...Which I’ve dubbed “Mama’s writing nook” and supplied with essential writing accouterment including, but not limited to, expensive noise-canceling headphones, a Pendleton blanket, and a bottle of moderately priced champagne. And it’s quiet. Which is a word so seldom used to describe my life that stumbling upon it felt like finding a $100 bill in an empty parking lot – confusion, guilt, thrill, all wrapped into one intoxicating deliverance.
If you’re confused about why you’ve been figuratively thrown into my cozy champagne chalet, may I remind you that it’s Boxing Day, an annual tradition where I forgo sending gifts and instead send you all of my opinions? Welcome! Like everything else in 2020, rest assured that this will be especially light and whimsical...
In this year of 396 years, we’ve had a front-row seat in watching the unprecedented become precedented. In These Uncertain Times, what we all know for certain is that if we hear that phrase from a corporate brand trying to sell us an emotionally manipulated silver bullet just one more time... or zoom-fatigue, or “you’re on mute,” or any other insta-cliched neologisms, we will all (in this together) completely snap. And I’ll admit, in Times Like These, I’m tempted to whip something up for you that’s equal parts pithy and trite, proclaim something like “Sweatpants Forever!” and re-emerge upbeat and seemingly unscathed from the feces-lined waterslide 2020 sent us down blindfolded. It feels both logical and humane to wish for a momentary pause from the ceaseless conflict because between a particularly talented showman (whose latest act is feigning fury over a “stolen election” to subsidize his personal debt) and an entire subculture who has made denying science a culture war, an incredible amount of energy has been invested in division this year. A pause does sound nice. And yet, if anything has been brightly illuminated, it is my own unmistakable privilege to be able to stop paying attention when things get uncomfortable. (Nothing says you aren’t being impacted by something more than your ability to ignore it.) Putting a positive spin on things, while earnest, also serves to gaslight the raw pain and suffering this year has surfaced. So here we are. Many of us have spent the past nine months hoping, wishing, lusting for “normal.” Many of us have spent the past four years longing for a “normal” president. In 2021, we may get both of those wishes. But what will normal look like? And more importantly, what should it look like?
As for my current normal, Owen, our 1st grader, hasn’t been in a classroom since early March. He’s coping as well as imagined, Minecraft has unironically played a large role in teaching him how to read, and his ability to navigate any form of digital tech is uncanny. He’s isolated for most of the day, sitting at a desk in our basement from 9am-3pm, while I, behind a nearby door, virtually bounce from meeting to meeting, muting myself when his teacher attempts to facilitate virtual PE to what sounds like a JockJams megamix. I try to remember that he’s six and that focusing in front of a screen is challenging at any age. But most days my patience is paper-thin when I find that he’s sharpened all of his pencils to nubs, drawn on his desk, or made an executive decision to put himself on mute, turn off his video, and play with his legos. The current normal for 48% of all US students is full-time virtual instruction (another 18% are hybrid), and these rates are higher among poor students and students of color. Our school district distributed personal iPads and hotspots for every student. Private schools are holding classes under heated tents on sprawling campuses. Low-income students are sitting outside McDonald’s to get internet access. Normal sure can hit differently. Paraphrasing from Dr. Jal Mehta’s NYT opinion piece Make Schools More Human, we are realizing what we should have known all along: relationships are critical for learning. Pandemic or not, students’ interests need to be stimulated and their selves need to be recognized. The same is true for teachers. Teachers need to feel physically safe, they need support, they need their work to be recognized and honored, and they need working conditions that make it possible for them to succeed. All of this is doubly true in high-poverty communities, where, in the name of urgency, we’ve moved the furthest from taking a human approach to both students and teachers. This is not the normal we should return to.
As for my current normal, Owen, our 1st grader, hasn’t been in a classroom since early March. He’s coping as well as imagined, Minecraft has unironically played a large role in teaching him how to read, and his ability to navigate any form of digital tech is uncanny. He’s isolated for most of the day, sitting at a desk in our basement from 9am-3pm, while I, behind a nearby door, virtually bounce from meeting to meeting, muting myself when his teacher attempts to facilitate virtual PE to what sounds like a JockJams megamix. I try to remember that he’s six and that focusing in front of a screen is challenging at any age. But most days my patience is paper-thin when I find that he’s sharpened all of his pencils to nubs, drawn on his desk, or made an executive decision to put himself on mute, turn off his video, and play with his legos. The current normal for 48% of all US students is full-time virtual instruction (another 18% are hybrid), and these rates are higher among poor students and students of color. Our school district distributed personal iPads and hotspots for every student. Private schools are holding classes under heated tents on sprawling campuses. Low-income students are sitting outside McDonald’s to get internet access. Normal sure can hit differently. Paraphrasing from Dr. Jal Mehta’s NYT opinion piece Make Schools More Human, we are realizing what we should have known all along: relationships are critical for learning. Pandemic or not, students’ interests need to be stimulated and their selves need to be recognized. The same is true for teachers. Teachers need to feel physically safe, they need support, they need their work to be recognized and honored, and they need working conditions that make it possible for them to succeed. All of this is doubly true in high-poverty communities, where, in the name of urgency, we’ve moved the furthest from taking a human approach to both students and teachers. This is not the normal we should return to.
Over 330,000 Americans have died from a disease that has spread through the fissures in our communities, revealing the inequalities that were already rampant and built (intentionally) into the structure of our society. The US economy has 10 million fewer jobs than it did in February – almost all low-income service jobs – leaving the most vulnerable unemployed as the richest among us continue to watch their profits soar. This is not the normal we should return to.
