karen lee boren – iblamethequarantine

OUJTWBLP

A for sale sign went up on my neighbor’s lawn yesterday. Our neighborhood is tight, so much so that Paul and I share a driveway with these folks, or we will for a few more weeks.

“I hope the new neighbors are nice,” I said to Paul, screwing up a smile of apprehension and hope.

He shrugged his own hope and anxiousness.

We decided together that in the spirit of fair play, we would let anyone looking at the place next door see who we were, their potential neighbors. Putting our best faces on, so to speak. So we cleaned up a weed patch along the shared driveway and planted vegetables: two kinds of peppers, dill, lemon cucumber, and rosemary. A sunflower and red hibiscus for the front yard.

Then we pasted two posters on our glass front door: Black Lives Matter and a Pride rainbow flag.

Declarations are important. The upcoming holiday, Independence Day, is all about declaration. In the original text, certain words are capitalized: Order, Union, Justice, Tranquility, Welfare, Blessings, Liberty, Posterity.

As any writer knows, to capitalize a word mid-sentence gives it added emphasis. This is what the founders – free upper-class, educated white men, who preserved slavery and refused non-white men and women the vote – emphasized. Still, with all of their intersectional blindness, they left us with abstractions for which we still strive today, but abstractions, which even they must have known, are not necessarily in concert with each other.

Justice and Tranquility often do not pedal a tandem bike. Order and Liberty can come to blows.

This week, as we head into a new month, a month where summer steams around our ankles and the sun presses hot hands onto our shoulders, a month where we look back from whence our country came, I’m posting some of the first I-Blame-the-Quarantine missives sent to me.

See how far we’ve come. See how little we’ve traveled.

–KLB

Inexplicable, Not So

In my backyard, there is an onion grown over four foot high. We planted it last year, and it didn’t do much. It made it through our admittedly mild winter though, and in spring I wanted to see how it would fare if I let it go. It’s thriving.

My basil, on the other hand, not good. I tried some old seeds first. Not the tiniest break of soil. So I bit the bullet and bought a flat from a garden center I’d never been to before. The sprigs were happy when I brought them home, but the soil in the garden box doesn’t seem to be to their taste. Or maybe they aren’t getting enough sun. Or too much. Or too much water. Or not enough. Or they’re just stubborn, unwilling to raise themselves to the sun. Whatever the reason, they’re languishing, curling their leaves together like so many tongues.

Turns out, tongue rolling itself is as inexplicable as my basil. Myths and speculation as to why 60-80ish percent of humans can tongue roll and why the others can’t roll have circulated for ages: language acquisition, genes, the excessive brilliance of those of us who can, the discerning tastes or general indifference of those of you who can’t. For a long time, it was thought to be genetics, but now it’s known that genetics is, at best, only part of the answer. After all, plenty of identical twins can/can’t roll. A few determined folks have taught themselves to roll, but not many because, well, why bother?

What’s any of this got to do with COVID-19? Well, at times it seems to me inexplicable and random how this virus spreads, who gets it, how to deal with it, and now that things are opening up, where to go, where to avoid, what’s safe, what’s stupid.

But really, the virus isn’t as random as it seems, just as the reasons why my onion is skyrocketing and my basil is withering aren’t random. With some effort and a little more knowledge and method than I currently have, I could figure out why. And although scientists have been studying tongue rolling for a considerable time now without certainty of the cause, if they continue to study it, they’ll figure it out.

And when they do, the myths will still circulate.

So too with COVID-19. We already know some things about it. Scientists will continue to study it and learn more. Hopefully they’ll find treatments and vaccines in a shorter time than the tongue-rolling research has taken.

But when they do, the myths will still circulate.(STOP drinking bleach cocktails, folks. Try a nice greyhound or gin fizz, very refreshing, and did you hear the one about bat soup?)

Until then, stay safe. And grow.

–KLB

Today’s postings, selections from students in Anthony Comella’s Arts and Culture class at Atlantis Charter High School in Fall River, MA. Congratulations 2020 grads!

*For more info on tongue rolling, check out Claudia Hammond’s “BBC Future” blog post here:

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20180130-do-you-inherit-the-ability-to-roll-your-tongue

Roar. Dance.

