Tag: Written

2020 was quite a year; life changed almost overnight because of the pandemic. The newspapers and television were reporting horrifying stories and statistics about a deadly disease that spread in the air. Thousands of people were dying and hospitals were filled to capacity and more. People started wearing masks, quarantining at home, staying six feet away from each other, working from home. Restaurants, schools, theaters, libraries, and nonessential businesses closed, and going into a grocery store began to seem like a dangerous adventure.

Writing has always been my way of dealing with life, and with all these changes and staying at home, I wrote more than ever: essays, poems, and several plays, many of which were produced virtually by local theater companies. I decided to save them, put them into a book, and I wondered if other writers were also writing about coping and dealing with life during the Pandemic. I thought about collecting plays, stories, articles, etc. and putting them into a book along with my plays and essays. I posted a notice on a few online sites, and people responded with essays, poems and plays.

The plays include my plays “Fast Forward to 2040,” “The Visit” (about a couple that is reluctant to have company), “QuickMeet” (about a virtual dating service), and “Mothers, Daughters, Friends” (about homeschooling). Stephen Olson submitted a play about a virtual office meeting, and Marla Schwartz wrote a one-minute play about people affected by the virus.

Sharon Baker, Mitchell Ball, John Harpin, Natalie Cobo, Benito Perri, Pamela Salem, and Greg McDaniel offered advice, suggestions, and feelings about everything: from appreciating nature to trying new recipes, making new friends and staying connected with family and friends through social media, exercising, meditating, practicing gratitude, and more. Mitchell Berkman contributed a rap, Venessa McCaffrey offered poetic tributes, Barry Katz’s poems provided a little humor, and Luis Roberto Herrera summed it all up with “Keep Running.”

Viewpoints on 2020 also has “mini views,” short statements like, “If I’d known last March that it was the last time I would eat in a restaurant, I would have ordered dessert,” and, “The swimming pools are open but, due to social distancing, there will be no water in lanes 1, 3 and 5,” and many more which point out that, while the pandemic is a serious problem, there is still humor in the ways people deal with it.

“Viewpoints on 2020” is available as both an e-book and a print version from Amazon.com and many other online bookstores. Any profits from the book are going to be donated to a food bank in Hollywood, FL.

MINI-VIEWS

During the middle ages they celebrated the end of the plague with wine and orgies.

Does anyone know if there is anything planned when this one ends?

Having plans sounds like a good idea

until you actually have to get out of your pajamas

and leave the house.

FAST FORWARD TO 2040

When I was a little girl, I liked to hear my mother talk about the days when she was growing up and then, when I was “Up” my children liked to hear stories about my younger days. Children always like to hear stories about their parent’s lives so, I’ve been thinking about what mothers or grandmothers will tell children about life before 2020. Life has changed so much in the last few months, the ordinary things we did last summer seem almost unbelievable now. Would children in 2040 even believe that we used to hug and kiss friends and go to buffet restaurants and sit next to strangers in movies? I imagined myself as a grandmother in 2040 talking to my six-year-old granddaughter, I’ll call her Jenny.

We would be curled up on the sofa, the requisite six feet apart. She would say,

“Tell me about when you were a little girl Grammy.”

I would tell her that I used to sit on my mother’s lap and she would hug me a lot.

“What’s a hug”? Jenny would ask.

“It’s when two people put their arms around each other and sort of squeeze.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“No, it feels wonderful. Stand up for a minute and I’ll show you.”

Jenny stood perfectly still as I wrapped my arms around her and hugged. “It does feel good,” she said, “Why don’t we do this all the time?”

“Well, I guess we could do it at home sometimes, if your mommy and daddy say it’s all right but never, ever outside. And never hug anyone else.” I said. “I used to hug lots of people; sometimes, we would even kiss each other.”

“Oooh,” Jenny said, “Why would you do that?”

Read the story and more plays, articles, and poems in “Viewpoints on 2020.”

We had waited so long for this moment. After struggling with infertility and three failed IUI attempts for 5 years, we decided to go through the in vitro fertilization. Thankfully, we decided during the final months of 2019 to start the process of shots for the first procedure, the egg retrieval in January, and then followed by the implantation in early March. We were the last scheduled procedure. If we had waited, our appointment would have been postponed until elective surgeries and procedures would begin again. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I would’ve had to go through all those shots and doctor’s appointments all over again due to this pandemic.

