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.”

#FrontLines, a #pandemicdiary 76. She’s right to be angry. She has COVID. Got it from a client. Despite her face shield. Despite her mask. Her client didn’t wear a mask. So many people refuse to wear a mask. // Kim DeChurch is a healthcare social worker. She helps people access medical and financial programs. Helps them navigate the healthcare labyrinth. // She’s careful. Always careful. Woke up Tuesday with a fever. Headache. Started with GI symptoms. Gastrointestinal. “That was the first but I didn’t correlate it with the headache and the fever,” she says. “So, that happened first, and I put it together after the fact.” // Her voice is hoarse. She lacks stamina. But the headache is the worst part. //  “A lot of COVID people describe it like having a vise grip coming from your back shoulders around your head and just digging its claws into your temples. Nothing relieves that. That headache. Nothing. Not Tylenol. Advil. Motrin nothing.” //  She was in bed four days. Started Tuesday. I talked with her Friday. Her headache subsided. Came back. // She knew when she woke up Tuesday what it was. “But when you’re told. When you’re actually given that result. The throat punch comes when you’re, like, ‘Wow, so I have the virus that the whole entire world is trying not to get.” // You think, “I could die. Or I can have mild symptoms. I don’t know yet.” //  She’s hopeful, but angry. She vented on Facebook. She’s in healthcare working extra hours because of COVID. Homecare workers are tired. Getting sick. We’re in round two. It’s going to be worse. “Be safe be smart. Don’t be an asshole.” // She laughs when I ask her about it. “It really isn’t about you,” she says. “You wear a mask for the other person.”

*

I posted this to Instagram yesterday. It’s part of a book project called Book of Plagues.

#FrontLines, a #pandemicdiary 75. Nothing at Walgreens. Nothing at CVS. Nothing at Urgent Care. Nothing available. System’s overwhelmed. // “Tricky to find,” he says on the phone. County rep fielding COVID questions. “All the test locations everywhere are overwhelmed with requests.” // We’re rationing care. Richest country in the world. Rationing tests. Watching numbers rise. // Quarter million now dead in United States, 1.4 million worldwide. Hospitals filling fast. Maxing out. Ambulances race in, are diverted. Hospitals play hot potato. And there still are few tests. // Trump says cases are up because we test more people. Implies testing is the problem. But deaths are rising. Hospitalizations, too. In Texas. The Dakotas. Utah. Field hospitals sprout to handle the overflow. Freezer trucks store the dead. // We saw this in April in North Jersey. Seeing it again in the southern counties. Seeing this second wave wash over, Wash out the shore line. // “Testing of all people for SARS-CoV-2,”  says the National Institute on Aging,  “will help prevent the spread of COVID-19 by identifying people who are in need of care in a timely fashion.” // An early diagnosis, says the NIA, means early treatment and isolation, “reduc(es) the chances that they will infect others.” Helps limit severity. Cuts “the risk of long-term disability, or death.” // We need to test more, but there are not enough tests. That’s what the labs say. They have to prioritize. Triage. Not everyone can get one. That’s shortsighted. That’s foolish. That’s deadly.