A Pandemic of Rage

I am tired. And I am angry. Livid in fact. Filled with rage. My rage isn’t more important than anyone else’s, it isn’t as pressing as some, nor as poignant as others, but it is mine, and it is real.

I’m fortunate — in many ways — and I acknowledge that. I work from home, I’m not the primary breadwinner, my husband’s job is safe, no one in my family has gotten sick, I live in a small community, in a big house, with lots of space to go outside. I ought to be grateful. And I am. But I am also angry and anxiety-plagued so much of the time that I spend my nights lying awake, my brain spinning like an out-of-control firework on the hot pavement of someone’s driveway.

I have discovered something about myself during this pandemic — I am a responsible citizen. I take my duty to my community and its safety very seriously. I do what the government and the experts say to do, and I believe in the importance of my role in the greater world.

And every time I leave my house I am confronted with the exact opposite. People who flaunt science and public health directives, refusing to wear masks, wearing them below their noses, standing too close, gathering in large groups, acting as if 134,000 people in the United States alone haven’t died from this in the last four months.

As numbers in Arizona, Texas, and Florida skyrocket, and begin to inch their way…