I first heard about Covid-19 on February 4^th. I know this precise date because Paul and I were headed to Boston to celebrate our anniversary a few days later, and the news that a new virus originating in China had reached Boston gave us pause.

“Should we go?” Paul and I asked each other at different moments, but neither of us seriously contemplated not going. On February 7^th, our wedding anniversary day, there were only 12 confirmed cases of Covid-19 in the U.S. and only the first in Mass., not even in Boston. Of course we went.

Our hotel was only a few blocks from Chinatown, whose restaurants we love, and it was Lunar New Year, the biggest event in Chinatown, complete with a parade, featuring lion dancers. I can’t tell you how much I love a lion dance, the giant faces and colorful sinewy bodies shimmying to crashing music. If you ever get the chance to go to a Lunar New Year celebration, take it.

But this year, with the virus headlining news reports, we decided to be cautious and skip the parade, which went on as usual albeit to a nervous crowd. We felt awful missing out and learned plenty of others were doing the same, skipping the events in Chinatown this year. We worried that the Asian community was losing so much business, but still, we were cautious.

We imagined, and worried, that there would be racist backlash against Asians, especially because we have two nieces of Chinese descent. Of course, our worries weren’t misplaced. The top-down, presidential-driven racism was both shocking and predictable.

What we could not imagine then was just how much would shift in our society in a matter of weeks. Let me say this again:

We could not imagine it.

Not just Paul and I, but even the most dystopic visionaries among us never really thought the world would – could – be shut down as it has been. No way all restaurants are closing. No way they’re going to shut down schools for months. No way companies are going find ways for their employees to work at home. No way everyone’s going to wear face masks to protect the people they encounter. No way there will be food shortages. No way will an entire world (almost, Sweden and Montana) will stay at home. No way . . . no way . . . no way. . .

Way.

Plenty of awful things have come from this shut down, but one thing may actually serve us well at this moment of righteous civil unrest. Before Covid-19, we couldn’t imagine our structures crumbling.

But we can now.

We can imagine it.

And to quote the Bionic Woman, we can rebuild her.

Because of Covid-19, we can imagine the dismantling of key structures in our society. And we can now imagine new normals, new ways to rebuild our structures that may be uncomfortable initially but will ultimately serve us better: structures like our police systems – not just departments, but systems — “correctional” facilities, laws, community involvement, economic allocation, etc.

We can imagine it. We can rebuild it.

I blame the quarantine. Thank you quarantine.

–KLB

https://www.boston-discovery-guide.com/chinese-new-year-parade.html

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/jun/08/minneapolis-city-council-police-department-dismantle

Shattered

One of the reasons I selected the phrase I blame the quarantine for this project is that the quarantine is what fiction writers call a crucible, any external circumstance that heightens tension.

Time is often a crucible: 24 hours before the asteroid hits our planet; we have to build the asteroid destroyer FAST!

Setting is one too: A soon-to-be divorced couple gets stuck in an elevator between floors on the way to the lawyers’ office. “Why do you always have to push the button twice, always, always, always. Push, push, push. Well, you pushed me, didn’t you? Now look at us!”

Crucibles contain and tighten, things bubble and simmer, steam and stoke until BOOM! Shatter from the tension.

I don’t blame the quarantine for our country’s current shattering. A crucible takes time to build, and what’s happening now has been a long time coming, a long time contained — cities, civilization, citizens — smoldering, smoking, gasping for breath.

Gasping.

I wish peace to the families of those suffering under this new crisis. There will be many suffering. I weep for you and wish you well.

Here are some stories.

–KLB

Social Club

I still have four bosom friends from high school. Back then, the SC, as we called ourselves, short for Social Club, started a tradition of gathering for round robin dinners. The idea is that each person is responsible for part of a meal. You go house to house and dine and drink. In high school, we actually did the house-to-house thing because we all lived closed enough to each other. Our parents got a great kick out of it.

As we got older and moved away from each other, we started giving the dinners themes. The best ones had natural fours to them: For example, the elements

Lisa –earth, Mississippi mud pie;

Sue – air-puffed cheese filo triangles;

Judy – water-homemade soup;

Me – fire-flaming shish-kabab.

You get the idea. Other themes we’ve used include the seasons, colors, numbers, cities we currently live in, countries, holidays, movie genres, festivals, years in high school (for our 10-year high school reunion). The list is pretty long.

