* * *
This is new. And yet, at the same time, not new. It's all rather inescapably old, actually.
* * *
An unintentional history buff, of sorts, I've always read up on the accounts of pestilence, and plague, and privation that have accosted mankind--all acting very much...well...like a pest--throughout history. The influenza epidemic of 1918. The ceaseless waves of the Black Plague that ebbed and flowed centuries ago, pitilessly drowning out uncountable portions of Europe in its recurring flood.
An intentional English/Language Arts teacher, by trade, I've taught--uncountable times--the history of Elizabethan England, and the Bard, and the role of the theater in Shakespeare's day, and the cycles of invasion from the unseen enemy, carried by fleas, that caused panic, and disruption, and death. Time and time again, the plague would rear its head, and time and time again an aristocratic decree would go forth, closing public meeting places: pubs, churches, theaters--anywhere where people could gather in large groups; anywhere where people could be found congregating, talking, laughing, sharing their lives, living.
It foolishly never occurred to me that it would happen here (to me, to us, to mankind) in my lifetime. Not seriously, anyway. Oh sure, of course I was blindly aware of the chances. I was aware of the increasing likelihood, given the explosion of the world's population, the shrinking of the world through the ease of travel, and the fluctuating health codes around the world, and environmental changes during modern history. It was always all there, swirling like some dark witch's brew, waiting, hinting of itself, teasing us with the occasional SARS outbreak, or Ebola scare, or bioterrorism threat, and the like.
It all sounded like the latest apocalyptic end-of-the-world movie plot. It all read like a great, dark, dystopian metaphor of the future or alternate universe, from the minds of writers like George Orwell, or Margaret Atwood, or Albert Camus, or Stephen King. But it wasn't real. It couldn't really be real. It was just entertainment. It was art. It was something to be mindful of. Something to heed. Something to admire. Something to study. But not something real. It was just there...
And now it's here. And it's real.
* * *
I teach high school English. (Old-fashioned reading and writing--the basics--the required core subject, the one that never quite seems to go away.) I've been an English teacher now for over 20 years. I began teaching 7th-8th grade Language Arts, and then returned to school, myself, to get a master's degree in Literature/Writing, with the idea of someday pursuing a doctoral program. I wanted to be a college professor somewhere, Dr. Newsom, PhD, walking the quad in my tweed jacket, a couple of books stashed under my arm for safekeeping, a leather satchel swinging by my side. The whole look. The whole thing.
[Aside: "O Captain! My Captain!..."]
While that didn't quite take shape the way I imagined, perhaps, I did at least complete my master's degree, allowing me to teach adjunct classes at nearby smaller colleges, as well as giving me the opportunity to teach online college courses and dual-credit classes offered to students in various ways today.
Over the past 15 years, I have steadily taught English at a local high school in my little sub-suburban area southwest of Chicago. These days, I primarily teach seniors and juniors in high school. And it's been a good gig. Of course I could complain. (Teachers are good at that, take my word for it.) But, all in all, I can't really complain too much. My job is a good job. And I think I'm pretty good at it. And I like it.
With the emergence of COVID-19 (a.ka. the "Novel Coronavirus") in the United States, schools, last week, began to close. At first--in apparent confusion at what was actually happening and how quickly it was all happening--state governors, and state education boards, and local school districts scrambled to come up with an immediate joint-plan. Schools would be closed temporarily, they decided, at least through the end of March. Schools would use their normal "Emergency Days"--held in reserve (again, in normal situations) for normal occurrences, like snow days. State governors and state education boards then moved to grant "Act of God Days" to local districts (days beyond the normal, contractual Emergency Days) that would extend indefinitely, and that would not be held against students (who would be--through no fault of their own--obviously falling short of the normally required 180 days of school attendance), and that would not have to be accounted for nor made up.
It wasn't long, though, before some states (including my home state of Kansas) declared the 2019-20 school year officially over. It was a wash, Gov. Laura Kelly declared; there would be no resuming of classes. Soon, a few other states fell in line.
[Aside: There will be more.]
