I wasn’t happy when schools closed last March, but I understood and accepted it—accepted that we had to hunker down for a few months to get this virus under control. By August, the worst would be over, and my daughter would be back in school.
For a month, two months, it seemed we’d get there. Arizona’s Covid cases were rising, but our total numbers remained relatively low. Sheltering in place and enduring daily remote learning meltdowns seemed to be working. It hard, but just a couple more rough months now and we could back to normal in the fall.
And then, in mid-May, Arizona—like so many states—just gave up.
Our Covid cases were still rising, but suddenly no one seemed to care. The governor’s stay at home order expired in mid-May. By the end of the month, pretty much everything was open: restaurants, gyms, beauty salons, the mall. The governor wouldn’t even allow cities to pass mask mandates to mitigate the harm until several weeks later.
Only schools remained closed. Only teachers and families seemed to get that there was still a pandemic going on. The school year was almost over. I hung on to the faint hope that staying home now would let us break our isolation in time for the first day of school. Getting in-person school back up and running was the one, the most, important thing right now.
But too many people didn’t understand that. Too many people just had to eat out, go to the gym, hang out at the bar, and get a hair cut immediately, rather than waiting another month or two. Our numbers kept rising, more steeply now, and too many didn’t seem to care. Arizona took it’s turn as the world’s Covid19 hotspot, but unlike most of the hotspots before us, we had time to see it coming. We knew what would happen.
It didn’t have to be like this.
Our family, like so many families, did all we could. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, when so many others were doing nothing at all. Even now, when bars and gyms have finally closed again, restaurants and retail stores remain open. I guess the people filling those places think their right to eat out with their friends is more important than my kid’s right to get an education and hang out with her friends.
So we’re not going back to in-person school this August. Of course we’re not.
And people still don’t get it. Instead of embracing the selfishness and sacrifice needed to get kids back to learning and their parents back to work, too many have doubled down on their own selfishness instead. Too many keep insisting they have the right to skip the mask, to eat out, to party with as many friends as they wanted.
Too many seem to believe, at the exact same time, that teachers and children have no rights at all, that we’re the selfish ones for not sucking it up and returning to a highly contagious, potentially deadly, environment just so that everyone else can keep on pretending everything’s back to normal.
The people refusing to wear masks or order takeout—the people who got us into this mess to begin with—couldn’t possibly be to blame. Only those of us unwilling to live with the consequences of the situation they created were to blame.
I hope that was one hell of a steak dinner you all had, one hell of a haircut, one hell of drink, one hell of a workout. Was it was good enough to be worth convincing yourself that no one but you matters, that actions don’t have consequences, that there can be freedom without responsibility or the basic community-minded patriotism of Americans looking out for one another.
I’ve always tried to avoid dividing this country into us vs. them, always tried to understand that everything looks different depending where you’re standing, that everyone deep down believes they’re doing the right thing.
But today—today I’m just angry. Angry that my governor and my legislature and far too many of my fellow Arizonans couldn’t be patient a few months more. Angry that my state values its restaurants and gyms and bars and malls so much more than it values its people.
Angry that, next week, my daughter isn’t going back to school in person after all.
Tomorrow, I know, I’ll get back to enduring. Remote learning will probably be a little better this time around. Even if it isn’t, I’ll make it through, somehow. All of us with school-age children will. We’ll manage for as long as we have to. We have no choice.
But the rest of you could at least help us out here. While teachers are trying to teach without the in-person interaction they excel at, while kids are trying to learn without the in-person interaction their development demands, while parents are trying to somehow juggle work and the stress of helping their kids through it all, for the most part without childcare or even the occasional babysitter—while we’re getting through, day by day—you can wear your damn mask. You can keep your damn social distance. You can party over Zoom like the rest of us. You can cook your own damn meals.
I don’t care anymore what sort of denial you’re relying on to convince yourself this is all no big deal. I do care that you’re more concerned with your right to continue doing whatever you want uninterrupted, without a thought for those of us whose entire lives will be interrupted that much longer as a result.
I need for you to be the ones to grow up, make sacrifices, and hunker down with the rest of us so that we all can get back to normal sooner rather than later.
I’d love for my daughter to get to meet her new teacher in person by January. But I can’t make that happen alone.