Our prayers were answered and the IVF worked! We were thrilled, but what followed was a series of doctor’s appointments on my own, a “zoom gender reveal,” very small baby sprinkles, and a drive by baby shower. It all seemed overwhelmingly surreal. Everything we prayed for was unfolding in such an indescribable way. Not being able to celebrate this highly anticipated pregnancy after the struggle and emotional and physical pain endured, I couldn’t believe it. All of the ideas and events that we had planned vanished into the air of uncertainty.

The day of our son’s birth, it was just my husband, the doctor, two nurses, and me. No one else was allowed. The pandemic robbed our mothers of the experience of a lifetime. There were no visitors in the five days we stayed in the hospital.

Now, after a month and a half, we are still cautious as to what we do and who comes to see our baby. We had a “window visit” for people to come and see him. My siblings who work as a flight attendant, a nurse, and a police officer have only seen him from afar due to the nature of their work.

From late March to early September 2020, I worked as a physical therapist in the COVID-19 units at a local hospital. I was the first physical therapist in the unit and volunteered my time during our two surges.

I tend to leave writing to the writers and novelists of our world, but as I return to my regular work at the trauma center at the hospital, I find solace in chronicling my experience. It gives a sense of finality to those five months as nothing else really can.

It’s all more bitter than sweet, this leaving. It seems strange to say that because I always imagined the end of this, or rather the end of my direct involvement on the COVID floors, would be more . . . celebratory? Exciting? In my daydreams, I imagined we’d fight the battle, win, and then the battle would be done. A heroic cheer would go up across the nation and we would throw our surgical caps and face shields in the air and chant, “We did it! We won!” Instead, it carries on. The trenches are still wrought with the tears of continuous loss of life.

Volunteering to work the COVID floors has been a truly humbling experience for me. The decision to not tell my parents the extent of my involvement came easy. To continue with it for almost five months was hard. I also had to hold back on telling others so the information wouldn’t accidentally be passed on to my anxiety-ridden, lovely parents. To worry is to love – that’s my family. I wouldn’t change that.

But what also came with that was not being able to freely share my experience while it was happening. It was staying (mostly) silent as family members theorized the true validity of masks and social distancing. Some asked me, “I know you’re not in there because you’re a physical therapist, but do you know how bad it is?” And I bit my tongue instead of answering. There is a never-ending frustration that comes from how my career is constantly misunderstood. I am presumed to be uninvolved in many sub fields of medicine and that is a constant disappointment.

Nurses are the true backbone of this pandemic. They do the exhaustive daily work for their patients and we need to never forget that after this is all over – if it ever will be. But rehab services are there, too, working in the shadows of nurses and physicians. When we celebrate our healthcare heroes we forget those helping in the dark. But there are many of us there saying, “Let me help you. We know these days are long. What can we do to help?” Let’s not forget those in respiratory therapy, environmental work, care techs, diet and nutrition, maintenance, social work and case management, transport, and security, as well as physical, occupational, and speech therapy. They’re in those hallways and in those rooms, too.

As I go, I think about my contribution and the many moments when I asked myself if I was crazy for doing it. Did I actually help? Was it worth it? I wonder if any of the patients will remember me or their experience of laughing, dancing, and singing during their hospitalization. For some, it turned out to be their last dance, but for the many who made it to the exit doors of our negative pressure floors, I hope they can remember how much we all tried to make this as much of a healing experience as possible.

I know, as with all rotations, my memories will meld together into one kaleidoscopic view of the experience. E’s purple hair and nails will meld into C mourning the death of her mother. D’s jokes will mix with S’s stubbornness. My mind will mix them and store them away for another time.

I’m grateful to Rachel, Brady, Bill, and Brandi and so many others. We went in and we did our best. Their compassion for patients is amazing and working beside them made me a better therapist. It was a dream and an honor to work with each of them.

And of course, I’m grateful to Sean, who supported this idea from the beginning and is there when I come home every night. He keeps me laughing and helps me stay sane.

