Covid-19, Day Two Hundred Sixty Six, December 5 2020.

This entry covers June. I remain in a constant effort for balance of awe in how much we have survived and overcome, and the somber resolution to not forget how horrifying this felt and was.

Engagement in organizing something (like the vigil for George Floyd) helped me feel purposeful again. Racial justice had been important to me since my late adolescence yet now there were acute, tangible needs to respond and to grieve—for those lost to racist violence, and for each other in this bleak time.

Yet it didn’t take long for hateful, threatening messages to come my way. As white supremacy is nothing if not egotistical, the first concern my fellow townspeople had was the “violent looting and rioting” they’d heard about on cable news. After a neighbor posted vague threats and directions to my home online, the situation escalated. I became preoccupied with the possibility that a bomb would appear in the mailbox, and had conversations about the risk of bricks sailing through the window. Quite a few people expressed concern for my safety, and I got the guns out of the safe. My partner stoically offered his support (though I would learn later he wished I had cancelled).

Covid-19, Day Two Hundred Four, October 4 2020.

This is a deep dive into April.

By week three, panic had set in. While warnings began from every public agency that mental health issues were about to spike, those of us who already had them were buckling up.

Working in “prevention education” quickly came to mean “feeling completely meaningless,” as public health priorities snapped from violence prevention to obtaining food and shelter. Salvaging our planned awareness campaign seemed futile; basic tasks became more difficult. I began to mark the days in Roman numerals on the kitchen calendar, writing that “feeling like my preoccupation with the passage of time means it somehow still matters.”

Covid-19, Day One Hundred Forty Three, August 5 2020.

Cancel Memorial Day, I thought grimly. No way. We’ll have this figured out by then.

That was March Sixteenth. The beginning of summer seemed like an eternity away, alarmist to consider we would be under ‘quarantine,’ ‘lockdown’ or anything similar for more than a month. I decided to start tracking things and clipping the newspaper for a scrapbook project. I wondered if I’d fill an entire scrapbook.

We are now in Month Five, and I’m nearing Third Scrapbook territory.