I toss and turn, side to side, and finally I lay flat on my back staring at the white ceiling. These white walls only reinforce the racial pigmentation that is most valued in the U.S.—Whiteness. I see 45 in the imagery, a distinct orange color that I wish to discard like pulp from an orange—once squeezed for fresh juice. We need a fresh president.
These white walls. Blank, just like my computer screen. The cursor blinks. It has a rhythm of tick-tock, tick-tock—yes, the tenure track-clock is running. Will my mind allow my body the connection needed so that words leave my fingertips today?
I let out a sob, exhale, and roll over. I fall back to sleep. I dream. I am back to being five-years old. It is pitch dark. I can hear my grandmother’s voice. She is telling me about the chickens, horses, and cows in el rancho. There’s the imagery of her cooking as a fourteen-year-old teen for her father and brothers before a day’s work. I proceed to ask her a question, but before I can get it out. I hear, “It was all a dream, I use to read…”
Biggie Smalls—what is going on? His voice grows louder, “Word Up!” I awake and realize it is not a dream it is COVID-19. A time that is changing everything and no one will forget. —I say aloud, “Alexa, stop. Alexa, play the news.” She responds, “Here is what is new from The New York Times.” The voice changes, “From The New York Times, I am Michael Barbaro. Today is Monday and here is what you need to know today…” It is the only news I can bare to swallow these days. A sound bite of terror.
I gather the energy to get out of bed and start the day. I open my planner while drinking my coffee. A long to-do list stares back at me. My inner voice says, “well I missed that book chapter deadline, that manuscript is past due, my second research project never launched, I need to reply to those emails, oh and get feedback to my doc students. Ugh.” I slam the planner shut. Overwhelmed, exhausted, anxiety ridden. I reach for my phone to text my support system. The text message sent, “How are we all doing today?” to several chains from coast to coast.
Waiting for replies, I decide to clean every inch of my apartment in an irrational manner. Ding, ding, it is my Afro-Dominicana colegas reminding me to breathe, laughing about couch and nail polish purchases, and texting through our writing struggles. I breathe a litter lighter. Ding, ding, it is my Mexicana colegas and stories fill the text chain about singing Chente, trying to achieve the best Samba, and how our mami scholar is doing with her kids during this time. We discuss our level of privileges and the contradictions we live as women of color academics while many of our parents and family members are essential workers. No writing is discussed, just our mental and physical well-being.
Inhale and release. I am not alone. Productivity is arbitrary.
