When my grandmother was dying in her North Carolina condo, I took time off from work to fly down and be with her during her final days; helping a fiercely independent practical midwestern woman by cutting up her food, wiping her mouth, helping her blow her nose, supporting her on her way to the bathroom. On a particularly difficult day, we were sitting on the screened in porch watching the sun go down. I helped her with something, I honestly don’t remember what it was at the moment. She turned to me and held my hand, “Sean, you are so patient. Thank you for being patient with me.”
It took me a little by surprise. I have never really thought of myself as patient. When I looked into her beautiful brown eyes, I couldn’t imagine acting any other way. That moment is branded in my memory and I can’t think of it without crying. In a way, it has become a sort of litmus test by which I measure all other human interactions.

During the Covid Crisis there have been many opportunities for self-evaluation, and certainly a plethora of opportunities for practicing patience. One thing – and perhaps it’s the most important thing – that I hold onto from my ultimate learning experience in North Carolina is that although patience may run contrary to we humans, it becomes so much easier if you notice – I mean really realize – the humanity in the other person – no mater who they may be.

It has been challenging for many of us, and for me personally. When we turn on the television or listen to the radio, it is a constant reminder of a swift devolution of discourse and civility. I am not so naive as to believe that we had achieved any cultural moment of utopian grace. But, there was a time, not too long ago, that I had hope. I thought that we collectively reached a point in which we were beginning to realize that people matter more than things. So, I have limited what I chose to watch or listen to. The social isolation and protective measures that we are undergoing for the sake of others is taking a toll. Many people are out of work as restaurants and businesses are closed. People are genuinely struggling financially more now than ever.

I admit that I am one of the lucky ones. I am employed and am able to work from home. I teach, so the relationships that I have developed with the human beings sitting in seats in front of me are replaced with human images on the other end of a screen. Most of the time, during Zoom classes, students only show the top of their head, or a faded out background. Many even choose to keep their cameras off, making it all but impossible to gauge reactions by  those invaluable facial expressions and body language that are a part of the human experience.

In the attempt to establish a safe haven within the confines of our condo, my husband and I are trying to establish new routines that facilitate a functional and healthy environment. We have made choices on what to watch, listen to, and read. We have broken down and subscribed to print subscriptions that we just have not had the time to read before. We have subscribed to The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Smithsonian, and Biblical Archaeological Review, among others. It seems like a lot. Perhaps it is.

My Zoom classes are finished for the semester. Work is not over, of course. The weight of the Zoom classes having been lifted has made a noticeable psychological difference. For the first time since this whole madness started, I sat down with my morning coffee and read the latest issue of The New Yorker.
Here are some things that I found.

There is a comment piece on “Safer Schools” by Amy Davidson Sorkin. That caught my interest right away as I am an educator and the idea of opening schools is a hot topic right now in the world of education. I immediately felt that this issue had something to say to me. I was not wrong.
There is an article about the adaptation (and the necessity for) therapy to a digital medium. Another article explores the impact that these past have had on people (and they are many) whose only choice is to share living space with other strangers (“Close Quarters,” by Michael Schulman.) That article if followed by a very thoughtful article about the complex lives of those people who find themselves homeless, and who often turn to pharmaceuticals as a means to cope. The article does a striking job of revealing the humanity of the individuals. Although (thankfully) I do not struggle with homelessness, there were many times throughout the article that I identified with what Nathan Heller, the author, wrote in his article “ Too Far From Home.”
This edition’s fiction, “Two Nurses Smoking” which seemed to be more a window into reality in a way that only fiction can provide.
And, the highlight of the issue for me was a book review about the late PD Woodhouse, “Wartime for Wodehouse,” by Rivka Galchen. I have always been a fan of his “Jeeves and Wooster” books. This really gave me an insight into the human being behind those stories and his survival of German-run-civil-internment camps from 1940 – 1941.
Finally, a review of the book, “Dostoyevsky Reads Hegel in Siberia and Bursts into Tears.”

Good reading from cover to cover!

Sitting down with “The New Yorker” with coffee this morning helped me to appreciate good journalism again. Journalism that reaches into the human experience and helps us to feel – well – more human. It was a joy. It also occurs to me that it takes time and patience. We are so used to wee little phrases used out of context. (“A text without context is a pretext,” after all.) Not to mention (but, to mention) our cultural dependence on sound bites, which are often also used out of context. Reading something that is well thought out and offers some way of challenging our views in a non-confrontational way are just what we need right now.

Perhaps the irony of all of this social isolation is that we, through social starvation, more inclined to see the deep humanity in “the other.” Perhaps that realization will trigger new found feelings of compassion and empathy, so that we can look into another person’s eyes and think of no other way of being than being patient.