Yesterday, Friday, March 20, Illinois Governor, JB Pritzker, declared that his state (along, so far, with two other states, New York and California) would be issued a "shelter-in-place" order (or a "stay-at-home" order), beginning at 5 p.m. the following day, Saturday (today), March 21, and running (at least for right now, anyway) through Tuesday, April 7.
And so it begins.
* * *
My cupboards are fairly stocked with food. I did some quick grocery shopping before all of this, but I admittedly wasn't very careful (or not as careful as I could have been) when grabbing things from the shelves to have at home. I have enough to get by for now. But eventually I'm going to have to venture out and restock on the necessities--food, toiletries, drink, and the like.
The thought of venturing out is a little unnerving. I won't lie. While we are allowed to resume our "normal lives" within reason--such as venturing out for "essentials" only--we are required to remain at home as much as possible. We are required to limit our going out to things like groceries, gas, visits to the doctor, to the pharmacy, going for walks, running, being outside, breathing the fresh air, all within safe "social distancing" of 6 ft. or so.
It all seems so surreal, but this is our "new normal." (I already hate that tired phrase.)
* * *
Right now, restaurants are closed, except for "curb service" and delivery. I already miss going out to eat. Something as simple and as privileged as that.
* * *
Will liquor stores be allowed to stay open? Is alcohol considered an "essential," during these "Act of God" days?
* * *
I'm divorced. I have been for 16 years, now.
[Aside: Jesus Christ, how is that possible?]
My daughters are now 20 and 17 years old, respectively. My older daughter is in college--currently attending a local community college, with plans to transfer, next year, to Illinois University-Purdue University Indianapolis, studying Forensic Biology. My younger daughter is a senior in high school this year. [Aside: My heart breaks for her...] Her plans, upon graduation, are to attend the University of Illinois at Chicago, studying Pre-Dentistry.
Right now, at this very moment as I write, they are with their mother. They live not even 5 minutes from my door. She and I agreed--unspokenly, even--on an amicable divorce, particularly with the girls. And I've always been proud of that. When they were younger, my daughters split their time between their mother and me, basically half-and-half, at times. Now that they're older, I don't see them as often--what with their friends, and with school, and with being girls of that age.
I get it. But I'm used to being alone, I guess I'm trying to say.
Still, I miss them. And I think of them all the time. Literally. And I wish, right now, that they were here with me, I won't lie. But I check in with them daily, several times throughout the day (as I have always done), and it comforts me to know that they are safe.
But still...
* * *
I read. I go for walks. I currently take my temperature three times a day--just to check. I listen to music. I'm having a pretty good time, actually, digging through my old album collection, rediscovering stuff I haven't listened to for years. I watch movies--I love the art of cinema.
[Aside: This is not necessarily a time of cruel-and-unusual punishment for me, in other words.]
Of course, I spend an inordinate amount of time on streaming services like Netflix, Hulu, YouTube, et al. Of course, there are our phones, our social media, our connections with others and with the outside world. Our families. Our friends.
All of this was/is so easy to take for granted. Maybe something like this virus will reprogram our brains a little bit. Give our souls a little reshuffle. A reset.
I think we all could use that.
* * *
My immediate family--my mother and my three brothers--all live states away. I moved the furthest away from home, drifting toward the Chicago area in 1995. My mother still lives, alone (after my father's death in 2008), in the old farmhouse where I grew up in the middle of Kansas. My oldest brother stayed home with his family and works the farm. My second brother lives with his family in Omaha, Nebraska. My younger brother lives with his family in Kansas City, Kansas.
We've always been close, and we've always kept in touch with one another, albeit sporadically at times. I have them, and I check in with them more regularly these days, and they with me. And that's a good thing. I miss them.
* * *
Being a teacher, I'm trying to work from home, as we've been directed to do. In the mornings, I'm trying to maintain some sort of scheduled normalcy when it comes to my job. "Remote Learning" is the sudden term these days, and so I have all my junior and senior English classes set up on Google Classroom, and Zoom, and I check in with them (I "Zoom" with them--this is the world we live in now), and I assign them chapters to read from their novels (which I can only hope they have with them at home during this time), and I sometimes provide links to articles and to essays online, urging them to comment and to respond. Urging them to stay awake to the world around them. Urging them to pay attention. To observe. To record. To learn.
