Before Covid-19 hit, I was a facsimile of a functional human. I attended meetings of all kinds, frequent protests, and…actually had a SOCIAL LIFE. GASP! Yes, for pretty much the first time in my freaking life, I was doing things that I had always read about: I visited other people on a regular basis; friends came to hang out with me; and I even occasionally-can you believe it-had dinner parties! I went to restaurants, a play every now and then, shopped at the farmers market for produce for great produce AND to catch up on all the local haps, and loved to browse in all the downtown shops (spent a fair amount of change there, too.)
Now this has all come to an abrupt and full stop. All meetings are done via Zoom. I did attend ONE protest for BLM in Abingdon after the shooting of George Floyd; most participants wore masks and social-distanced, EXCEPT for the police present. (My first and last in-person event. Unless the election goes badly. Then I’ll figure F-it. And join others. Democracy being at stake is worth it, yeah?) But other than ONE steadfast friend who has remarkably wonderfully decided that I shouldn’t be subjected to transit during this time, I see no-one. And really wouldn’t HEAR from anyone, except for this friend and one other friend who calls every day. Everyone else has dropped away, unless I call them. Which I try NOT to do anymore, really. Because one, it feels intrusive now. And two, it gets exhausting having to be the one always doing this. And I’m getting tired of trying when the effort doesn’t seem to be returned. It takes me awhile to learn, y’all, but eventually I DO learn what you are trying to tell me without actually telling me, yeah? So I’ll stop. Sorry for the bother.
It’s all digital now (for me, at least), folks! Friends are electric! Since I don’t DRIVE and don’t have a YARD, I don’t get to participate in the new version of what social life is now. Friends tell me about dinner parties held outdoors and trips to the new Barter-at-the -Moonlite. This all sounds delightful. I’m happy folks are finding ways to cope. But another friend who lives in an apartment, who doesn’t drive, and who makes minimum wage and I were discussing this. Society seems to be drawing even more lines right now, and the stark differences between those who are privileged and those who aren’t get made clearer and clearer. (As if we couldn’t see them before!)
I appreciate everyone who has reached out via text or on FB to inquire about the well-being of Miss P! As you know, SHE is more important to me than me. So that means more than I can say. So thank you all for caring about the well-being of this beautiful whippet! I love you all for that. And for the tangible gifts as well: the St. Francis medal (and a whole order nuns to pray for her!); the mishaberachs; a snuggly sheepskin rug; home-cooked meals; and an in-person priestly blessing!
By now everyone knows that Kamala Harris is Biden’s pick for Veep. What everyone doesn’t know and can’t seem to get right and in some cases REFUSES TO CARE ABOUT (I’m looking hard at Tucker Carson here, among others) is how to pronounce her name. It’s Comma-la Harris. Like the punctuation mark with a la added. Just to make this clear, k? She has explained this in her memoir (The Truths We Hold: An American Journey); she’s explained time and time again in public interviews; and OTHER people have now made helpful Tik Tok videos to instruct the clueless. Look, folks, this should not be that difficult. UNLESS you have a political WALL that forbids it.
Why am I writing about this? Because I share her story. I live in rural Southwest Virginia. Appalachia. And my name is Kel BasAvraham. Yeah. You can imagine what folks here do with THAT. I sometimes get asked (on the phone) if this is Indian (no); Muslim (no); Arabic (no); Indian (meaning Native American-again no); and very occasionally Jewish (YES). Usually, it’s “Sorry for mangling your name.” But rarely does anyone ask the logical followup: HOW IS IT SUPPOSED TO BE PRONOUNCED? Sometimes I can feel the waves of “you’re not from around here, are you?” coming through the phone line or in modern parlance, bouncing off the cell tower. I now have a practised response: a laugh and a reply that I realize my name gives SW Virginians fits and, no, I’m NOT from around here. Then we get on with with our phone call. Sigh.
When you’ve lived with any sort of neuro or mental health diagnosis, you start to really question your perception of things and second, third, and fourth guess yourself. At least I do. I ask myself, “Am I seeing this clearly? How much is depression talking? Is this a medication reaction? Did I forget something important b/c of a seizure?” Life gets complicated. I have to remind myself that I DO have several disabilities that I cope with fairly well that others don’t see. They are invisible but nevertheless very real. But b/c maybe I do manage, I feel like I expect myself to function like I’m normal, i.e., don’t have these things, and thereby others act as if I am also.
I’m not, okay? I’m not okay. I function WHILE depressed. I function WHILE having seizures. I function while having migraines. I function WHILE having occasional bouts of neuropathic pain that are excruciating. I function WHILE having Stage 1 Chronic Kidney Disease. I function while having debilitating fatigue of unknown origin. I function well sometimes. And sometimes I crash.
So. I really want to do a better job here for myself. I want to continue to do my tasks, b/c I believe in the causes for which I’ve signed up. But I also need to realize that I need to ask for help when I can use it; space when I’m being crowded; time when I’m being pushed; and to know when I’ve reached my limits. This does not seem like an unreasonable agenda, but it is not an easy one when every day get filled so quickly. Sigh. Time to write another MEMO TO SELF and post it PROMINENTLY.
What does it mean to be part of a community? I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. I have a disparate group of friends, you see. They don’t overlap, except for the intersection of me. In each, I have encountered difficult people and befriended them. This might seem like odd behavior on my part. But I view myself an outsider in many ways and am aware that others might also. Perhaps I am also seen as a difficult person by some. But these particular people I write of do not have many friends, due to their habit of driving others away. I don’t let their peculiarities upset me unduly, nor take their actions or words personally most of the time, even when they might be directed at me. I realize that more is going than I can know and act with detachment and kindness as much as I can. Because THESE, just as much as the people who like me and WHOM I LIKE AND GET ALONG WELL WITH, are my neighbors. THESE represent my community also. If you say that your neighbor is ONLY they whom you like, then your definition of family is stunted indeed. In my definition of how to be in community, I was taught that all of my NEIGHBORS count: good, bad, indifferent. And you help ALL OF THEM, whether you LIKE them or not; whether they LIKE you or not; no matter WHAT. And this includes reaching out to the lonely; checking on the person who lives alone; and hanging in there even when the going gets rough. Not because we’re all in this together. But because this is how it works. OR doesn’t. How’s it working, from where you sit? I’m hearing that it’s not, really. I’m hearing that from both my groups. Are there answers? I don’t know. My answers are the same three sentences I read every morning. I have them written down on a piece of paper on my kitchen counter. BE KIND. DON’T ASSUME. TRY HARDER.
