informed & Pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

FY2020 Budget Cuts – Environmental Protection Network

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget.

DOJ asks Congress for broad new powers amid Covid … – Vox

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget.

Trump’s IG Purges Add Fuel to Oversight Controversies …

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, connect, move, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget. 

Trump administration ignored pandemic warning from White …

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive–action, remember, don’t forget.

Advocates Say Trump Budget Cuts Will Hurt Country’s Most …

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive and productive action, remember, don’t forget.

The Republican Plot Against Voting Turns Deadly | The New …

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget.

Medical personnel being targeted

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/as-coronavirus-fears-grow-doctors-and-nurses-face-abuse-attacks/ar-BB12kjM9?ocid=spartandhp

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in posit action, remember, don’t forget.

Black men kicked out of store for wearing masks – AJC.com

Stay informed, pray, meditate, create, move, connect, connect, connect, engage in positive action, remember, don’t forget.

And yet

On a bike ride today jacaranda, wisteria and azaleas bloomed. Humming birds and butterflies flitted about in the air. Mourning doves sang from porch. Fat wild rabbits rested along the edges of wide spring grasses. Red robin, forsythia and quince greeted me along the path and as I passed my neighbors’ gardens. While peddling, I looked up into a sky filled with shifting–drifting clouds filled with floating dragons and fairies and castles and giant–gray–white bunnies with lizard heads. The air was sparkled clear. The air streamed across my face. The sun warmed my skin. All, despite tens of thousands of our beloved’s souls having left us, are now in flight. 

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home, except for the pharmacy & the grocery (and emergency treks to rescue errant packages) & then only with mask and gloves & when there are very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. 

I put on Aretha Franklin, I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You. I repeat, “Save Me.” 

I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You | Discogs

Aretha Franklin – Save me – YouTube

Later I put on. Aretha Now. I repeat, “Save Me.” 

Aretha Franklin – Aretha Now | Releases | Discogs

Aretha Franklin – Think [1968] (Original Version) – YouTube

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

Get Caught Up: https://andreacanaan.blog

Writing in a Time of Peril: April 9, 2020


Writing in a Time of Peril: April 9, 2020

Writing in a Time of Peril: April 9, 2020

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 401,166 US cases and 12,936 

deaths as of 10:30am on April 8.

The Johns Hopkins CSSE dashboard is reporting 432,579 US cases and 14,830 deaths as of 10:45am on April 9. 

Do the math.

On Friday, March 3, 2020, I drove to Oakland and Alameda for fresh and dried herbs from Amanda’s garden, for a bio-break in Alameda at Natalie’s, and then to pick up pizza from Star on the Park. That was to be my last outing. Lockdown at home for two solid weeks for older people with underlying health conditions. 

Well, you see, what happened was, I ran out of red beans. Not any kind of red beans, Camelia red beans. OK, some background. I’m from New Orleans. Red beans and rice is not only a staple, it is a complete protein when there is no meat in hard times or when all of your friends are vegetarian. It is a city and regional dish, along with, gumbo, okra and shrimp, stuffed mirliton, and grillades and grits, to name a few. You would not want to be without certain staple ingredients in times like these. In hurricanes, floods, even pandemics, New Orleanians stocked up particular staples and prepared to feed their families and their neighborhoods if that became necessary.  But red beans are the staple of staples and I only had a half pound left.  Stopping for a bathroom break at Natalie’s.

There were no Camelia red beans in local grocery stores. Walmart had red beans; however, you had to go to a store location to get them, and they were rationed two per customer. The lines were wrapped around the block, and nobody was wearing masks and gloves except for my partner and me. We passed Walmart by. Next, I looked online at the Cajun Grocer, where I had purchased my last batch of Camelia red beans. There were no red beans available. I looked on Amazon. They were out as well. Incredulous, I went back to the Cajun Grocer. How could they be without Camelia red beans? I scrolled through the entire site. The only Camelia red beans in stock were in twenty-five sacks. That was not an issue for me. I ordered them right away and added four pounds of black eyed–peas. 

Now, what is it with these particular red beans? Well, let me tell you. When you cook a pot of red beans, you know they are ready and delicious when they are creamy. If they are not creamy, they do not look right. If they are not creamy, they do not taste right. If they are not creamy, they don’t cover the rice right. I have tried every kind of red bean, the organic type, the local type, and the ones in the ethnic food aisle. None of them cream as they should. 

Only Camelia red beans cream right. Only Camelia red beans taste right. 

When Joann and I decided to sell the condo in S.F. and look for a new place to live, we moved temporarily to Modesto, CA. on Dale Road. We found our place here in Rio Vista and moved from Dale Road in September 2019. Well, I received an email from FedEx with a package tracking link indicating red beans were being sent to Dale Road. 

I got right on the computer, there was no one answering phones, so I chat-typed the error. I registered with FedEx, made a password, answered secret questions, made a change to the delivery location, and received a message that all of my considerable attention and very basic skills had managed to divert my red beans from Dale Road to Rio Vista. Last Friday I received an email saying my package had been delivered to Dale Road at 12:11 pm. It was then 1:30 pm. They were outside on the porch, in a rainstorm.

When I told Leslie about purchasing twenty-five pounds of red beans, she laughed until she cried. But you know, you can’t laugh at your mama without consequences. The next day, she told me she could not find red beans anywhere in Atlanta. While we continued talking, she searched the Cajun Grocer website and was shocked at how much the red beans cost: sixty-five dollars. I told her I didn’t pay that price, I paid forty-five dollars. Leslie checked the website further, and she laughed and laughed as she told me through gasps for air that it was the navy beans that cost forty-five dollars not the red beans! She laughed and teased and asked me for possibly having ordering the wrong navy beans instead of red beans.

 ‘Baked beans, bean pie, bean burgers, Mother?’

 Her laughter was infectious. I laughed along with her, although I was uncertain and afraid at the same time. What would I do with twenty-five pounds of white beans that were not in my cooking repertoire?  

Now, please understand, my partner, Joann, and my daughter, Leslie, were not pleased with my     Covid-19 lockdown breakout to Oakland a five days earlier. As I rushed to put on clothes to go rescue my red beans from Dale Road, I explained to Joann why I was driving to Modesto. I don’t know exactly what Joann said, but it was something like, ‘We’re on lock down because of Covid-19.’ The look on her face communicated clearly that she was very not pleased. 

I drove to Modesto. I picked up keys from my former landlord’s friend before I drove to Dale Road. When I arrived, I thanked the Lord that a package was on the porch. I struggled to put the very heavy box in the trunk. By then, I needed a bathroom break. Folks were on lockdown, so I couldn’t go into any of my former neighbor’s houses. How rude would that be? What would I say? ‘I know there’s a world–wide pandemic and I could infect you, but can I use your bathroom? I know you are in a vulnerable group, but can I come in and possibly contaminate you and your house anyway?’ 

On the drive from Rio Vista to Modesto I passed  Costco. Most fast food restaurants and coffee shops with reliably clean bathroom were only open for drive-thru and pick-up.  I drove to the  and I was thankful their bathrooms were available. 

While I was there, I shopped for a few things and drove the sixty-two miles home.

When I arrived home, Joann had that same look on her face. No words. Just the look.

I took off all of my clothes, including my navy blue Keds, and placed them in the washer on hot. I took a shower and washed my hair. I put on clean clothes and gloved up again. I brought the groceries into the kitchen and started washing the food and the food containers they had come in. I left the box of maybe–red beans in the trunk. As per CDC guidelines for quarantining cardboard, I wouldn’t open the box of maybe-red beans until Friday.

Later in the day, Leslie and I checked in. She said she had been struggling with not having as productive a day working from home as she had expected of herself. She was feeling guilty and down a bit. Then she said she had read an article about ‘motivational pressure during quarantine.’ She said the article made her feel better immediately. The article she sent to me is below:

A trauma psychologist weighs in on the risks of ‘motivational …

www.upworthy.com › coronavirus-productivity-motivation-myths-da…

I go down my to-do list of self-care: meditate, eat well, rest well, get exercise, connect, connect, connect, stay home, except for the pharmacy & the grocery (and emergency treks to rescue errant packages) & then only with mask and gloves & when there are only very few people about. Watch less TV, but stay informed. Laugh a lot. Channel fear and rage into expression, action and art. 

Since my trip to Modesto, I have been sleeping in our study and having minimal contact with Joann in the house. You have no idea what one look from Joann can do to a person. This morning, Joann brought coffee to me in our study, a morning luxury that I love I cook daily with every precaution, but we haven’t been eating at the same time. When she placed the coffee on a small table near me, I asked to lay my head on her chest. 

‘Please,’ I said.

‘You still have another week on quarantine,’ she said.

I said in a hainkty inside my head, ‘Modified quarantine.’ 

Hainky is New Orleans–Magnolia Project for uppity

I put on Aaron Neville’s “Warm Your Heart” and listened all day. 

Aaron Neville – Warm Your Heart (1991, CD) | Discogs

 Warm Your Heart – Aaron Neville YouTube  

I continue to chronicle these times.

© Andrea Canaan, MSW, MFA

andreacanaan@gmail.com

Get Caught Up: https://andreacanaan.blog