History. I don't remember a time when I wasn't completely enthralled by it. My love for it is woven into my foundation of what it means to be Miranda. History has long been an intense coping mechanism for the stresses of my life and how I view those around me. I'm not a fan of specific dates when something happened because for me the road to that moment is more important. The people and their choices alone are so far reaching that by saying "This person (usually singular) did this one thing, and history is forever changed." It's much too clinical, a simplicity that denies the hardship and the celebration of many more that came before that date.
I am an optimist of the worst sort. The kind of optimist that flies in the face of the pessimist in the worst way... because the pessimist feels the overwhelming need to label my optimism as naive and to break my rose colored glasses, assuming that I have little knowledge of tragedy or grief or know how living an unexpected, unsettled life can be. I forget sometimes I'm the only one living in my head, which has been a lot since COVID-19 began sucking life away (which was about 12 March). This new state of life has brought out the best and worst in people in the few short weeks since our lives were turned upside down-- well, every day is something new on that front, and its difficult to face drastic change head on.
Ever the optimist, I set out to encourage and support, fully armed with my own brand of humor. That's how I've always dealt with my tragedies, grief, and unsettled moments in life. But for once, I was resoundingly wrong-footed and the backlash was a deep hurt. It's a very rare thing for me to find disappointment in the humans I choose to interact with. The optimist in me says "You don't know what they are going through or what they've experienced in this life to react and use the words they have used." There is always something more going on when the reaction is over the top. My pool of brain matter has been busy; considering, analyzing, and above all reminding myself that people are flawed and that embitterment is the last thing I want to recall about this time twenty years from now.
You see, history is at my core, and I recognize so much of history is people and their minute decisions. I am optimistic because history shows me there is always that moment of choice, that glimmer of hope, that small simple action that can affect humanity for more than a lifetime. The world has spent a few months rearranging itself to ward off COVID-19. Have you ever studied diseases in history? The Spanish Influenza of 100 years ago, raged for two years, taking more people than the four years of the first world war. Polio, the worst year being 1916 but showing up regularly until Salk's vaccine in 1954 was indiscriminate. Yellow Fever in Philadelphia in 1793 was short-lived but deadly with 5,000+ deaths. The Great Plague of London (1665-1666) swept through the population, killing 100,000+, and it would have continued longer if the Great Fire of London hadn't consumed the diseased areas. (Numbers could actually be higher because numbers were not kept well at the time. There is a toss up on who died from the plague and who died from the fire, because the fire burned so hot it was instant cremation for those caught up in it.) The Black Death (all of Europe) moved through the land quickly from 1346-1353. Yersinia pestis took out millions of people for decades. Further back in history, pandemic after pandemic reshaped the world one disease at a time.
We've been social distancing for a matter of weeks. We've seen crazed shopping, panic, and upset in all areas. Given what history has told me, we are living in an extraordinary time. This time the story can be different. We are better equipped to handle COVID-19 than our predecessors. Are we inconvenienced? Sure. Will there be economic repercussions? Absolutely. But quite frankly, when we compare our current situation with the past, we have so much going for us. Isn't a little optimism warranted?
This in no way denigrates each individual's story in this. Am I unsettled? In this situation, not really. They asked an introvert to stay home. I'm part Hobbit, you know, that periodically unleashes my inner Took (brownie points if you get the reference). However, this doesn't mean that I am not mindful of the plight of others. This is hard stuff. Our family spent the better part of six weeks this year already social distancing due to sickness and hospitalization. The emotions have run the gamut. And this is the moment for the history books.
The people of history fascinate me. I know people that think we live in hard times *cough-- pessimists* but we really don't. We lead such sterile lives that real, large scale suffering is not easy to contemplate. I was reading up on the Victorian Era recently (as you do if you're me) and came across a video about Victorians and their relationship with death. They knew death, were not untouched by it. They expected it. They revered it. Want to be super grossed out (and understand why I say our society is so sterile)? Google memento mori or Victoria jewelry made from hair. Death was like any other facet of life to them. Read Poe. Read Charles Dickens. Death is central, a core part of the plots.
Today, death-- the idea of it-- sends people into a panic. Disease that can limit your life so suddenly is terrifying. We don't accept that. This COVID-19 brings out this overwhelming negativity-- a competition on who has it worse. Is this seriously what we want in our history books? When I was young, I was let loose in my public library (original Kemp Public Library for those Wichita Falls folks) on a weekly basis, and long before I should have (more than likely), I was drawn in by the history of The Depression (I have Okie family), World War Two, and the Holocaust. I have read "Reminisce" magazine for the better part of thirty years. Do you know what those stories are about? They are the memories of people taking care of people. That's what people remember. They remember the hardship, the tragedy, and the death, but they remember the people who eased the load, who silently stepped in and walked beside them. You have no idea how badly I want this to happen for us, but it's been hard to see it when someone would rather criticize or compare.
One of my most cherished Holocaust stories is about Francine Christophe. She was an eight year old French Jew that was thousands of miles away from home and family in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. She had been allowed to bring something with her from France. Her mother had two pieces of chocolate, telling Francine "We save these until we need them." There was a pregnant woman interned with them. On the day the woman went into labor, Francine's mother asked her for her piece of chocolate saying, "Giving birth here will be hard. She may die. If I give her the chocolate, it may help her." The baby was born. The mother and baby survived, liberated six months later. Francine went back to France and the years and then decades slipped by. A few years ago, Francine was part of a group of lecturers that spoke about their Holocaust experiences and what they could have been had they had proper therapy in the aftermath. At one of these lectureships, a psychiatrist took to the podium, but before she began her talk, she spoke directly to Francine, while holding out a piece of chocolate: "I am that baby."
It takes so very little to touch a life. Our current set of circumstances should make us want to impart a kind word, to offer support. One tiny slice of life, one tiny piece of chocolate, and decades later, the touched lives remember. That baby would have no recollection and her mother would have told her often about the simple act of sharing a piece of chocolate. Whether or not the chocolate actually saved the woman and her baby is immaterial. The thought, the act, the memory is still there long past the horrors of life. How will we remember these days? And can we really compare our realities? Our current reality pales in comparison to history, but it will be remembered.
If you would like to see the short video of Francine Christophe, click here.
If you would like to watch the video of Victorians and Their Obsession with Death, click here.
