Healing in Community

My main response to the pandemic had been frustration. We had a figure in our White House, who would not respond to the needs of citizens in the path of the COVID-19 virus—all of us. I have depression, and the sense of isolation and helplessness was often immobilizing. My husband was withdrawn, and seized on any excuse to go to the grocery store.

As Spring began, the leaders of our St. Paul Moms Demand Action organized a drive of cleaning supplies for a women’s shelter. (We had begun to suspect that instances of abuse had increased during this period. When data was gathered later, this turned out to be the case.) I participated, and asked a friend who makes soap to donate. He rose to the spirit of the occasion. As he usually does, he wrapped every bar with an inspirational message. He calls it the “Soap of Hope”.

A friend who had lost her housing came and went. She would stay for a few days, until her tolerance for us would fly away. Each time, she would leave as though never coming back. But she kept coming back. And I was always glad to see her.

I did house cleaning for another friend. Their schedule and mental health were such that they would rarely let me come over. I would occasionally talk them into it.

Then came May. And police officer Derek Chauvin knelt on George Floyd’s neck, and would not get up, even as bystanders tried to talk him out of it. And the pandemic was shoved to the back of our minds.

In the week that followed, people protested vigorously and, at first, peacefully. Outrage and despair were everywhere. Moms and aunties were on social media, saying, “Tell your babies to come home. Get off the street.” But it could not be contained. Whether it was an exhausted protester or wound-up out-of-towner pretending to belong to the righteous anger, mattered, but not as much as what was set in motion.

Minneapolis and Saint Paul are side-by-side. My husband and I happen to live in what became a strategic intersection between the places where looting and burning occurred in both cities. We could hear the uproar, less than a mile in each direction. Helicopters flew overhead, and a Humvee jeep stopped in the alley as I checked my tulips ten minutes before curfew. One block over, multiple Humvees parked by the side of the road.

I hunkered down in front of the television (“The revolution will not be televised”-well, Mr. Gil Scott-Heron, maybe it will) and watched into the wee hours as exhausted reporters described the burning of the Third Precinct and surrounding buildings, and how first responders and the National Guard had been told to stand down.

Before and after the uprising, businesses boarded up their windows. Beautiful murals with George Floyd’s face blossomed all over the Twin Cities, like the rows upon rows upon rows of flowers brought to the intersection now known as George Floyd Square. Many of these timely paintings have been preserved.

I had become dependent on listening to the radio for daily updates on the pandemic. I sank further into myself, moored to radio, television and newspapers. Our part of the country, once known as “flyover land”, instantly soared to the forefront of attention nationwide, until the entire country was the story, and time was split between before and after, not only by the pandemic, but the waves of response to the killing of George Floyd.

Though I was irritated by the amount of time I was spending on screen, I was engaged in opportunities that lightened my life and gave me purpose. Leaders from the neighborhood where I had worked pulled together the “Healing Our City” prayer tent. At first, this large tent was on a parking lot, surrounded by artists who painted their visions of a future world. I attended the physical tent meetings twice. We were treated to thoughts by a member of the clergy(open to all denominations) and then prayed and meditated for eight minutes and forty-six seconds, the amount of time we then thought that it took to end George Floyd’s life. Later, the prayer tent meetings went to weekly ones online. The list of speakers grew to include unsuspected leaders, like the restaurant owner who declared in a quiet and unspectacular voice that if it brought justice, let his restaurant be burned to the ground. His restaurant, located near the Third Precinct, was indeed burned to the ground.

Discussion on social media among the mothers and aunties turned to getting youth to express themselves. Music, drumming, and painting were all proposed to use their momentum to catch this place in time and put their own stamp on it. I felt strongly they were onto something. I rediscovered my love of expression and performance, and participated in online readings of Shakespeare. My writing sisters and I went from meeting virtually once a month, to meeting weekly, and continue to this day. There were special meetings with our marital arts master, and we came together from Canada, France, Bulgaria and Iran, as well as many places in the US.

Working on the election felt necessary. Though I had promised myself in 2016 that I would never again do phonebanking, I tried it. I talked to some wonderful people. Then, I talked to a guy who claimed that the people who died from COVID were going to die anyway. I was relieved to find instead the chance to write letters, encouraging people to vote. My main message: however we vote, it is something we do together.

Earlier this year, I was pleased to find an online evening service organized by Healing Our City. The Episcopal bishop was going to speak. I don’t do well in the morning, and this traditional evening service appealed to me. I felt peaceful and comforted as the service began. Then, I very gradually fell asleep, until I had travelled many places, and very gradually, found myself waking in front of the screen. I was not embarrassed, but very aware that I could be seen, and that the bishop continued his remarks with great kindness for us all.

It was after this service that I realized: I believe in healing in community. The isolation, the contrived political divisions, and sheer fear had driven us into our corners and frayed our connections. Reaching out for support, information and human contact were what we needed to help ourselves and our communities.