We have gathered around the country for over 30 years to celebrate birthdays and pregnancies, marriages and jobs, often, although not always, creating these fantastic meals (except for theme Terribly Tacky, bleh, Jello with carrot bits) for each other. Tasting together, preparing for mutual piquancy, sourness, sweetness, even bitterness, they’re the metaphors for our long relationships, which have had their ups and downs as any long-standing friendship does.

We planned to meet this summer to celebrate double nickels, 55, in Lake Geneva, WI. Talking about whether or not to gather has caused us to video-conference from the four states we live in: Rhode Island, Colorado, Illinois, Minnesota. Gathering in person this year seems hard though. Wearing masks while we cook for each other, staying 6 feet from each other in a rented condo, two of us flying to get to our destination.

Whether or not we gather this year, I realize how hard it would be for a group of friends in high school to create such a tradition in a pandemic. Yes, they can do it virtually, but how to taste each other’s food. High schoolers are looking forward to finishing for the summer, some finishing their high school careers under pretty lousy conditions.

Yet what I find from the flashes sent to me is that there is a pretty sophisticated understanding of our current situation from young folks. They’re putting up with, getting on with, taking advantage of, empathizing, lamenting, thanking, and dreaming. I wonder if I would have been as mature.

Here are youth flashes from Clarksburg, WV; Norman and Oklahoma City, OK; Cleveland, OH; Skowegan, ME.

–KLB

Summerfest, Milwaukee, 2017 – Last S.C. Live Gathering

The Spaces Between

May is a liminal month, stuck in the dewy interstices: buds and blossoms, winter jacket and shorts.

Beaming pride and grave concerns. I turned in my seniors’ grades yesterday.

Creative writing classes are more intimate than most college classes, especially my nonfiction workshops where young writers reveal themselves on the page in autobiographical writing. They write of their families, who are fish mongers or immigrants from South Korea. They chronicle their struggles with depression, drugs, fear of coming out to parents, or recovering from traumatic experiences. They share their knowledge of things like beekeeping, skateboarding, comic-book history, otaku, marching bands, touring with their own bands, and traveling on the cheap. They chronicle their work as line cooks, security guards, cashiers, bus drivers, servers, Lyft drivers, and paralegals. They are my entrée into current slang, fashion trends, music, movies, comicons, even video games and the occult. One semester I had five “out” witches in my workshop.

I’ve always said my student-writers’ fiction is the finger on the pulse of culture. Over a decade ago, coming-out stories were common. For a while, there were at least a few best-friend-coming-out-and-coming-onto-you stories each semester. Vampire stories went on way too long, mutating into werewolf stories, then zombies. Fantasy is still hip, not that they’d describe it as such.

Dystopic stories had been waning lately. But now . . .

Fiction. Nonfiction. The space between.

This year, my seniors are stuck. Quarantine is loosening, but the pandemic persists.

Now that they finally have a moment to look away from their computer screens, it may be hard to absorb that their efforts educating themselves have been worth it, especially if a different job is not immediately forthcoming.

Here’s the touchstone I hand back:

Education matters. Education transcends.

Congratulations, Writers!

Congratulations, Class of 2020.

Keep Writing.

–KLB

Music Window

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Although my neighborhood is multi-Latinx, on May 5th it’s usually alive with the smoky scent of grilled meat and the sounds of Mexican conjunto norteño music that reminds me of the Slovenian polkas my dad used to play.

My dad always loved polka music, and in his younger years, when polka was hot in the Midwest (yup, I said polka was hot), he sang with a few bands. Later, at about my age, he took up the drums, for what I believe were two reasons: he couldn’t find anyone to sing with, and he wanted to save his musician friend, Al, from alcoholism. Only one of these aims was successful.

He had his own band almost until he died. He used to play in the local park for the 4^th of July celebrations. Mexican immigrant families populated many of the same neighborhood that had been the settling areas of Polish immigrants like his family decades earlier, and on Independence Day, both populations came out with their families. I’ve often thought how much these two populations have in common, Catholicism, immigration patterns, work ethic, and folk music. Watching his neighborhood change was not unproblematic for my Dad, who felt less and less relevant as he got older. Still, he loved it when he saw his Mexican neighbors nodded their heads in time to his polkas. This inevitably led to him commenting, “You know, I took Spanish in high school,” reaching for a connection to the changing world around him.

