My fiancée and I are moving out of our little two-room converted attic in Cooper-Young and into a somewhat larger space in the Vollintine-Evergreen district this week. We just need a little more room, and, because I know the landlord at the new place, I’m more optimistic about routine maintenance being taken care of in a timely fashion — or at all.
So I’m writing this letter, not from my office in the Cotton Exchange Building or from my little nook in the corner of the bedroom, but sitting in a chair in what used to be our combination living room-kitchen and now could be more accurately described as Staging Area No. 1. It’s nice in here, surrounded by a labyrinth of cardboard boxes, muffling the sounds of the outside world. As happens any time I pack up for a move, I find myself getting lost in memories of the place I’m about to leave behind.
Like the time our downstairs neighbors moved in last year, a few weeks before the coronavirus pandemic began, back when “coronavirus” and “COVID-19” were just words I heard on the radio, usually linked to some vaguely frightening report from somewhere far from Memphis and Shelby County. Our neighbors, let’s just call them Jack and Jill, moved in, and at some point in our comings and goings, I realized that Jack was an old friend from a college job. We exchanged the usual niceties about how funny life was and bad pennies turning up, and we made loose plans to grill out and catch up, you know, once this whole coronavirus thing was under control.
Ha!
We never did have that cookout. We probably could have, if we all would have taken this thing seriously for a month or two. We all know how that turned out, though.
Then, just before I was vaccinated this spring, Jack and Jill broke up and Jack moved out. The cookout was a bust, but for a few short months, I felt safe and guilt-free going out in public and meeting with other vaccinated folks. But now, with cases and hospitalizations surging again as the Delta variant makes itself known, we’re back to square one. Life goes on, but the world outside seems to be stuck in some sort of loop, ever in a limbo of relaxing mandates followed by surging cases.
There are some differences, though. In March 2020, when I got back from a trip to North Carolina to interview barbecue pitmasters for Memphis magazine, I didn’t know how to behave. No one did. We were walking around unmasked, needlessly sanitizing our groceries, and testing was reserved for those who showed symptoms of the disease.
Now, having just returned from a trip to Idaho, I know the drill. I signed up for a test at CVS, drove out to Arlington at the appointed time, and self-administered a nasal swabbing. Not pleasant to experience (or write about, sorry!), but it was relatively easy and totally free. Semi-regular tests might be a part of my future as I learn how to navigate a world in which COVID has become endemic. I’m not particularly worried about myself. But a breakthrough infection could hurt my dad, and my nephew is too young to be vaccinated. I’d hate for him to get seriously sick because I got lazy. Or to miss out on two weeks of preschool. He’s excited about it, and two weeks is a long time when you’re a kid.
But why do the cautious among us have to continue to revise our behavior if not because of a stubborn segment of society who continues to fight the most basic precautions? Last Monday, the Shelby County Board of Commissioners debated issuing a new mask mandate. At the same meeting, Commissioner Tami Sawyer presented a resolution to purchase masks for students and in-person teachers in Shelby County, which would seem to be a no-brainer. We can all agree on protecting kids, right? Wrong. The Conservative Women of Collierville disagreed, and even accused Sawyer of getting a kickback for the purchase. Is it so improbable that an elected official just wants to protect kids and teachers? In Tennessee, maybe — though I think Sawyer truly cares about the kids, the teachers, and their safety.
Much of the debate over the proposed mask mandate is owed to the concern that state officials will retaliate, banning our school district from making that choice. So much for the authority of local government, right? I suppose state power somehow trumps federal and city and county policy, though I’m not sure how that math checks out.
I’m a word guy, though, not a math whiz. I’ll leave that to the people who know best — Collierville moms who did their own research on YouTube.
