Proud to be an American. Proud to be … fill in the blank. I’m so over it. I’m not at all religious, and yet I know Pride to be one of the deadly sins. And I’ve heard of pride going before the fall. So I know it’s not really supposed to be a good thing, being proud. But if it were to be an okay thing, then I would guess it should be about something someone accomplished through hard work and dedication and perseverance, not some accident of birth. And that’s what being an American is. You didn’t have anything to do with where you were born. Luck of the draw, random chance, and here you are.

And by the way, here? These days? WTF is there to be proud of. We’re babies, whining, complaining, unwilling to be inconvenienced, and most of all, unwilling to do something that doesn’t benefit us personally. What’s in it for me? A most American question.

I taught remedial English writing for a few years not too terribly long ago to a bunch of unmotivated thirteenth graders. I worked hard at trying to get them to see the value in expressing themselves with some degree of correctness. I planned lessons that I thought would engage them, I spent an inordinate amount of time grading their papers with comments galore I hoped they would read so they would work to improve, all the while knowing all they cared about was if they passed. It was frustrating and discouraging, but also I loved it. Because there’s always one, you know? Sometimes a few, but always there is a dear soul who makes eye contact, gets an expression on his or her face that let me know they were present–at least for a moment–that they heard me, related to what I’d said. I’d piqued their curiosity.

I taught for those moments. One day we were talking about making a difference. It’s a central theme in my life, and I probably assigned a persuasive essay with that as one of the prompts. I can’t remember exactly right now, but it was something like that, and we were discussing it. I got animated about it in class, asking the question: If you’re not making a difference, what’s your life worth? Are you here to make things better or are you hear to take up space? Caught them off guard. I could tell most of them never gave it a thought, while I grew up knowing. It was a given that I would do what I could to make a difference. My mother’s mandate.

Somehow that day came back to me recently when I read something on Facebook from yet another whiner about his rights disappearing. I desperately wanted to ask him: What have you done to deserve the right to complain? Are you making this world–your little place in it–better for your having been here, or are you taking up space? Worse yet, polluting everyone and everything around you with your hate?

I watched a six-minute video of people from all over the place who were watching news about what’s going on here–all the sickness and death and administrative bungling and incompetence that has put us all in danger, while these young people were being protected by their governments and kept safe and supported through the crisis, which was becoming a non-crisis due to the diligence of their leaders. They were shocked at the mass graves being dug, at the anti-maskers, the dangerous actions of both those in charge and those at the mercy of those in charge. One young woman actually cried for us. Young people in the four corners of the world looking at us as if we were a third world country, shocked, appalled, and fearful for us. It was enlightening to see myself through the eyes of someone in a foreign land and realize that I was being pitied. No pride in that, is there?

We’re not making anything better for our having been here. We have nothing to be proud of.

Warning: white, privileged, female whining here.

I miss freedom. Moving about, shopping without anxiety. Shopping without resenting the few fellow shoppers who refuse to wear masks. Shopping without feeling like I’m in a war zone.

I went to the Dollar General. Wore my mask, had a goal, and was half-way to accomplishing what I was there for. More on that later. Anyway, a customer came in and I heard the cashier tell her she needed to have a mask on. I heard her say, “I’m claustrophobic.” She mispronounced it, but not so much so that you couldn’t tell what she was saying. The clerk argued with her and she just kept walking, repeating herself–toward me.

The point of a mask is to keep the wearer from breathing and spraying droplets on innocent bystanders. At least that’s my understanding. “Claustrophobic” is a word that offers many opportunities for spitting. Try it–you’ll see. And yet, the woman insisted on repeatedly announcing to no one in particular that she was indeed claustrophobic. It was distressing!

I said, “Then get a plastic shield!” as she passed by me at a distance less than six feet. “Yes ma’am,” she said on her journey.

Those are the kind of adventures I’m having in these days of the Plague. It’s enough to make me happy to stay home.

Except for this: I miss the kids.

Five years ago I became Nana. I had my daughter when I was 37 and she had her first–a boy–when she was 39. You don’t have to be a math genius to realize I was already old when he was born, nor a psychologist to know how excited I was about being a grandmother. Two years later I got another one, a girl this time, and I was over the moon. I’ve probably already told you all that. Sorry.

Anyway, every day was a gift.

Little did I know they were numbered.

Now, it’s been over a hundred days since I’ve been in their physical presence. Since I’ve felt their soft little arms wrapped around my neck, since I’ve squeezed them. To a lesser degree, but still important, since I’ve been able to help my daughter by picking them up at school, lifting them into their car seats, buckling them in, and bringing them home with me so we can have a play date and she can have a break.

This isolation is for my sake, mine and my husband’s, not theirs. They could be carriers. Their daddy is a first responder and they go to nursery school with about nine or ten other little ones whose parents are essential workers.  So, now we have video chats, Zoom calls, and my daughter is great with photos and videos. But still.

So, I went to Dollar General to buy them something. A diversion. I knew that at least for a little bit of time, they would be excited, and that made me smile.

And that’s where I met that claustrophobic woman. If I was in charge, her ass would be in jail.

She better not have made me sick.