And remember the collective cringe we all shared for BBC dad in 2017? This is also not the normal we should return to. For good and bad, 2020 has humanized us all. It has stomped its feet and demanded empathy and realness, even amidst the void of anything remotely resembling it from our president. We’ve collectively revealed our truest joys, our deepest pain, our darkest fears, our weakest points. We’ve seen the best and the worst of humanity and exposed that the privilege of apathy is the loudest silence. We’ve lifted the veil on cold, calculated, professionalism by divulging our cluttered basements, questionable art choices, toy-infested living rooms, unmade beds, dirty kitchens, curious pets, and exuberant children, fleshing out the fullness of our lives to those who previously only saw one dimension. And it makes you wonder: why were we trying so hard to hide all of this humanness before? What good did that do anyone? It’s impossible to miss the rambunctious interruptions we’ve come to know and love, but look carefully on your next virtual meeting and you’ll likely spot a silent mouthed “thank you” to an off-screen someone who is dropping off a coffee, snack, or lunch plate. These quieter moments of real-life and gratitude are reminders that, though this is impossibly difficult, it is still full of small gestures of love and light.
On the topic of light, December 21st marked the winter solstice when days get longer in the northern hemisphere – the oldest celebration in human history, because at the moment we’re farthest from the sun, it draws us closer once again. On our daily walks, Noa squeals with glee at the Christmas lights and points at every un-lit strand, indignantly demanding “ON! ON!,” almost as if she understands that as dim as it’s been, we have to celebrate whatever light we can find and share it with others.
So while it would be cathartic to close out this terrible year by hitting send on a scathing hot take on precisely how and where 2020 can go f*** itself, I’m instead here to confront the underlying tension many of us are experiencing this holiday season. The exhausted desire for rest and normalcy, but the visceral reminder that when we stress-tested our societal foundation, large sections had gaping holes. What was normal for many is not safe to return to. (In many cases, it wasn’t safe to begin with.) So my message to you is this – let’s resist the rallying cries to forget all things 2020. Let’s instead recognize it as a year so uncomfortable, so painful, so scary, so raw, that it forced us to grow. Let’s peel off the sticky film that coated every experience, good and bad, and use it as our lens through which we change our collective normal. Because the truth is, what happens next is up to all of us. How willing we are to fight, how well we learned from what’s happened, and how much we are able to care about one another. We have a lot to grieve from 2020 and much to repair, but the glimmers of goodness remain in their places. John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsberg feel near because we hold the light of those we lost inside us. Let’s chase after it with Noa’s fierce urgency. ON! ON! Let’s illuminate the paths forward as we stumble along in this, our collective endeavor toward our new normal.
Sweatpants Forever!
And remember the collective cringe we all shared for BBC dad in 2017? This is also not the normal we should return to. For good and bad, 2020 has humanized us all. It has stomped its feet and demanded empathy and realness, even amidst the void of anything remotely resembling it from our president. We’ve collectively revealed our truest joys, our deepest pain, our darkest fears, our weakest points. We’ve seen the best and the worst of humanity and exposed that the privilege of apathy is the loudest silence. We’ve lifted the veil on cold, calculated, professionalism by divulging our cluttered basements, questionable art choices, toy-infested living rooms, unmade beds, dirty kitchens, curious pets, and exuberant children, fleshing out the fullness of our lives to those who previously only saw one dimension. And it makes you wonder: why were we trying so hard to hide all of this humanness before? What good did that do anyone? It’s impossible to miss the rambunctious interruptions we’ve come to know and love, but look carefully on your next virtual meeting and you’ll likely spot a silent mouthed “thank you” to an off-screen someone who is dropping off a coffee, snack, or lunch plate. These quieter moments of real-life and gratitude are reminders that, though this is impossibly difficult, it is still full of small gestures of love and light.
On the topic of light, December 21st marked the winter solstice when days get longer in the northern hemisphere – the oldest celebration in human history, because at the moment we’re farthest from the sun, it draws us closer once again. On our daily walks, Noa squeals with glee at the Christmas lights and points at every un-lit strand, indignantly demanding “ON! ON!,” almost as if she understands that as dim as it’s been, we have to celebrate whatever light we can find and share it with others.
So while it would be cathartic to close out this terrible year by hitting send on a scathing hot take on precisely how and where 2020 can go f*** itself, I’m instead here to confront the underlying tension many of us are experiencing this holiday season. The exhausted desire for rest and normalcy, but the visceral reminder that when we stress-tested our societal foundation, large sections had gaping holes. What was normal for many is not safe to return to. (In many cases, it wasn’t safe to begin with.) So my message to you is this – let’s resist the rallying cries to forget all things 2020. Let’s instead recognize it as a year so uncomfortable, so painful, so scary, so raw, that it forced us to grow. Let’s peel off the sticky film that coated every experience, good and bad, and use it as our lens through which we change our collective normal. Because the truth is, what happens next is up to all of us. How willing we are to fight, how well we learned from what’s happened, and how much we are able to care about one another. We have a lot to grieve from 2020 and much to repair, but the glimmers of goodness remain in their places. John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsberg feel near because we hold the light of those we lost inside us. Let’s chase after it with Noa’s fierce urgency. ON! ON! Let’s illuminate the paths forward as we stumble along in this, our collective endeavor toward our new normal.
Sweatpants Forever!
