When COVID-19 struck Prince Charles, Tom Hanks, and Boris Johnson, I assumed the virus would randomly hit the high as well as the low, the rich as well as the poor. That was an illusion. The usual social and economic stratifications turn out to apply to the virus as well as to much else in this country, with the poor and black becoming ill far more often than the white and rich. Not that I should wish suffering on the white and rich, although in darker moments I can think of a few folks the world could quite well do without. But that is beside the point.
The point is that for me and friends of my age, so far COVID-19 is at worst a mild inconvenience (knock on wood) and at best quite a nice opportunity to slow down. We retirees can have breakfast on the patio, enjoy bluer skies and quieter streets because the economy has shut down. We can leisurely watch the birds and admire our gardens at breakfast because we don’t have to ride the bus to a low-paying job. We are, in our own minds, not among the rich, just the moderately comfortable recipients of Social Security, pension plans, 401K accounts, and back yards. We went to college when it was affordable: at the University of Texas my 1960’s tuition and fees came to about $200.00 a semester. With our college degrees we got good jobs with benefits. We bought our homes before real estate became out of reach and benefitted from its rising value. Many of us sent our kids to college without burdening them or us, and now we are retired with steady incomes. Although our age puts us in a vulnerable demographic, we can afford to stay home and protect ourselves. And while I grieve for the world and dread the bad news of each day, I find myself adjusting and even enjoying my new life. All in all, for us life is pretty peachy if we don’t venture outside the fence, read a newspaper, or watch TV.
When we do look at the pictures, they are shocking: people lined up for miles at food banks, ICU doctors and nurses with drawn, exhausted faces in make-shift protection, closed shops unlikely to re-open, millions of newly unemployed people each week. And in the collective karma of Unites States history, one-third of U.S. deaths consists of African Americans. That disgraceful figure is no accident. From slavery to Jim Crow and the KKK, red-lining, mass incarceration, and on and on, the past has created the present.
That past has also created my good life, as well. Now, especially, complacency seems the greatest moral hazard for me and my cohorts. Every Sunday at six, our neighborhood holds a social-distancing happy hour. We gather in a neighbor’s front yard down the street, stand or sit apart and chat. And chat is what I would call it. Rarely do we venture into the really bad news. But then most of us don’t know anyone who has died of the virus. The talk ranges from where to find the best take-out to the latest neighborhood events and news of our families. Harmless stuff, and we all need a break. But I have to remind myself to remember my good luck at being born where, when, and to whom I was.
So my responsibility is to spread the good luck, not out of generational guilt but out of awareness and gratitude. How to do this? With volunteer work limited by quarantine, we give money as we can and engage on-line. Giving away my stimulus of $1200 is a small thing, and it may help a few. But it won’t change much, let alone the nation’s endemic socio-economic structure. That is a longer, harder, and collective process. The hope is that engaged citizens can build on this pandemic experience of communal vulnerability and learn what it is teaching us—that if the virus is not fair, if nature is not fair, maybe we humans can learn to be.
Houston Writers' Group 