I wonder what the history books will say of this horrible time. Not one person has not been affected in some way, be it through a loss of a job, a dream, or a loved one. I wonder how we’ll teach our lessons from this to future generations. What will we keep to remember? I know that those I worked with will be able to reflect on the sweat, tears, PPE, frustrations, and loss. But I also hope they remember the singing and the dancing.

I was doing just fine, I thought. But I see a few cracks in my fine-ness. Normal always had a sliding scale meaning. I don’t know why we bother with it anymore. It’s added it to my list of no-longer-understood terms, along with Logic, Fun, Security, Truth, Reality.

People are opting for conspiracy theories, more open to snake oil. I have to look at the question: Are others wrong? Am I wrong? I’m thrown off by this thought. We’re so dug into our own ideas. It’s difficult to get around the math that allows each to come up with diverse answers. No fan of the overly medicated society promoted over the last half century, I can balance a properly vetted vaccine over suffering serious illness. I avoid antibiotics at all costs, but when plain old rest, Melaleuca honey, and oil of oregano do not knock me healthy, I will absolutely run for a Z pack before getting into serious trouble.

Truth is losing. Its edges muddied to the point of erasing the import of a simple mommy mandate for Little Tommy to “tell the truth.” If adults are having alternative truths…now what. I recently saw kids rising up against their parents, accusing them of being tyrants during a forced close Covid year. Had a trial for them. They flat out refused to listen to parents anymore. The parents were laughing, the interviewer was laughing. I was alarmed. More of our boundaries are fumbling, crumbling, making living together an impossible task.
How is this anarchy going to work? Let everyone be their own guides? I wish we all lived with a high moral compass, but our world is made up of do-good citizens, and the people that take advantage. Is the information to be believed? Do I believe it? It’s time to drag out that old animal instinct and don survival gear.

I recently ran across the word “indubitably,” meaning “impossible to doubt.” I dislike the sound, too many d’s and b’s strung together to be taken seriously; but I’d better use it while I still can. If the definition of “facts” is no longer relevant, then definitions themselves are no longer valid. Now where are the lines I’m coloring inside?

Theoretical Physicists are positing the possibility that the universe exists as a hologram. Now THAT is making some sense. California is burning up, Puerto Rico and Haiti suffer endless disasters, the deadly Japanese Tsunami, flooding, huge artificially filled butt cheeks all the rage, one universal pandemic, Donald Trump being elevated to world leader of the most powerful country on earth… this has GOT to be the last ridiculously written episode of a holographically sophisticated Jenga game show thought up by powers far superior than this crowd on the earthly plane.

As I was considering the pileup of strange happenings (and the word “considering” could correctly be replaced by “unnerved by”), I redirected my thoughts by thumping on any old podcast; a discussion on twilight and its potentially unsettling ambiguity popped up. Someone objected to ominous music leading to a negative emotion, suggesting perhaps we are ignoring twilight spaces that need to be examined, approach it with an open attitude or run the risk of getting stuck in perpetuity with the known. How can we discover without branching into the mysterious?

Mother Nature is enjoying the break as “she” takes a moment to breathe. We are, after all, part of that nature puzzle. Perhaps with our virus enforced “time out” we will be able, as mom always shouted, to “think about what we’ve done”, and straighten up before earth gives us more good hard shakes off her pock marked hide.

I took this picture outside of Memorial Regional Hospital. On this day, I had taken my mom to this hospital thinking she had the coronavirus. She was experiencing pneumonia but no fever. It was such a scary day since this was the first month of the virus spreading around, and people were in panic mode. She could barely breathe, and she said her lungs felt like collapsing. I’ve noticed no one outside the tent was even social distancing since they didn’t know much about the virus.

People from the military came over to the hospital to check the status of how things were being handled in the tent. It’s my guess that’s the reason why they were there. I took this photo of them heading to the tent outside the hospital since no one was allowed to go in the building. One of the nurses was able to bring my mother inside the hospital to put her in an isolated room, just in case she was positive with COVID-19.

My mother was there for almost one week, and finally she tested negative for the virus. What a sign of relief it was for me. I could never imagine going through these scary times and thinking of losing my mother. I was very concerned and told her how much I love her! I was still outside waiting since I couldn’t go in there with her. My anxiety was through the roof.

