The latest installment:

A Facebook friend posts about her father: He’s in the ICU. He’s on a ventilator, “Fighting to fucking breathe.” // He’s a restaurant worker. Undocumented. In the U.S., in New Jersey, since the late ‘80s. Worked. Raised kids. His daughter’s a lawyer. Undocumented, too, but has DACA. Travelled here with her parents when she was 2. Busted ass to get through school. // She’s exhausted. Resigned. Hopeful. “Wear your fucking masks,” she says. “Quarantine if you need to, to protect others.” // CDC says, stay at home. Says wear a mask. He couldn’t. Immigrants can’t. They pay taxes, but get no help. No aid. No benefits. // According to the NIH, the undocumented “are at increased risk” of COVID because they have to work. Can’t stay at home. They are “essential.” // He “protected himself to the maximum,” she writes. But he had to work. Needed an income. “He insisted on working even though his employer wasn’t complying as needed” with COVID protocols. He caught the virus at work. // Now, he’s hospitalized. Now, he can’t work. Now, there is no income. And no help from the government. It has nothing to offer. Shouldn’t offer anything, That’s what they say. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s illegal. A crime’s a crime. // The argument is always the same. Built on narrow definitions. Crime. Punishment. Legal. Illegal. // The “Law is Law,” I’ve been told. Capitalized, as if “the Law” is infallible. As if we treat all laws as equal. As if all are always treated equally under the law. // The unauthorized immigrant has been placed beyond the law. He works. Pays taxes. Makes the economy go. Gets nothing in return. Gets sick. // His daughter waits and prays for him to recover. “My dad and I need to make many more memories together,” she says. “I’m confident he will.”

I posted this on Facebook yesterday, after seeing some posts from others that downplayed the impact that COVID is having. My sister, Sandy, tested positive over the Thanksgiving holiday, and her husband Chuck awaits results, though it is clear his test will come back positive, as well. It’s a scary moment for our family, and I got angry at the naysayers.

Here’s my original post:

I know people with COVID. I have family with COVID (my sister, Sandy and her husband Chuck). I know people who have lost loved ones to COVID. There are 13.5 million Americans who have or have had it, one of every 24 Americans. Nearly 270,000 have died, a figure that does not take into account those who died from it but were never tested, and does not account for those who avoided medical care because COVID-overrun hospitals could not provide regular care. This pandemic is real and dangerous. It spreads like few things we’ve seen. Still, too many are not taking it seriously.

Responses varied. Some were supportive, but several were from the doubters. Trust in god, they said. Or variations of “it’s no big deal.” Those responses caused me to write a new diary post:

Life must go on, she says. We are not afraid. As if this is about fear. As if precautions are a test of bravery. // He questions the impact on hospitals. Says it’s only true if you watch CNN. // A 99.8% survival rate, she says. A 99.99999% rate, he says. Exaggeration. More than 2% who’ve contracted COVID have died, 20 times the rate of the flu. // Let’s not push hysteria, he says, but 13.5 million Americans have or have had it. One in 24 Americans. My sister Sandy has it. Her husband Chuck, too. // A friend says she still has trouble with her lungs months later. She lost her father to the virus. Nearly 270,000 have died. In 10 months. And the numbers are ratcheting up. // We face a “grim reckoning,” The New York Times writes, “an appalling milestone: more than one million new coronavirus cases every week.” We “now must endure a critical period of transition.” Face the likely surge. Half a million to three-quarters of a million total deaths by Spring. Even with a vaccine imminent. // “The next three months are going to be just horrible,” a doctor tells the Times (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/30/health/coronavirus-vaccines-treatments.html?referringSource=articleShare).

Thanksgiving in a Time of Virus

Even the maples in the yard

are scabrous with virus. Still,

they stretch above our sight. Leaves

hang tight to awkward branches.

Fall. Twirl in the wind. It’s raining.

The parade is on. No crowds. Just

cameras. One year, before

my brother was born, my dad

took Sandy and I to his friend’s

office, up high in the Empire

State Building. We watched from above

like demigods. Snoopy passed.

A turkey. Pilgrims and half-naked

Indians. They bounce on air,

tethered to the earth by marchers

holding heavy cable. A half

-century later, I’m in the Hamptons.

Mark’s at home. Dad’s alone

in Vegas, mom in Elkhorn

dulled by a failing mind. Sandy’s

in Nebraska. Exposed. Has

symptoms. A native group in

traditional garb performs,

as a jungle-themed float approaches.

It looks so small. Kate asks Frankie

what she’s thankful for. She says,

“Mommy, daddy, and Hops,” their dog.

She’s four. No one’s asked me what I’m

grateful for. Ashtyn fusses

and chatters. She’s just months old.

We’ve broken protocol to see her.

The wind kicks up. The rain grows

thick and angry, as the branches 

bow in supplication.

Journalism and writing takes work. It takes time to contact sources, to interview them, to sort through notes and recordings, and then to craft something readable. It takes time to edit that work, to post it and then to send it out into the great online maw.

There are a shrinking number of paid journalists, those working for small and large publications, both in print and online. Many of us have been “transitioned” from newsrooms — a fancy word for being laid off. Some of us have moved into public relations. Others have found corporate jobs, writing internal communications.

I teach and I continue to write, but I do so on a contingent basis. Unlike tenured faculty, I get paid by the class, and only get paid when I have classes to teach. The pay is nominal compared to the work, but it I do it because I like working with young writers. Unlike full-time staffers, I get paid by the article — whether it is when I write for The Progressive, The Progressive Populist, NJ Spotlight, or other publications.

It’s a tenuous existence, but the work is necessary. Journalism and commentary keep us informed and help us understand what is happening around us. The more creative work I do — poetry, essays — offers a different entry point, but still gives us an opportunity to understand the world.

So, I’m transitioning this e-mail/blog to a paid format for some content. There will continue to be free public posts, but paid subscribers ($5 a month) will have special access — paid-only posts, the ability to comment and participate, guest blogger opportunities. Subscribers also get a copy of As an Alien in a Land of Promise, my hybrid book of poetry, journalism, and photos about homelessness in the United States as experienced in the now-defunct homeless encampment in Lakewood, N.J.

If you are a $5-a-month Patreon patron, you have been upgraded here. I will continue to post in both places.

If you like the work, consider a paid subscription. It will allow me to do more reporting.

Thanks

Hank

This is the latest Instagram report.

By appointment only. No more walk ins. That’s the new rules. Recent rules. // He inserts the swab deep into my sinus. Spins it. Inserts it in the other. // Annie went first. Tickles. Makes her want to sneeze. Same for me. Susan’s next. All of five minutes for here people. Took longer to find a testing site. Longer to get here. To run the insurance card. // How busy are you? I ask the doctor. How many tests are you doing? // “Nineteen. Twenty.” He pauses. “Thousand.” We laugh with him. I appreciate the humor. These are trying times, and you have find those moments when you can exhale. // “The state is supposed to open testing centers, but they’re not,” he says. Instead, as we always do in America, we ask the market to step in. Private facilities like this one are tasked with keeping up with growing demand. They keep up as best they can, but it’s triage.//  “We’re heading in one direction,” the doctor tells me. “Disaster.”