At the end of the term, I challenged one of my (white female) students to critcally think about how her whiteness and (privileged) identities intersects with how she relates to this local/global pandemic.
Here's what she (Emily Lanesmith) wrote:
NOTE: this wasn't for credit.
****
Or, I just don’t want to face them.
I’ve sat with a pen in hand after a meditation session, or in front of my laptop screen with a steaming mug of something comforting (often with something a little extra comforting, if you know what I mean). I tried poetry: sonnets, free verse, a mixture of the two. I tried prose, even a list. Nothing. But it’s been nibbling at my insides, poking at my mind, like a needle that is struggling to find the vein. What do I say?
I went and had a hot tub tonight. I was alone, watching the sun go down, my pale skin starting to prune in the steaming waters, my face flushed from the warmth. I was hoping to write a few lines; the water always helps to formulate the beginnings, or sometimes the endings, of my pieces. But even with my careful, and admittedly advantaged, setup, the sentences did not flow. There was, however, one word that managed to swim through the muddy muddle of thoughts and stay there, afloat.
Privilege.
The world hasn’t seen a disruption of this magnitude since World War Two, seventy-five years ago. The content heard in the news today would be akin to what would have been masqueraded on television (if it had existed) during the Black Death, and the Spanish Flu. The disease started from the fleas on a rat. The virus started from the bite of a bat. Really, is there much of a difference?
I stopped going to work last week. I could no longer face passing the debit machine back and forth. What were the germs that were being handed to me? Or worse – what were the germs I was handing out?
Privilege.
“I can no longer handle social media anymore,” I said to my mom.
“How come?”
“I cannot deal with the lame catch phrases, stupid “challenges” to stay busy and elecit humour, and constant stream of fake positivity that assaults my eyes every time I log on,” I sourly replied. Then mockingly, “You’re not stuck at home, you're safe at home.”
Privilege.
I wear my emotions on my sleeves, I always have. My writing is filled with the dominating stamp of my heart. But I also pick up on other’s emotions, whether worn on their sleeves, or neatly folded and tucked under some old sweaters in the closet.
I didn’t stop going to work because of the germs. I stopped going to work because I no longer wanted to face reality: “Did you hear about Steve? He was just laid off, and with the recent divorce, I’m worried about how he will feed his kids.” Or, “Did you hear what they said on the news this morning? Due to crashing economies, by the end of this, the pandemic will have pushed at least half a billion people into poverty.”
While the stories are bad, the thoughts are worse. What about the billions already existing within poverty? Those living off tourism? Those living in communities thriving with what WHO refers to as “comorbidities”?
The suffering in this world is significant. But here's the difference: now, I can see it. I’ve stopped watching the news, too.
Privilege.
This pandemic will have an effect on everyone. But it will not affect everyone. Those in a similar position to me will have different daily routines, and oftentimes, a different, and mostly likely difficult, relationship with their mental health. Others will lose jobs, change living spaces, and be forced to change diets, too. Some will lose access to fathers, mothers, and children. It’s hard. And it will have an effect. My heart breaks.
But others — those of marginalized groups, those of racialized groups, those who were already forced to fight harder than any human seen as “equal” should — will be affected . When asked about the growing numbers and factualized evidence from the U.S stating that racialized communities are at a greater risk, Dr. Williams replies with, “In Canada we don’t collect race designated cases [...] The main risk groups are the elderly and those with other comorbidities, regardless of what race they are.” Regardless of Dr. Williams' response, comorbidities are racialized. Comorbitites are based on a history of racial violence. In a different news report, Faiza Amin says, “A pandemic only exasperates what already exists.”
So many are affected. Affected with an “a.”
I have two parents that will never lose their job. I have a home, a warm bed, and due to quarantine, an overly full stomach. I choose to stay home from work, when so many people would do anything to guarantee a paycheck. I choose to complain about being stuck at home, when so many don’t and won’t have a home to be stuck in.
The world is suffering.
And my biggest issue is a broken heart.
Privilege.
Here's what she (Emily Lanesmith) wrote:
NOTE: this wasn't for credit.
****
I’ve
been trying. Trying for days. For whatever reason, the words are not coming to
me.
Or, I just don’t want to face them.
I’ve sat with a pen in hand after a meditation session, or in front of my laptop screen with a steaming mug of something comforting (often with something a little extra comforting, if you know what I mean). I tried poetry: sonnets, free verse, a mixture of the two. I tried prose, even a list. Nothing. But it’s been nibbling at my insides, poking at my mind, like a needle that is struggling to find the vein. What do I say?
I went and had a hot tub tonight. I was alone, watching the sun go down, my pale skin starting to prune in the steaming waters, my face flushed from the warmth. I was hoping to write a few lines; the water always helps to formulate the beginnings, or sometimes the endings, of my pieces. But even with my careful, and admittedly advantaged, setup, the sentences did not flow. There was, however, one word that managed to swim through the muddy muddle of thoughts and stay there, afloat.
Privilege.
The world hasn’t seen a disruption of this magnitude since World War Two, seventy-five years ago. The content heard in the news today would be akin to what would have been masqueraded on television (if it had existed) during the Black Death, and the Spanish Flu. The disease started from the fleas on a rat. The virus started from the bite of a bat. Really, is there much of a difference?
I stopped going to work last week. I could no longer face passing the debit machine back and forth. What were the germs that were being handed to me? Or worse – what were the germs I was handing out?
Privilege.
“I can no longer handle social media anymore,” I said to my mom.
“How come?”
“I cannot deal with the lame catch phrases, stupid “challenges” to stay busy and elecit humour, and constant stream of fake positivity that assaults my eyes every time I log on,” I sourly replied. Then mockingly, “You’re not stuck at home, you're safe at home.”
Privilege.
I wear my emotions on my sleeves, I always have. My writing is filled with the dominating stamp of my heart. But I also pick up on other’s emotions, whether worn on their sleeves, or neatly folded and tucked under some old sweaters in the closet.
I didn’t stop going to work because of the germs. I stopped going to work because I no longer wanted to face reality: “Did you hear about Steve? He was just laid off, and with the recent divorce, I’m worried about how he will feed his kids.” Or, “Did you hear what they said on the news this morning? Due to crashing economies, by the end of this, the pandemic will have pushed at least half a billion people into poverty.”
While the stories are bad, the thoughts are worse. What about the billions already existing within poverty? Those living off tourism? Those living in communities thriving with what WHO refers to as “comorbidities”?
The suffering in this world is significant. But here's the difference: now, I can see it. I’ve stopped watching the news, too.
Privilege.
This pandemic will have an effect on everyone. But it will not affect everyone. Those in a similar position to me will have different daily routines, and oftentimes, a different, and mostly likely difficult, relationship with their mental health. Others will lose jobs, change living spaces, and be forced to change diets, too. Some will lose access to fathers, mothers, and children. It’s hard. And it will have an effect. My heart breaks.
But others — those of marginalized groups, those of racialized groups, those who were already forced to fight harder than any human seen as “equal” should — will be affected . When asked about the growing numbers and factualized evidence from the U.S stating that racialized communities are at a greater risk, Dr. Williams replies with, “In Canada we don’t collect race designated cases [...] The main risk groups are the elderly and those with other comorbidities, regardless of what race they are.” Regardless of Dr. Williams' response, comorbidities are racialized. Comorbitites are based on a history of racial violence. In a different news report, Faiza Amin says, “A pandemic only exasperates what already exists.”
So many are affected. Affected with an “a.”
I have two parents that will never lose their job. I have a home, a warm bed, and due to quarantine, an overly full stomach. I choose to stay home from work, when so many people would do anything to guarantee a paycheck. I choose to complain about being stuck at home, when so many don’t and won’t have a home to be stuck in.
The world is suffering.
And my biggest issue is a broken heart.
Privilege.
Comments
Post a Comment