After a week or so of her being there, she was feeling a little better and was released home. I picked her up and hugged her so tight, but even having her home, I still needed to be wearing a mask around her. This pandemic has taught me a lesson that we need to love our loved ones more and not to be selfish.

Sometimes I can’t believe how naive some people can be about this virus and think it won’t get to them. I wear my mask wherever I go. I’d rather be safe than sorry! A reminder to people, life is precious! We are not here forever. Take care of your loved ones! This virus has taken many lives. Be safe rather than sorry!

My kids are now home schooling, and we are keeping social distance. I am not playing Russian roulette with our lives. When this pandemic started, I made a lot of masks and donated them to hospitals, clinics, and to family members. I wanted everyone to be safe. I hope this pandemic is over soon. We need normal lives again, but I know it won’t be anytime soon. Be safe and stay safe, especially for those with health issues.

En mayo de 1980, contando con apenas 15 años de edad perturbada, agobiada y bastante confundida en ese momento, me emprendí en lo que yo pensaba en aquel momento una aventura. Era un viaje de ida y regreso del que sin saber, me marcó un destino sin regreso a mi casa. Como adolescente al fin, estaba pensando que era una aventura más con mis amigas, que para mí ellas eran mi soporte emocional y mentalmente en ese momento de mi vida. Ya que sufría de abuso físico y sexualmente en mi persona, tome la decisión de escapar de eso. Y como ellas se iban del país, no acepte la idea que me dejaran sola en ese momento, ya que no tenía el apoyo de mis padres. Me abia escapado de mi casa con mi silencio de abuso, y con ellas sobrevivi, brindándome su apoyo de comer y dormir en sus casas. Así fue como me embarqué a este paso tan grande que cambio mi destino con una historia que contar.

Por razones de la vida, en el puerto del Mariel donde todo empezó, nos separaron y no las vi más. Yo solita en una base militar estadounidense, me recalorizaron en Fort Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, area de menores sin familia. Luego me enviaron a una escuela para seguir estudiando, la cual yo no quería continuar ahí. Me sentía extraña y no hablaba inglés. Ahí fue cuando empezaron mis emociones a perturbarme mentalmente, porque no entendía en ese momento lo que estaba pasando y por qué.

Me sacaron de la escuela y me llevaron a un hospital mental Saint Elizabeths en Washington D.C.. Me encerraron con personas mentalmente enfermas. No sabia por qué razón, yo no me sentía loca. Ahí me drogaron como una zombi, así me sentía. Y me privaron de libertad, llevándome a otro centro prision federal de enfermos mentales en Lexington, Kentucky, donde sufrir una depresión mortal. La cual quise atentar contra mi vida, me sentía perdida en un país sin un ser querido.

Sólo quería morir en ese momento. Con la noticia que estaba embarazada fueron momentos difíciles para mí que marcaron mi vida, con tan solo 15 años camino a cumplir mis 16. Adolecente, sola, sin familia, y embarazada en un país extraño, fue un caos de emociones revueltas en ese momento. Pues la cual tuve otra recaída en depresión intentando quitarme la vida en mi cerda de la prision de immigration de Lexington, Kentucky. Lo cual me insolaron en un cuarto con camisa de fuerza y medicada las 24 horas.

Del día, donde no tenía ni la noción del tiempo, solo estaba sumergida en mi terrible angustia y dolor, tragando lagrimas día a día sin saber cuál sería mi futuro. Solo me aferré a pensar que todo era una pesadilla que tenía. Después de tanto gritar que yo no estoy loca, decidieron hacerme una evaluación. Ellos sabían que estaba embarazada y me podía hacer daño de toda esa estrés. La cual yo le dije que al llegar al refugio de Pennsylvania, el primer mes que estaba ahí tube relación con un muchacho y qué el era el papa de mi embarazo. Al darle toda la información sobre el y qué todavía permanecía en el refugio Fort Chaffee, lo relocalizaron, y haciendo los trámites necesarios me reunieron con el. Sin embargo me sentía muy feliz de salir de ese horrible encierro.

Pensaba que estaba curada de mi depresión del todo, sin imaginar que lo que me venía después con mi pareja y papa de mi bebe. Bueno, creo que sí les interesa más de mí historia que no terminó ahí…

A Miami Story by Lynda Grant Killingsworth in honor of all Americans on this anniversary of Pearl Harbor.

A letter home from James Whitfield Grant dated Saturday, Sept 22, 1945 written in Tokyo Bay.

—

Dear Mom,

Well, here is the bad news – we have been detached from the Third fleet and reassigned to the Fifth fleet for duty – I don’t know for how long but the reason was that we did such a good job evacuating POW’s that they felt that we would be a good ship to keep out here until things get straightened out.

The men on the ship were pretty mad about it since we are the oldest ship in the Third fleet and rate more battle stars than any ship in the Third or Fifth fleet. I have known about it for several days but did not want to write you until I cooled off a little.

Our Captain made a speech to us today and told us why we are going to stay out here a little longer. He had to make a speech because the rumor started that he asked for six more months of occupation duty. Naturally everybody believed it since he hasn’t been out here long and he is a Glory-hunter. He denied the rumor of course, and said you couldn’t believe everything you read in the papers (some of the boys got clippings from the New York Times that listed the San Juan as one of the ships to be reviewed by the President on Navy Day in New York Harbor). He said if we got our orders we could be in San Francisco by Navy Day but don’t count on it-So we are just sitting here waiting for something to happen. I admit this is very interesting duty but it is nothing like the U.S.- We feel that by the time we get back all the celebrating will be over and everybody will have forgotten about the war. I still have hopes of being home Xmas but don’t count on it.

Love,
Jimmy

—

Uncle Jimmy, a veteran of every major battle in the Pacific was in the Navy when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor 79 years ago. He came to Miami with my parents, my sister Annie and me looking like the okies from fanokie, and lived with us for several years after arriving in Miami Dec 17, 1947. I am sure if any of my Jr. League buddies had seen THAT picture, 3 adults and 2 babies in a Jeep Dad needed for Dad’s work, I would have never been invited to join this prestigious organization. Our first apartment was near their new place of employment Hill York established in the 1920’s by Everett Carroll and Ren Niche located at SW 8th and 12 Ave.

I loved Mr. Carroll and the opportunities he gave my father. Dad ended up as President of seven Mechanical Contractor Companies and he and his brother, Uncle Jimmy, never worked anywhere else during their 35 year careers. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, Uncle Everett and Aunt Babe, lived a block off of SW 8th Street, the famous Tamiami Trail built by a distant relative of ours, Barron Gift Collier. His great grand nephew married my grandfather’s cousin and this elegant Bascom, Florida native, population 30, served as hostess to the likes of Ford and Edison at their home on Utopia Island, now a Ritz Carlton.

Dad found an apartment nearby, and because it was right after the war, the only language spoken was Yiddish as our welcoming new city had become a haven for those who were in Nazi concentration camps. Boy did they love Anne and I, and I can remember being so young and sitting on their lap and running my figure on numbers that I did not know how they got there. Mama knew, and even though Mama only spoke Southern and they spoke no English, there was a bond that proved language did not matter. Their means of communication was LOVE.

Uncle Jimmy was just barely 20 when he joined the Navy on October 18, 1940, fourteen months before we declared War. He served our Country in the North Atlantic and saw war there against the Axis which entitled him to wear the Navy bronze “A.” He never slept the night through after he and his Navy boys, who lovingly called him Reb, freed the POW’s. He told his mother about it but could never talk to anyone else, not even his brother, my father. When I was a teen, my Grandmother told me his stories, and what he had witnessed as she felt it important that history be told. I remember the conversation 58 years later and her confession that she really liked Eleanor Roosevelt who was not at all treasured in the South at that time and revered years later. I agreed and will share what was told in other stories. This letter was addressed to:

Mrs. LL Grant
501 East Jackson Street
Marianna, Florida

The airmail postage was 6 cents.

La embajada del Perú fue el 4 de abril del 1980 y mi hija nació el 12 de Abril de 1980 , así que cuando nos llegó la salida por el Mariel el 17 de mayo, ella solo tenía 36 días de nacida.
Cuando nos presentamos en el edificio de seguridad donde nos recogerían ,nos entregaron salvoconductos como si hubiéramos estado en la embajada del Perú, algo totalmente falso (los cuales conservo).Llegamos al Mariel en una guagua, lugar el cual era un campamento lleno de carpas donde los catres estaban en la tierra. Había un solo edificio de cemento que era donde te registraban y te hubicaban en la carpa que pertenecías. Nosotros salimos como familia de un preso político.

Cuando nos toco la revisión mi esposo tomó la niña en sus brazos en lo que me registraban y revisaban. Una miliciana me mando a pasar detrás de una cortina de saco, y me registro toda. Cuando salí atolondrada con lo que había acabado de vivir, buscó con la mirada a mi esposo y lo encuentro del lado de los que habían revisado. Se había pasado sin que los milicianos lo revisarán, por lo que pasó sus prendas, dinero, y La Niña con sus areticos.

Mi angustia era como podíamos estar tanto tiempo allí con una niña tan pequeña. Las personas nos decían días y semanas de espera. Dios nos protegió siempre. Salimos al mar en la madrugada del 18 en 17 horas de odisea llegamos a Cayó Hueso, en el lugar de las carpas del army. El trato fue maravilloso. Cuando vieron La Niña nos montaron en la primera guagua para Miami.

El Orange Bowl hay mucho que hablar. Las personas llegaban a los alrededores y te regalaban las cosas que tenían puestas, te compraban helados, lloraban. Estaban tan felices de lo que estaba pasando. Y después el aeropuerto de Opa locka, tan organizado, todos tan cariñosos. Tenían muchachitas para entretener y cuidar los niños en lo que te hacían las entrevista y los papeles de immigracion. Nadie podía creer el tiempo que tenía mi Lily. Pensaban que había nacido en la embajada del Perú. Hoy graduada con un Master en business administration.

Mi esposo (28) y yo (20) en el 1980, Marielitos que le damos las gracias a este gran país por darnos la oportunidad que nos fue negada en nuestro país, donde nuestras hijas estudiarían y viven en libertad y respeto al ser humano.

Hay muchos detalles de cada lugar que los revivo en mis recuerdo, pero me pasaría de las 1000 palabras, gracias por la labor que hacer. El Mariel fue una huella muy importante en Miami. Vinimos con muchas ganas de crecer y trabajar. Gracias.

Like many Miamians of Cuban descent, I grew up very aware of my family’s history on the island. This year marked the 40th anniversary of their exodus. My grandmother, aunt, and father left Cuba on the Mariel boatlift of 1980, in which as many as 120,000 Cubans made a traumatic exodus to the United States.

My father was born in Havana into a family of entertainers in 1964, five years after the revolution. My grandfather, Miguel Cancio, along with my grandmother’s brother, Kiki Morua, founded the popular ‘60s band Los Zafiros. My grandmother, Monica Leticia Morua, a musician in her own right, was known as the “Voz de Crystal.”

As a young boy, my father had a dream to become a great doctor like my great-grandfather, Dr. Leoncio Morua. He was able to attend a boarding school in the province of Matanzas. When he was 16, he was caught telling a joke about Pepito, a famous Cuban character. My father and his friends were told that they were being expelled for betraying the trust of the revolution. My grandmother, fearing my father’s future in Cuba, decided it was time to leave the country. At that time, there was no legal way to leave Cuba. Then, in April 1980, an incident at the Peruvian embassy caused Castro to announce that all those who wished to leave Cuba could do so from the port of Mariel.

The Mariel situation offered an unexpected way out for my family. After appearing in front of a government panel, my father was separated from my grandmother and aunt and was taken to a holding facility in Havana, then to a camp for unaccompanied males near Mariel, where they waited alongside newly released criminals. A few weeks later, he was put on an American cabin cruiser. As the boat left Mariel harbor, my father panicked and tried to dive overboard and swim ashore, but the American captain on the boat and a family friend calmed him.

My father was reunited in Miami with my grandmother and aunt, who had come on another ship, and they spent several days in the Orange Bowl, where other refugees were kept, until they found their way to a home in Miami Beach. My father did not return to Cuba until 1993. Since his return he has dedicated his life to advocating for the reconciliation between his native and adopted countries. I also have had the opportunity to return to my father’s country of birth and walk on the same streets my family once walked through in Varadero.

This year marked 40 years since my grandmother made the decision to leave her family, her career, her beloved Varadero and the future she hoped to have in Cuba for her children. It marked 40 years of her life in this country, raising two children and becoming Abuelita to three grandchildren.