At my daughter’s elementary school, every child learns three things from the first day of kindergarten on: “Be kind and respectful. Be responsible. Be safe.” These principles inform every aspect of school life, creating a caring atmosphere that’s one of the reasons I love her school and want to send her back in person this fall.
But I can’t.
Our school is currently offering both online and in-person options, and at first I struggled with which to choose. Yet if I ask myself the same questions my child has been taught to ask, the answer is clear.
Is returning in person kind?
I recently attended a (virtual) school board meeting. District teachers spoke, often tearfully, about how they were being forced to choose between a career they love and—quite possibly—their lives and the lives of their loved ones. Unlike district families, teachers aren’t being given a choice. If they’re assigned to teach in person, they need to either show up or resign.
It’s a cruel choice, and kindness demands I not ask teachers to make it. Instead, by agreeing to learn remotely, I help increase the number of teachers who can teach remotely.
Is it respectful?
Throughout the United States, teachers are terrified of returning to face to face learning. Here in Arizona educators have already died, even while socially distancing, even on relatively empty campuses. What will happen when our facilities are closer to full?
Respect demands I recognize that our teachers’ lives are just as important as our children’s lives. If I respect educators, I can’t put them in harm’s way for my own benefit.
Is it responsible?
Arizona’s per-capita rate of Covid-19 cases are among the highest in the country, as are the resulting deaths, and our hospitals are running out of ICU beds.
Responsibility demands not giving our tapped-out public health system more cases to treat. It demands I step up and do my part to help my community maintain the capacity to treat all who are sick, so that our hospitals don’t have to make life-or-death decisions about who receive care and who doesn’t.
Is it safe?
Remote learning has been challenging for my daughter and me, as it has been for so many families, and I have a new appreciation of the ways the benefits of face-to-face learning extend far beyond academic achievement. I want so badly for my child to experience those benefits once more.
But like my child, I have to accept that sometimes, being safe means we can’t always do what we want. Evidence is growing that single greatest Covid-19 risk is simply sharing an enclosed space with other people, breathing the same air for an extended period of time. That’s pretty much the definition of classroom learning, and I’ve yet to see a plan effectively mitigates that risk.
Safety demands I not send my child into this dangerous situation, even if she wants to be there, even if I want her to be there, too. Not yet.
Not until Arizona’s Covid-19 numbers drop—and our understanding of the virus grows—enough that we can return in a way that truly is kind, respectful, responsible, and safe.
One of the things I’ve learned, as I’ve become more politically engaged the past four years, is just how important local elected officials are.
It’s primary time here in Arizona, so I thought I’d talk about why a few of the most-overlooked, county-level offices on the ballot matter in all communities, as well as giving some recs for the candidates in my community, Pima County.
Starting from the very bottom of the ballot:
Why this position matters: Constables serve papers— including eviction notices. That potentially puts them at the forefront of eviction policy reform—where they have power to help more people stay in their homes, and to provide more support to those who are evicted.
A dedicated group of Pima County constables have done just that. They launched a pilot program that gives those being evicted several days notice instead of the fifteen minutes that had been standard—time that helps evictees accept the reality of their situation make plans. The constable have also worked to get more resources to those being evicted, including information about housing grants, and they’ve pushed for a freeze on evictions during the Covid-19 crisis.
Four years ago I had no idea what constables did. Now I know they literally have the power to save lives, if they choose to use it.
My recommendations: Joe Ferguson (JP 9), Kristen Randall (JP 8), and Bennett Bernal (JP 6) have been at the forefront of eviction reform here. They deserve to—and Pima County needs them to—continue this work.
Why this office matters: The county recorder handles all things voting—registration, polling places, mail-in ballots, and so on. She’s also in a position to address barriers that keep people from voting and to make voting more equitable—things at the very heart of our democracy.
My recommendation: Gabriella Cázares-Kelly has a long history of voter outreach within the Tohono O’odham reservation and throughout Pima county. She has a master’s degree in higher education, experience encouraging civic engagement as a co-founder of the grassroots organizing group Indivisible Tohono, and is president of the Progressive Democrats of Southern Arizona.
She’s also one of the most dedicated people I know, and as county recorder she’ll work tirelessly to make voting more accessible in underrepresented communities.
Why this office matters: The county attorney oversees the local criminal justice system—and so has the power to reform it.