My students (as well as myself, my family, my daughters, my friends, everyone I know and don't know) are all living through history right now. We are, most definitely, living "in the moment."
Are we awake? Are we adequately paying attention? Are we observing what's happening to the world--to the larger world, certainly, but also to our immediate, personal worlds? Are we recording our thoughts, our feelings, our anxieties, our desires, our fears, our loves? Are we aware of any of that, even?
Are we learning?
* * *
In the realm of research writing, I teach my students that there are two basic types of sources that they will always come across, no matter the topic.
1.) Primary Source
2.) Secondary Source
A "primary source" is exactly that: It is a primary piece of writing (or video, or music, or whatever) that someone took the time to record during a moment in history. A primary source comes directly in and from the moment it is produced. It is an historical time capsule, an actual expression of thoughts, and feelings, and anxieties, and desires, and fears, and loves, perfectly (or imperfectly) set down and preserved for posterity.
A "secondary source," then, is also exactly what it says it is: It is a source removed from the primary source (once, or twice, or 200 times removed), written and/or recorded by someone commenting, from a distance, on the primary source, itself.
We are in "Act of God Days," to be sure. We are also living in "primary source" days.
* * *
Tonight, I re-watched (yes, on Netflix) the 1993 Bill Murray film, Groundhog Day. I love that movie. It's funny. It's well written. It's insightful and incisive. It lasts. It deserves to be called a classic.
[Aside: I also might mention that the nature of that film's story never seemed quite so unnervingly relevant as it does now. But I digress....]
I watched the movie, this time, long-distance with a friend of mine. She lives about 30 minutes from me and is currently at home. All is good. But we decided, tonight, to call one another, and to scan the list of movies on our menus (a comedy, for God's sake!), and we struck an easy deal with Groundhog Day. We then, each of us, fixed ourselves a drink, settled into our favorite chair and/or couch (30 miles from one another), synchronized our starts via our remote controls, and stayed on the phone as we talked, and laughed, and watched the movie "together."
* * *
Where I live, I have a nice view onto my backyard, butted up against a wooded area, as it is. There are animals--the occasional possum, or raccoon, or deer, or coyote. Beyond the woods and the narrow creek (Nettle Creek, it's called) that flows behind me, I can hear (always, incessantly) the hum of traffic along Interstate-80, flowing, at all times, to and from Chicago, and to points east and west beyond.
The semi-trucks continue to roll along the highway, I notice. I can hear them and even see them, with the trees being bare of leaves at this time of year. And my heart actually swells at the sound and the sight of them. Who knew that it would be truckdrivers, of all professions, who would be counted among our heroes during these days? And the nurses, and the doctors, and the law-enforcement, and the first-responders. They are working to keep life going. They are working to keep some sense of status quo in the midst of our disruption. They are working to keep some sense of humanity and normalcy alive.
It's happening. There is life outside my windows.
* * *
I watch the birds in my backyard. The robins are out--it's spring, after all. That's what robins do. They're still hopping through the grass, heads cocked to the ground, listening for their worms. The occasional cardinal makes an appearance still--I have a couple of flashes of red and red-grey that live in the trees behind me. And the occasional streak of blue-and-white from the bluejays living not far above me. I used to have an owl that took up residence in an old, dead oak, but I haven't seen or heard from the wise old bird in a long time--ever since the oak tree fell in a storm. The owl must have flown on, carrying with it its lonely, haunting call. Later in the spring and in the summer, I will again put out my hummingbird feeder and see if I can draw their petite attention.
Grey squirrels are at play (or are they fighting? it's so hard to tell with squirrels), chasing each other candy-cane striped fashion up the trunks of the trees in the woods behind me. In time, the large family of rabbits that populate the gently sloped hill in my backyard will come out from their winter sleep, and I will sit on my deck again and watch them contentedly chewing their blades of grass in the quiet of early evenings before dusk. Before sunset. Before nightfall.
I will watch for them.
Life goes on.
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