I don’t hear music in my neighborhood today even though more cars whizzed past Tyke and me on our morning walk than have in weeks. But it’s early on a Tuesday morning. Maybe tonight some celebration will trill from my neighbors’ backyards. I’ll nod my head in time, drink a beer, and be thankful for my neighbors, for music, and for celebration.

Enjoy some music today, including a links to Conjunto Norteno La Aurora, Peace for the Ages, an inter-generational collaboration between Stages Theatre (where my sister, Sandy Boren-Barrett is artistic director!! Hey, Sam!) and Alive & Kickin, Brave Combo, and the Linlithgow Male Rugby Club Voice Choir.

–KLB

Now and Then, Near and Far

An old boyfriend of mine got back in touch with me. Hardly an uncommon occurrence. Most everyone I know has either contacted or been contacted by someone from their past, grade-school pals, college roommates, ex-work buddies.

My friend, Nils, lives in Sweden, where the pandemic is being treated very differently. In the eighties, Nils and I lived in a squat in London with folks from nine different countries. Of course, squats themselves exist because of trauma to populations, illness and war; so many dead, properties lie fallow; so many homeless, you take what you find.

Officially, Sweden officials deny herd immunity as a strategy, but they’re keeping their economy open. The young will survive. The old aren’t. They’ve had a devastating amount of deaths among their elderly population. The government admits they’ve failed this population. But the Swedish government also says they’re trusting their people to take responsibility for themselves and to understand their actions are for the greater good.

“Hard to see the incentive for someone like him,” I said to my husband, Paul, yesterday as we were walking home with our dog, Tyke. A bare-breasted, un-face-masked teenager, weaving among the quarantine-sparse traffic on his skateboard had just swished past us. “I mean, if he doesn’t have an old person in his life, what’s in it for him?”

I guess he’d be shot in China, I thought, but had restraint enough not to say.

Only history will tell us what we did right, and what we did wrong.

Who’s right, who’s wrong.

Until history’s windows open, some stories.

–KLB

Wandering Window

April has been the proverbial cruelest month, in new ways dreamt up by COVID, and in Eliot’s most literal way: “stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

Damn, it’s rained a lot, and it continues to rain.

“Good for the farmers,” my mother used to say. Her father had farmed. She wasn’t a great gardener herself, but she liked to look at the world beyond her window. Six kids kept her from traveling much in my youth, but later in life she took to the road, west to the Bad Lands, east to visit me. Years earlier, when I lived in London, she came to visit me, and we went to Ireland together. The trip of a lifetime. She was half Irish. First born, her Irish mother gave her the middle name Carol for the O’Carroll clan from which her family is said to have sprung.

The trip was “of-a-lifetime” for me too, partly because for the first time, I got to see the place which created many of my favorite writers, and which they, in turn, created on the page. More than that, this is the only time I traveled with my mother in any real sense. I got a glimpse of her in the wider world. The last of the six, it was here I first saw her as a person beyond my narcissistic understanding of her as my mother.

Joan Carol Schumacher was a woman in the world. A woman of the world. In her own right.

We’ve yet to see: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”

But here are a few buds.

–KLB

Plan/nt/ing

Yesterday, I did two things. First, I canceled my plane ticket and hotel for a July trip to London. I was to be presenting at the International Creative Writing Conference, which is not happening now. I was also planning to do some research for a few essays about when I lived there for a few years in the eighties.

Of course, I’m bummed not to be going this summer. Slowly, all my plans for the summer are dying as are most folks’ plans. Of course, planning is all about the future. Through one lens, the future gapes: a black hole of uncertainty.

The other thing I did yesterday was plant vegetable seeds: arugula, spinach, carrots, basil, yellow squash. Seed sowing is inherently chancy. Soil conditions, seed quality, fertilizer, sun, water – all have to balance for anything to grow. Some seasons, you stare at dead earth, wondering what happened. Other seasons, fruit hangs heavy on the vine.

This morning, I said to my husband, Paul, “Here’s the daily sprout report. No sprouts yet.”

Today, a couple of windows into the future.

–KLB