This is might be our generation’s World War. Our Great Depression. Our Black Plague. One of those moments in time when everything changes, everywhere, violently and inescapably. One of those things that warps the iris through which we look at the world for the rest of our lives. Maybe we’ll gather together after this, anywhere we can, every time we can, just because we can. Or maybe the sight of a sea of seething bodies will look like danger from here on out.
Maybe 50 years from now, a young stranger will reach out to shake your hand and you will physically recoil from it and he will not understand why and you will not be able to explain it to him. Maybe, when you’re 83, the sound of someone coughing in a deli will drive you right out the door, and not just you, but everyone who survived this. You will meet the faded gazes of those people in the parking lot and you will ask them where they quarantined.
“2 bedroom in Florida,” they’ll say and you’ll nod.
“Studio in Detroit.” and they’ll nod back.
The thing about experiences like these, the worldwide ones, the everybody-everywhere ones, is that, because we are all carrying this burden together, it can feel like it is our job to carry our share alone.
If you fall down while you are walking on a crowded street, chances are someone will stop to help you. But what if you all fall down together? who do you turn to? Is it every man for himself?
It doesn’t have to be.
Because the other thing about these worldwide, everybody-everywhere tragedies, is that if you’re feeling something, someone you know is probably feeling it, too. Your old co-worker went through it yesterday and she’s got some tips on getting out. A guy you went to high school with will be going through it tomorrow and they’d probably like to hear from you.
So be open.
Call your family, your neighbors, your co-workers. Ask them how they’re holding up. Tell them how you’re doing.
Wave at your mailman.
Facetime with isolated people.
Donate what you can, if you can.
If you need help, ask for it. If you’re worried about someone, call them.
Because this might be our Great Depression. Our World War. Our Black Plague.
Some of us won’t make it through this. Some of us will never be the same. But all of us will remember.
We’ll remember the fear, yes. The boredom, maybe. But we will also remember the things we did to help. And we will almost certainly remember the things that we failed to do.
I personally would like to know later, if I’m ducking out of a coffee shop because someone had the sniffles or getting off the bus because there were too many people on it, that I acquired these scars in the process of being the best person I could be. I personally would like to know that this experience took the bare-minimum from me because even though we all fell down together, we got up together, too.
This is my personal cell number: (805) 276-5247
If you’re feeling lonely or stir-crazy or you just need to talk, I am absolutely, positively, here for you. I’ll sing to your kid, I’ll dance for your grandma, I’ll read to your dog. I’m here for you. We’re all here for each other.
Some free online fitness classes
Some people on Instagram who are doing exciting things:
This chef is doing cooking classes:
This is very therapeutic:
This account makes me so laugh so goddamn hard:
A bunch more: