What’s Changed/Or Not
Catherine Harnett: As a neuro-divergent writer, my mind is never still; words, politics, injustice etc, take up residence in my brain and inform my writing. For thirty-one years I worked for the federal government—Congress, the State Department and the Justice Department; after a time, the politics became corrosive and it was time to leave. Having time and privacy to write are gifts for which I’m grateful. My job is to pay back as much as I’m able.
By Catherine Harnett
I'm sending a small piece answering your questions about what's changed/or not.
Of course the world is not the same since the pandemic began; 600,000 people died, families are bereft, we have no idea how the interruption will affect children in the long run. And first responders’ lives will never be the same.
Now, in this sudden return to freedom, I am more afraid. Sadder. Less hopeful. I don’t want my life to be the same: aimlessly shopping, eating out, content with the day-to-day. My life was safe and full this last year; no luxuries, no pampering, thoughtful. Part of a world-wide community of hope: millions of strangers who saw and felt the same things, despite distance or borders.
I thought about each person who delivered food, cared how their families were faring, felt thankful they had jobs. Peoples’ stories, good and wretched, touched me. It was easy to be empathetic; Covid made my heart expand.
Every minute of every day, I watched the George Floyd trial. I cried when Darnella testified; and my eyes were opened to the extent of oppression that still goes on. And on. I listened and listened, in a way I might not have before. And I wrote about it—twelve sonnets in response to last summer’s marches and events. And the Insurrection.
There was time to learn about birds of paradise and Jerusalema, and read Death in Venice and Lolita (why?) and watch every bloody documentary on Netflix. No baking bread, no crafting, no yoga.
Baseball’s back and I am eternally grateful for my vaccine.
There is no reason not to still listen, cry, learn; wear a mask if I choose to, worry that it might come back like it did in 1919. Hope against hope that justice will be meted out to oppressors, especially the man who turned his back on us and promised it would go away: like a miracle.