Government curfew, Day 57
The monsoon season is here. The afternoon thunderstorms have started, sporadically, like a threatening, drunk who stumbles through the front door home from the casino or bar, crashing into furniture, upsetting the natural order of things, blustery, dark.
Though the rain when it comes is welcome, unlike the drunk.
The lockdown is finally, mercifully, yet terrifyingly, coming to end. A confusing snafu of tweets, newspaper articles, and word of mouth suggest the curfew is lifting. Schools were supposed to reopen last Monday, but Sunday evening came and went with no further guidance from the education ministry on whether the government schools would reopen. Word finally came Monday mid-morning schools would, in fact, not reopen with no further word on whether they would reopen this school year. Since then, we have learned the kids’ school we remain closed for the rest of the school year.
According to the local online paper, the plan for lifting of the curfew in Colombo would come in a special “gazette”. Elise and I joked of the gazette would be delivered by a town crier standing on a soap box on the street corner. We haven’t seen the gazette yet, nor the town crier.
In the days and hours leading up to last Monday, a potential lifting of the curfew in Colombo, I felt a great deal of trepidation. I didn’t know what to expect. Official word the curfew would remain in place came too late for many. And, despite the lockdown continuing, the roads filled with lorries and tuk-tuks, racing to destinations unknown, on errands put on hold for two months. Where could everyone have to go all of a sudden in such a hurry? The streets, deserted only a day before, had become drag strips. I was almost run over on my morning run by a giant white BMW honking its horn like a braying donkey as it barreled like ivory metal death down the road. Surprisingly, every day this week has seen more and more traffic as essential businesses look to reopen despite the fact people are not allowed to leave their houses to frequent these businesses.
As the Great Pause ends I feel...sad. Of course, I know life cannot be held hostage nor in a state of suspended animation forever, but I would be lying if I were ready for the quiet to end. Of course, it has not always been easy, and by quiet I certainly am not referring to the near constant, cacophonous din of three children continually fighting or complaining they are bored.
Over the past two months, we watched a new version of life take hold, a view of what could be. The birds returned, the skies cleared, and every evening around six the once busy street full of cars in front of our house filled instead with people walking, riding their bikes, exercising. We saw what was possible but hadn’t been before. What makes me sad is we will have to give that all back. willingly, seemingly without a second thought. As though it was stolen and never rightfully ours in the first place when the complete opposite is true. What makes me sad is the impression I think most people won’t miss what was. I never thought I would be that guy who would retire to a quiet cabin or camper van on some secluded riverbank deep in the woods with a view of distant violet mountaintops. Now, I’m not so sure.
Yesterday, as Sam and I were driving back from dropping his friend off, I asked Sam to continue to show patience, generosity, and kindness. It’s the only way we were going to get through this. As a family. As human beings.
I told him as crazy as it sounded — and I know it hasn’t always been easy — but I hoped he would like back on the last two months as among the happiest of his childhood.
One of our favorite dinners is something we have come to call “Cava Night” after one of our favorite, Mediterranean-themes fast-casual restaurants in Northern Virginia. Elise spends one full day gathering the ingredients, a pomegranate, parsley, cans of chickpeas, biranjal (eggplant). Another day on prep, charting the biranjal, roasting red bell peppers and making them into a spicy dip. And, finally, a third day pulling the meal together, making hummus and mutubal (the eggplant dip similar to babaganoush), cous cous, tabouli, Syrian pita bread. Elise says she likes to make it for me because of my Lebanese heritage. She wants to make my Sitti proud, but she doesn’t have to make Cava bowls to make Sitti proud. I know Sitti would have loved her.
Awhile back, out ice cream maker broke. But I didn’t let that deter me. We kept the bowl so we can still make ice cream but I have to churn it by hand which actually really does make it taste better because it is almost impossible to overchurn the ice cream when you have to churn it by hand. I made strawberry ice cream from scratch this week. Elise said she though it was the best strawberry ice cream she had ever had.
We’ve continued buying fish from the truck that pulls up in front of the house. He seems to be coming earlier and earlier. This morning he rang the doorbell 17 times at 6:30 a.m. I’m usually up, having just returned from an early morning run, but of course the one day I decide to try and sleep in the fishmonger comes to call. I bought a fish. I bring it into the kitchen while and clean it on the counter, filleting and skinning it. It gives me a small sense of pride. Providing for one’s family has become more figurative and less literal. I make money that does provide for my family, but little of what I do in any given day translates directly or literally to the dining room table, to sustaining their lives. Buying the fish from the truck, cleaning it, then cooking it gives me this small sense of accomplishment as a provider. I am not able to sail out onto the open ocean at dawn, to see the sun rise over the horizon or feel the salty spray of the seawater in my face, to pull the catch from the briny deep, but I can clean the fish and must seek solace in that one small connection to the fisherman. Having grown up in a small, South Florida fishing village should be worth something. Elise even called me “Florida Boy” recently. She used the term pejoratively. I’ve been trying to bring some good back to the moniker since.
I’m not the fastest or the neatest at cleaning a fish, but I get the job done. Despite all of this, we’re eating fresh fish and getting our omega-3 fatty acids. Brain power. The kids are doing all right.
I know the Great Pause has not been good to many and life must resume. Everyone will have a quarantine story. Some will find the silver lining. Many won’t or couldn’t. Through no fault of their own. People need to make a living. Trade beaver pelts, as Elise would say. Supporting oneself and one’s family, a small business, a trade, a craft, an art, has become a global hegemonic, artificial construct that is the Economy. How can we not protect the health and safety of loved ones without sacrificing our financial wellbeing? If we make our livings by participating in the Economy, a manmade creation, can we not craft or revise this artificial construct in such a way so a restaurant owner doesn’t have to fire every waiter, waitress, bartender, busboy, sous chef, line cook, and dishwasher the second a global pandemic strikes. I know it’s complicated but we should be able to figure this out.
One particularly violent thunderstorm ripped through our neighborhood. Lightning cracked overhead. Thunder shook the house with the ferocity of King Kong beating on his hairy chest, caged animals gripping the steel bars and rattling their cages for escape. Elise keeps a bell on the knob to the front door, a camel bell she got while at the camel fair in Pushkar. The force of the thunder rang the bell.
We are living through history. Like the Great Depression or 9/11. I am anxious to see what historians will say about this time. What will be written five or ten years from now. How the divides that have been laid bare — when I thought we could be no more divided — are mended, how we become whole again. I know we will. As a people. As a country. There can be no other path forward.
Last night, we had a Zoom call with my brothers. I recently saw someone on Facebook compare Zoom calls to the opening sequence of the Muppet Show or Hollywood Squares. It was hard to get those images out of my head. I’m sure I’d be the Jamie Farr of Zoom calls. Though it was very good to catch up with the family and see young nieces and nephews, I couldn’t help find something almost post-apocalyptic in the whole scene. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was learning my dad tested positive for the virus shortly after returning from a ski trip to Aspen mid-March, a trip I remember being slightly shocked to learn he still planned to go on at the time. A bad dream.
There is much to fear. But I appreciate these words from a recent commencement speech given by President Obama to the class of 2020, none of whom will be able to walk and receive their diplomas as they accomplish one of life’s greatest milestones, high school graduates, “Don’t be afraid. America’s gone through tough times before. Slavery, civil war, famine, disease, the Great Depression, and 9/11. And each time, we came out stronger.”
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