My family and I were visiting Florida’s gulf coast when we first heard about COVID-19. In the beginning, no one knew what the next day would bring, never mind the many months to come. People on social media got busy doing what they do—speculating across the entire spectrum of possibility, raising the alarm on everything from an imminent travel ban to martial law. Routines—school, work, appointments, hobbies—came to a screeching halt as the world scrambled to determine the next best steps toward what would become a very long stretch of confusion, exhaustion, isolation, and unimaginable loss. We did our level best to put our six children, three of whom were in (or going to) college and the rest in high school, at ease. But those early days were frightening. The two years that followed? Brutal.
During this time, network anchors interviewed expert after expert about how our unexpected brush with mortality might change us for the better. Nearly fifteen million people died because of COVID-19 in the first two years of the pandemic. The dramatic loss of life signaled our own fragility, making small things seem smaller and big things seem even more important. The preceding years of greed, materialism, and growing division left many of us in need of a major reset. We were hopeful. Until we weren’t. Sadly, COVID-19 was the wake-up call that we, in true egoic fashion, pressed snooze on. We didn’t learn much. In fact, we renovated our echo chambers, turned the beds down, and fluffed the pillows.
Now this.
Today, when my young adult children vocalize their disillusionment about the state of the world, I say “I know.” When they express little faith in our institutions, I reply, “I understand.” When they say they feel hopeless due to blatant displays of dehumanization—at the hands of both official entities and overzealous individuals—I hang my head in embarrassment and shame. I’m embarrassed that we “grownups” left the door open for hatred, division, and othering to take root. I feel ashamed that, in my worst moments, I watered the tree.
For the first time in my parental life, I struggle to quell their fears. When I was their age, I had every reason to believe brighter days were on the horizon. I expected we would have more rights and more opportunities. That there would be greater civility, increased equality, and more cross-boundary connectedness. I trusted that we were on the right path and that future generations would benefit. Instead, the past decade found us traveling the opposite direction—standing on the brink of our own unraveling, surrounded by reason after reason to feel justified in our despair.
It’s no wonder we’ve doubled down on self-protection. We’re living with the lasting effects of the pandemic. Persistent and emboldened racism. Ongoing misogyny. Politicized gender identity battles. The fight between gun rights and gun control. Battles about freedom of speech and freedom of choice. Growing mental illness and failing mental health. Generational divides. Climate emergencies. Financial instability. Tech booms and tech bursts. Mass layoffs. The perilous attack on democracy. And the cycling threat of war—domestically and abroad. It’s a lot. These many looming conflicts both propel and paralyze us—we’re afraid to stand still, and equally concerned about moving in the wrong direction.
I’ve received no fewer than ten text messages and calls from entrepreneur colleagues in the last week whose businesses—some of which were established more than fifteen years ago—are on the brink of collapse. Multiple contracts have been cancelled, reduced, or paused. For small businesses, this is a death knell. Other friends have lost their jobs in the last two weeks. Add onto this trend attempts to pause aid to Americans who really need it: childcare, school meals, health care, veteran support, and more, and we’re facing significant domino effects.
These actions will take money out of nearly empty pockets. People who aren’t wealthy will be forced to unenroll their children from college, lower their investments in proactive wellness measures, and leave the workforce to take care of children. Left uninterrupted, this will make rich people richer and everyone else less educated, less upwardly mobile, less healthy, and therefore, easier to manipulate.
In my fifty years on this planet, I’ve not personally known a more tumultuous time in which to live and work. There is little beyond us that feels sure anymore, and the less we can confidently rely on what has always been true, the more likely we are to seek refuge in our comfort zones, control what is controllable, and fight like hell to beat back the monsters at the door. At least in our comfort zones, we are right and good and safe. Out there? That’s where the wrong, bad, and dangerous people are.
I arrived at a merging drive-through this morning to order my coffee, thinking about all these no-good-terrible things, wondering how to move forward with both my integrity and my sanity intact. The adverse generational impact of what we’re witnessing cannot be overstated. For Black people, it is the modern-day equivalent of the Tulsa Race Massacre. Wipe out our progress, wipe us out. Strategic. Malicious. A well-executed plan. Of course, it’s not just Black people who will suffer. It’s anyone who does not fit the new administration’s ever-narrowing definition of “American.”
A friend and I were texting this morning, wondering what we’re supposed to learn from this, if anything. I texted that Americans have become too haughty. We idolize prestige as though it might rub off on us. We seek praise and attention to feel more important than the next person. We seed discord because hurting people makes us feel powerful. We hoard resources. We did not take advantage of the reset COVID-19 offered us. We doubled down, and instead of moving toward being that aspirational shining city on a hill, we are casting shadows across the globe.
I was trying to shake the negative energy associated with all these ideas when the man in the drive-through lane to my left cut in front of me. Already on edge, I perceived this act of disregard as justification for the rising feeling of dread in my chest. I took a deep breath, gathered myself, and drove up to the window to pay for my order. I’ll not let this change me. I’ll not let this change me. I am before the world.
When I rolled down my window, credit card in hand, the barista wished me a good morning and cheerfully announced, “The man in front of you paid for your order.” It took me a moment to process what she’d said. I unclenched my teeth, lowered my shoulders, and did what any person needing one small sign that kindness is still alive in the hearts of men would do.
I paid it forward.
I am before the world.
Tara Jaye Frank
