Pretty Political

The best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person …

Andy Rooney

I remember being called on a freelance writing job over a decade ago. I sat in a large conference room with the ad agency execs explaining to me the gig. They had received government money to help recruit young people into the field such as LPN’s to help care for the elderly. They saw the looming influx of the Baby Boomers aging into homes and wanted to stay ahead of the curve.

Smart, right? So, I thought.

As I dug deeper to find bullet points and information I could use to create the ads, billboards and commercials they were planning — I asked how much they made. “Minimum wage, maybe a little more.” They continued to outline their plan and I stopped them again, “but, will they start paying them more?” I asked. “Probably not.” They replied and continued with the pitch. I obliged the rest of their meeting then returned home and made the call to pass on the writing work. I am a decent writer, but not a magician! How do I say to people, “Hey, come take care of people and get paid very little! It will be rewarding, but you will struggle to pay your bills!!” I couldn’t, so I didn’t.

Fast forward many years and enter COVID-19, stage right. The nursing homes are full of our Greatest Generation to the top level Boomers — our grandparents, parents and friends. They are the most vulnerable to this virus and they have been isolated this entire time — as we cry about our own isolation remember we CAN get out, we CAN see people. It’s horrible for all of us … but, they are the best of all of us and getting hit the hardest. They are dying alone. That is a painful sentence to write.

People are saying we need to protect them, but the staff is going in and out of the buildings. The virus is airborne and not always caught on first test. The natural things like Vitamin D that has been proven to help stave off the virus is non-existent for them as they are locked up — rarely able to get in the sun. It seems like a completely helpless situation.

But, is it?

It seems like what we have now are a lot of kids with too much time on their hands, people that want to line up and march, those that want to take action, but feel helpless. What if we stop fighting each other so much and focus some of that energy on the people that built this country for us.

1. Kids — parents, contact a nursing home, see if your children can write letters or become a pen pal with a nursing home resident. Andy Rooney was spot on, if you want your children to learn perspective … here is your chance to engage them.
2. Adults – Do all the parades need to be political? Or, can we arrange to stand outside their windows and let them know we are still out here waiting for them, that we care?
3. Businesses – Can we donate a lunch, protective equipment, something to the people that work in these facilities? I know they are underpaid and overworked and none of this is their fault.

These are just a few ideas and I am sure more people out there have more. In a world where they are trying to divide us … can we try to find a common good? Because this is one.

They aren’t just our “elderly population”. They are the people that taught us, loved us, raised us, worked for us, gave to us and we shouldn’t just “think” about giving back to them, it should be a moral imperative.

The last time I saw my sister truly alive was Christmas Eve 2002. The days after the phone call were a blur of machines beeping slower and slower, a beat marching me further and further away from normal. I never left her side in the endless days that followed, but repeatedly asked all that came and went, “please take down the Christmas tree before I get home”.

I walked through the curtain after the last beep rang a long flat tone and returned home, in a haze, without my normal, without my only sibling. Greeting me in the living room was the tree I had asked to be gone. It no longer symbolized tradition, love and gifts to me. It was standing there as a shining beacon of loss — a reminder of the last time I saw her smiling. Without thinking, I shook off the numbness I was feeling and replaced it with rage. I grabbed the 7-foot fully adorned tree, ripped it from its base and threw it down a flight of stairs leaving a trail of broken bulbs and memories behind it. I then ran to my bedroom and lay on the bed screaming out to no one that was listening or could head my demand, “I want my sister back!” I screamed and pounded my fists off the bed. “I want my sister back now!”

I know that some see these statues the same way. Even when no logic seems to apply, they represent something bad to you. But, I also know for many, the don’t. They represent history to them. I continued to put up a Christmas tree every year for my young children and the three young children she left behind because I realized we don’t get to CHOOSE for others what symbols mean. We don’t get to CHOOSE how people grieve.

Every time during this pandemic, I cringe when I hear “new normal” because I rather loved my old normal. I grieve for the days we were free, those that have died, those that are losing their livelihoods. Those of us that feel that way get chastised into not “getting it” by those that quickly leaned into the change. But, you don’t get to CHOOSE how people grieve.

The mask became the symbol for that change and they used it to divide us further. Putting away all debates over the efficacy, it stands as a symbol to some as a surrender to a new normal they do not want. You call them stupid for it. You tell them they don’t care. You attack and berate them. But, you don’t get to CHOOSE how people grieve.

When we decide for others how they are to view things, live, breathe and grieve — the results can be nothing but anger. We blame the media, we blame the politicians — but, it’s us, simply us. They can only manipulate us as much as we allow. Freedom isn’t a flag, or a Constitution, or a symbol. Freedom, true freedom is accepting that you don’t get to CHOOSE for other people how they feel or live their lives.

And, if we could all get that … this could end. And, maybe we could find our ways to the end of the grief, where hope and acceptance lives.