Whenever my mom visits me and my dad in Texas, we celebrate her visit at Red Lobster with as many free buttery biscuits our dignity can ask for. Over the years, I have come to associate paintings of lighthouses, dimly lit booths and the grayish-blue carpet as a welcoming sign that my mom has come home. We order the same Ultimate Feast and to make the occasion feel even more special, my mom will order their Sunset Passion Colada that has more syrupy fruit than alcohol.
It’s been months since I’ve waited in the lobby of a Red Lobster and even longer since I’ve seen my mom who lives 1,824.4 miles in Dover, New Hampshire. So much has changed since the world seemed to shut down overnight. The way we think about our homes has radically transformed. We have become isolated and stuck in a place that was once our sanctuary. Instead of looking forward to the refuge of our beds at the end of a tiring day, coming home is no longer part of our daily routine. There is no home to come home to. Our worlds have become smaller, four walls and any sunlight that seeps in through the windows. While maybe this should make us feel bigger, we shrink a little along with it. Each weekend, I selfishly relish the risk I take to accompany my dad grocery shopping, staring at the labels of snacks and roaming the aisles just to stay out a little bit longer. It is a good weekend when the lady who works at the front of Walmart greets me with a smile and I hope she can see mine through my mask and in my eyes. Warm stranger interactions used to be one of my favorite gems to stumble upon. One time, a mom was looking for a particular shape of pasta and needed help texting her daughter. A simple exchange that made my day and possibly someone’s dinner. Now, I fear that friendliness could hurt anyone I get close to and turn to steering my grocery cart far away.
This year has certainly been one of firsts. First year of college. First taste of real independence and accountability. First pandemic (and hopefully the last of my lifetime). First overt racist interaction. Go back to where you are from. I felt disbelief to hear those words in front of me. There are moments that feel like a movie, enchanting or disheartening and unfortunately, this was the latter. Deemed the “China virus” by the President himself, I watch the weight of racism my dad has slowly confided in me throughout the years reveal itself in my own life. I once asked my dad if he regrets coming to America and he paused. Was it worth it? That silence told me everything. But as I stood there watching as a couple threatened to call the police for the clumps of hair my dog left in the park (an inconsiderate thing for sure, but hardly a crime), I knew that even the fear I felt was privileged. There is no competition of pain, but if there were, there would be no victors. Because in that fight, we all lose if pain exists.
It has been difficult to watch life unfold from my window. Black Lives Matter protests poured through the streets and I watched helplessly from the confines of my world. As a kid, I had always played the role of the peacemaker in my family. I found comfort in resolution and feared anger and loudness. But these past few months have shown me beauty as much as it has shown me horror, that shouting and fists in the air are a sign that there is still so much to fight for. Being scared, despairing or angry means you have something left to lose. And when there is that, there is hope.
While my world has seemingly gotten smaller, it has expanded in ways that only change brings. I have been unpackaging the biases I have been brought up with, whether it’s through small comments from family on my “gangster baggy clothes” when I was a tomboy in elementary school or learning history my entire life in a very narrow, glorified lens. I have reconnected with myself, finding peace and energy in solitude. I have eaten entire boxes of cereal and made rash hair decisions that only slight cabin-fever insanity can bring.
But in all the challenges and fears this pandemic has brought us, I have learned how to make the world bigger:
Cherish the beauty of what it is to even be alive.
Smile at strangers, even through a mask.
Be kind, especially when you are the one who needs it.
Acknowledge your hardship and recognize your privilege.
Make your mind a home you want to come home to.
These past few months have shown me that there are a lot of things I can live without and a lot of people I don’t want to ever have to. But, I can’t wait for that buttery biscuit. I can’t wait for her to come home.
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