Before COVID-19 took a turn for the worst in SoCal (or was recognized for what it really was by the government and people alike), I had intended on taking a hiatus from the world after my book launch. When my book launch party was forced into cancellation, I genuinely was heartbroken. It was the one thing I was excited about after the multiple loads of trauma that hit me since May of 2019. After the social distancing and quarantine took a stricter role, I started to wonder if maybe this was God’s way of telling us all to slow down and examine our growth, and whether it’s been healthy or toxic. Growth, as tumors can show us, is not always the right kind.
After my dad died, I think my family and I threw ourselves deeper into our passions and work. Maybe it was our form of healing. Maybe it was a mechanism to readjust. Maybe it was us trying to keep going and make him proud of our survival and gratitude. I don’t know. To be quarantined though, forced into isolation, was being forced to face a lot of realities that maybe none of us were ready for. Atop my dad’s death and visible absence, I had to deal with the death of a partnership and friendship from someone who took advantage of me. I called him out, and as would be expected, male privilege and entitlement kicked in, and it just made everything worse. The hardest part was that he knew how much of a significant role his friendship and support played in my keeping it together during my father’s illness and passing. Then came my own health changes. Then came the hit we artists have taken of paid performances and opportunities to sell books or host workshops. Then came the halts that nonprofits had to take and we scramble to know what will be of our future.
The first three days of quarantine, I was a mess, and to be honest, as absolutely beautiful as it was to see the art community rise up to the virtual stage, I felt overwhelmed. There was a virtual poetry something on the daily and it’s so hard when some take it personally if you accept one invite but cannot make the other.
Poetry spaces have become overly subliminally competitive these days, and by that I mean too many new spaces are popping up on the same days/times or as close to as others, in neighboring locations and it really is impacting those long-standing open mic spaces and events that have not only built rapport, but a community for years, even decades. As artists, we should be fortifying the already existing platforms, not building new ones.
It reminds me of the mosques in SoCal, maybe even the country. The way that instead of building a stronger base at the ones that already exist, they literally go fundraise to physically build another empty mosque that harasses women, doesn’t empower children, and remains in constant debt. Y’all, khalas, for the love of Allah, get it together! Same to poets. Our communities need each other, and before all that, we need ourselves.
Siri answered me. Sometimes he’s good like that. I swiped off that phone and it was beautiful. For the first time in too long, I slept like a log (which is an expression I never understood because do logs even sleep?). There was something serene about my mind knowing I was expecting no calls, no texts, no emails, and no notifications, and could sleep till my body felt ready to rise. My mom and brother were home and knew where to find me. My other brother could call either of them for anything. Painfully, my father will never be able to call me again. Everyone else could wait.
I started to see the value behind quarantine that I wholeheartedly know is not a privilege everyone can enjoy—both those in forced quarantine and those who cannot stay home due to their line of work. But it really is God’s way of slowing us down. Making us question our lives and livelihoods. Our growths and our intentions. It has also been a way of reminding me that healing, as mentioned before, is not always an individual journey, but a group one, and my family and I are taking it together now. Eating meals together more often. Cooking together too! This week we made one heck of a parmesan crusted fish with a strawberry vinaigrette salad and a garlic basil pasta and really, I wanted to cry with pride. Where have we been hiding our cooking souls all this time? I’ll tell you where, coffee shops and laptops working on edits and grants.
The other day I thought about how much time we spend on commutes. How much money we spend going to events—between parking, cover charges, and refreshments. How much energy we exhaust on things that may or may not be useful (like social media). How much distance “living” has put between us and the people who really matter. How much distance it has put between us and knowing ourselves. Self-care is still a buzzword but how many of us really know what it is or requires?
What the world is enduring right now is heartbreaking and I wouldn’t wish it on any generation or era, but everything has its lessons, the little things to recognize. Governments, I hope, learned the big things to recognize after seeing how destructive lack of preparedness can be. But those of us given the privilege and opportunity to protect ourselves and our communities, we can take this time to reassess our growths. A long time ago, I was talking to my dad. He was going through something difficult and he got emotional. I think it was the only time in my life I saw him get super sensitive, that was until he got sick, then it just became a sensitive and emotional time for us all. It still is. But midway through that old conversation he said, “It’s too late, Dania,” and I remember looking him straight in the eyes and confidently saying, “You’re wrong, dad. It’s never too late for a person, until they die.”
Kind of surreal remembering that now, but my advice hasn’t changed, and there’s no better time than forced isolation to let the many thoughts in our minds unravel.