My recommendation: Laura Conover won’t settle for maintaining the current status quo. She’s committed to criminal justice reform and opposed to maintaining the status quo. A former public defender now in private practice, she promises to end the county’s policy of pursuing felony prosecutions for minor, nonviolent crimes.
Why this office matters: The county board of supervisors (in some places called the board of commissioners) oversees county services and controls the county budget. They set policies related to public health, economic development, community safety, management of natural resources, and countless other things (including, in Pima County, the local animal shelter).
Supervisors also have the power to accept or reject grants, something that became critical when community members drew attention to Pima County’s routine acceptance of Operation Stonegarden grants, which fund collaboration between local law enforcement and border patrol—and in doing so both harm vulnerable families and cost the county money via indirect expenses. Thanks to community engagement, the county ultimately rejected these funds, a move with not only local but also national implications.
Wherever you live, give your downballot candidates some attention and research and love this primary season—and in November. In the end, they truly do have as much power to change lives as the upballot headliners do.
Confession: The first time I stepped outside wearing a face mask, I almost took it off again.
I try not to care what other people think, but walking through my neighborhood, mask covering more than half my face, it felt like surely everyone I walked past was staring at me.
I could have taken the mask off, if I really wanted to. Outdoors, it was easy to keep my distance from my fellow quarantine walkers, and the main thing my mask was protecting me from was probably seasonal allergies. But this was a trial run. If I couldn’t wear a mask now, out in the open, walking by myself, how would I wear it all the other, more critical, places I needed to wear it?
I kept my mask on. In the U.S. we were just beginning to understand how important mask wearing was in protecting our communities from Covid-19. I knew this was something I had to get used to.
I did get used to it, and now, a couple months later, it’s a habit. A couple months has also given me time to think about where my initial resistance came from.
Before Covid-19, I’d only very occasionally seen anyone wearing a mask in public before. When I did see someone wearing a mask, my first thought was, “I wonder what’s going on with them?” I would have denied it if you asked, but I realize now that masks were, to me, a sign of frailty, of physical weakness.
I didn’t understand, yet, what those in a great many other countries where masks were more common knew instinctively: that you don’t wear a mask to protect yourself, but to protect those around you.
Indeed, I also realize now that I thought of mask wearing as something that people did in other places, but not here, as if we didn’t all share the same biology, the same vulnerability to disease.
I wonder whether some of those refusing to wear masks have had similar thoughts, consciously or unconsciously, but have failed to recognize and push past them, and so have grown defensive instead.
In the end, knowing masks were necessary made me push past my own resistance, but it didn’t make me feel comfortable doing so.
It was seeing others wearing masks that did that.
On that first walk, mask wearers were few and far between, but I wasn’t the only one. Whenever I saw another walker wearing a mask, I waved, and they waved back, and as I walked on, I felt more at ease with my own mask, and less self-conscious. I wasn’t alone, and neither were they.
As masks have become more widespread, that feeling has grown stronger, and wearing a mask doesn’t feel all that awkward now.
There’s a need to for more messaging, more education, on why masks are needed, as well as more political will, in my community at least, to enforce mask mandates.
But I wonder whether, in the end, the most effective way to get others to wear masks is simply to continue wearing our own.
Because as powerful as the “I Have a Dream” speech is, many of Martin Luther King, Jr’s other words were powerful, too.
