Good Morning Lockdown

Diary of Heather Newman
Friday, March 20, 2020

This morning, Coronavirus hit me. Not with a sore throat or shortness of breath, but with a moment of clarity that my world has changed. I say my world, because this virus is personal. It is not a headline to sell papers, but a reason to start writing journals. It makes a tedious chore like grocery shopping the highlight of my week. No more guilt about a lack of family time. My cardio-kick class becomes, at best, a solo walk around the block.

I can’t blame Trump. I still hate Trump, but I can’t blame him. Coronavirus has shut me down and shut me up. If I disagree politically with my son, I stop voicing it. As I watch him work from home (not his NYC apartment, but our suburban home of 25 years) I remember the frustration of that first job out of college. Wanting to be so much more, but confined by a lack of experience. He tells me that this is better than being at the office; at least he doesn’t get yelled at all day. I ask him to explain the stock market. Now he can be my teacher. He is sweet and kind and filled with energy. This sedentary, analytical life is not right for him, I think. Sitting all day, staring at CNBC and punching a keyboard. Inputting data, monitoring portfolios. He should be downing moguls in Alta, cycling in France! My boy is an adventurer, and Coronavirus has reduced him to this.

Ok, I’m being dramatic. But why not? I choose to blame you, Virus. You have sequestered me to my bedroom and kept me from the mall. I cling to my invincibility even as I write this. If I get sick, I will heal. Screw the statistics. As of today, there are 13,000 known US coronavirus cases. A $1 trillion rescue bill is proposed. I will agree to stay home for the greater good. But this virus won’t rule my life. I’m healthy. Hell, I ran a marathon at 50 in under 4 hours.

Exaggeration. In this new, connected world, what have facts become? Some version of truth that, at its core, is highly personal. Facts back up a strategy. They serve a campaign. My truth is different than your truth. We offer the world our selfie. We look strong or quirky. We write funny or clever. We draw unique. Because we do this for a living, we are that sort of person. We are justified in belief.

But this morning, I am blindsided. I join the generations of I remembers: Pearl Harbor, the day JFK was shot. I assumed that living in the New York area during 9–11 would be my lifetime I remember. Racing to the kindergarten class to pick up my son, staring at the TV while holding my baby daughter, wondering when I’d hear from my husband who worked a block from the Trade Center. A blur of adrenaline and confusion. Embarrassment over my lack of interest in terrorism. I didn’t care about them, live and let live. Why would they do this to us?

It’s a new day, lockdown. Coffee and CNN at home, no dinner with a movie out. It’s getting personal.

Heather Newman’s work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Hanging Loose, 4x2 Barrow Street, Right Hand Pointing, The Inquisitive Eater, Voices From Here, Vol. II (Paulinskill Project), The New Verse News and more. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School and teachers at The Writers Circle in NJ.