We Are Learning Nothing
By: Remington Write
Tags: Society, Death, Covid 19, Loss, New York

I’m generally one of those tiresome upbeat people who see some glimmer of hope in every dark situation. I’ve been accused of being “perky” and a Pollyanna. Ok, yeah, I guess I am. Or was. After all, at the beginning of the year, I wrote this piece about maintaining a positive perspective in the face of great doom and gloom and endless bad news.

Turns out I wasn’t prepared for the effect of truly endless bad news.

When I wrote that piece on January 16, the virus was ravaging China and had almost certainly already arrived on this side of the planet although it would be months before we were aware of it. We were contemplating New Year’s Resolutions and writing snarky bits of this and that (ok, I was anyway). I was gearing up to get super serious about finding work.

We know how well all that worked out, don’t we?

Things went south hard in New York City and for most of March and April, we felt like we were living in somebody’s badly written dystopian novel. No one out on the streets. Sirens all the time. Temporary tent hospitals being built in Central Park. Stories about refrigerator trucks lined up at the hospitals to deal with the dead. Upwards of 500, 600, 800 deaths a day. A day!

But we rallied. We hung out our windows at 7 each evening, pounding on pots and pans and cheering the exhausted doctors and nurses and janitors and nurse aides and grocery store workers and delivery people. There was a real sense of solidarity and I rode that. We’d be ok. We’d take care of each other and take care of ourselves and we’d get through this.

And, sure enough, we did. Infections are down and we actually have days when no one dies of COVID-19 in this city.

But in other parts of the country, places where there were few if any infections, the “leaders” got all fussed up about their economies. They decided it was time to open things up and get back to normal. They ignored what was almost certain to happen when they did and they ignored us on the coasts who were shouting “Don’t do it!”.

They did it and are dealing with results that any eighth-grade science student could have told them would happen.

Here in New York, things have quieted down and the buses are still free, so there’s that. But even here we’ve got crowds of careless, reckless, unthinking people cramming together to drink and eat and laugh as if the past four months were some kind of bad dream. People don’t wear masks and get defensive around those of us who do. No one cheers anything at 7 pm anymore. It’s actually more anxiety-inducing to go out into the city now than it was back at the end of March.

Meanwhile, the waves of infections and deaths in other parts of the country keep rising and will continue to do so. Those states that ignored the devastation on the coasts are now watching people dying in triage tents outside of hospitals. And still, there are governors who refuse to mandate simple measures such as mask-wearing to contain the contagion. And in Washington, DC? Don’t even get me started.

I’m worn out. I feel such heaviness and sadness and hopelessness. I can’t imagine humans managing to ever get past their innate fear and greed and selfishness. Yes, in time this virus will run its course. Clearly hundreds of thousands of people are going to die first. Maybe millions.

And nothing will change.

Ok, some superficial things will be done. New regulations and lip service will happen only to be rolled back in ten years or so. The donor class will prevail in keeping puppets pulling the strings of power and influence on their behalf. The rich stay rich and the poor stay poor. As soon as the infections are beginning to be contained in the military we can get back to the real business of this country: war. People will remain ignorant and stubborn and lost.

Maybe tomorrow or the next day I’ll regain my sense of purpose and optimism. Right now, though, all I can see is death and loss and unending human stupidity.

This probably won’t help anything but I’m all out of helpfulness right now.

© Remington Write 2020. All Rights Reserved