“A true revolution of values will lay hand on the world order and say of war, ‘This way of settling differences is not just.’ This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation’s homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice, and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.” — “Beyond Vietnam,” Riverside Church, New York
“For here on either side of the wall are God’s children and no man-made barrier can obliterate that fact. Whether it be East or West, men and women search for meaning, hope for fulfillment, yearn for faith in something beyond themselves, and cry desperately for love and community to support them in this pilgrim journey.” — Sermon at St. Mary’s Church, East Berlin
“It’s possible that those men were afraid. You see, the Jericho Road is a dangerous road … And you know, it’s possible that the priest and the Levite looked over that man on the ground and wondered if the robbers were still around … And so the first question that the priest asked, the first question that the Levite asked was, ‘If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?’ But then the Good Samaritan came by, and he reversed the question: ‘If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?’” — “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop,” Bishop Charles Mason Temple, Memphis
“We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was ‘legal’ and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was ‘illegal.’ It was ‘illegal’ to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. Even so, I am sure that, had I lived in Germany at the time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers.” — “Letter from Birmingham Jail”
“But there was never a conflict between religion and science as such. There cannot be. Their respective worlds are different. Their methods are dissimilar and their immediate objectives are not the same. The method of science is observation, that of religion contemplation. Science investigates. Religion interprets. One seeks causes, the other ends. Science thinks in terms of history, religion in terms of teleology. One is a survey, the other an outlook.” — “Science and Religion”
“We still have a choice today: nonviolent coexistence or violent co-annihilation. We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak for peace in Vietnam and justice throughout the developing world, a world that borders on our doors. If we do not act, we shall surely be dragged down the long, dark, and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.” — “Beyond Vietnam,” Riverside Church, New York
“Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct-action campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that ‘justice too long delayed is justice denied.’” — “Letter from Birmingham Jail”
“On some positions cowardice asks the question, ‘is it safe?’ Expediency asks the question, ‘is it politic?’ Vanity asks the question, ‘is it popular?’ But conscience asks the question, ‘is it right?’ And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular but he must take it because conscience tells him it is right.” — “A Proper Sense of Priorities,” Washington, DC
Puzzled by the president’s recent interest in purchasing Greenland? Yeah, me too. Fortunately, the internet is a veritable treasure trove of inaccurateunreliablepoorly-sourced easy-to-find information, and it was but the work of a few minutes and one too many blue raspberry Eegees to track down the top reasons Donald Trump wants to buy Greenland.
It’s the largest country on the map in the Situation Room.
Not enough muskoxen at Mar-a-Lago.
If he doesn’t act now, those damn liberals might amend the Constitution to prohibit buying and selling people.
Sea ice futures. They’re a thing.
The Flores settlement only applies to holding families in detention, not to abandoning them on Arctic islands.
Obama never tried to buy an autonomous Danish territory, now, did he?
No one on the moon will return the president’s calls.
In 1903 Emma Lazarus famously wrote “The New Colossus,” a poem the Statue of Liberty that concludes
Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
In 2019–specifically, earlier this week—Ken Cuccinelli infamously edited that poem to say
Give me your tired and your poor who can stand on their own two feet and who will not become a public charge
In addition to being offensive, ignorant of history, and—coming from the acting director of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services—outright dangerous, Cuccinelli’s words are, well, terrible poetry.
Which got me wondering: What would happen if other classic poems were revised from a similar perspective?
Possibly something like this.
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox
and which you were probably saving for breakfast
if you really wanted them you should have come here legally
And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, don’t despair, We can raise taxes on the poor until This monument stands forever in the Sand, beside the casino and housing Development that also bear my name.’
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer, But it isn’t my fault that freeloading falcon Didn’t work harder and buy health insurance that covered better hearing aids.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood and I— I fracked and mined and dug a pipeline beneath the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
I first learned about the 1980s Sanctuary movement from Tucson’s Rabbi Joe Weizenbaum. He said he remembered being asked, from time to time, why he was a part of a largely church-led movement. His response, which I can no longer remember word for word, was to the effect that Sanctuary wasn’t just a Christian business—that we Jews belonged there too.
I thought about Rabbi Joe’s words after watching yesterday’s nationwide #JewsAgainstIce protests against the internment and abuse of immigrants and asylum-seekers in ICE detention camps, held on Tisha b’Av, a Jewish day of deep mourning.
And I especially thought about them after hearing the protesters singing.
I’d gotten so used to songs of protest being either Christian or secular. I knew that the songs I grew up singing in synagogue—the songs that I still sing there, and at home as well—had things to say about survival and justice and healing the world, but those weren’t the songs that I sang while holding signs at rallies and marches and in front of my representatives’ offices.
So hearing protestors singing Oseh Shalom, or Gesher Tzar Me’od, or Hinei Ma Tov—it broke me open a little, in a good way. It said to me not just that Jews belong here, but that we’re needed, that we’re here for a reason, that have our own unique and critical role to play, a part of the larger picture where so many people are playing unique and critical roles to heal this country and this world.
I’m sharing some clips of that music—so that I can come back to them when I need to, so that I can share them, so that you can hear them too.
Inside the ICE detention center in Seattle yesterday. Hinei Ma Tov … “How good it is when all of us dwell together.”