The Insurrection Mold

I am extremely allergic to mold. I have all of my boys papers, projects, report cards, newsletters and more that have traveled in boxes with me from the time they were tiny. They are now 28 and 29. The boxes have not always been in the appropriately climate controlled spaces (ahem old run down damp garage for instance) and have acquired their fair share of silverfish and meals for a variety of little beings. Who came up with the idea of macaroni art? Seriously. Whose idea was it to stick food on construction paper with white glue that ended up more as a way to peel off one's skin in a white hazy layer? Ridiculous. But I digress. I have moved these boxes from the garage to the office which I have renamed the scrapbook room. Because that's my intention. I visualize the long table with neat piles of historical data chronologically compiled with a variety of themes - Josh, Cody, Josh and Cody, vacations, etc. I have the books. I have scissors that provide different edging, just to keep things interesting. I have pens, glues, and paper that provide every color of the rainbow. And they all sit there. In that room. With the door closed. And a top of the line air filtering machine going 24/7. Because the first time I went in and starting sorting through a box, immersing myself in the process, focused on what to keep and what to (sob) get rid of, remembering little things with each newly discovered item. A sentence written from right to left, completely backwards. Cody is dyslexic. Papers with all the corners torn in a neat square. Josh would create origami swans and boxes as he always finished before others and would get bored. Doodles and love notes and photos and comments from teachers that simply did not understand my guys. There are many boxes. Many. As I dove into the first one, I was certain that this wish, this desire I have had for so long, this goal would finally be reached. I didn't notice that I was clearing my throat more. That it was harder to swallow. That I was getting a headache. It wasn't until I got up to use to restroom and glanced at my face that I saw I was inflating. I closed the door and immediately took Benadryl. I had been in that room for several hours. It wasn't until I stepped outside to find some air to breathe that I realized how moldy the room is. The spores were attached to my skin, my clothes, my hair. I had to toss my clothing into the wash and take a shower. I stepped outside and the air was fresher but the mold was still up my nose, even after several saline cleanses. Which, I must add, have absolutely nothing whatsoever in common with waterboarding. My sister is thoroughly convinced that I would subject myself to the sensation of drowning to clear out the nasal passages and perhaps if forced, I might consider it. As the gentle warm saline wash is more similar to a good saltwater gargle or even a warm baking soda and Epsom salt bath, the idea is moot. I was unwell for over a week. It's hard to describe. It's not an epi-pen type of allergic response. But it is an allergic response that causes a lethargy, a feeling of restriction in my lungs, a dull ever-present headache and sore throat. So the boxes sit. I have tried to use a mask but mold affects my eyes, apparently, causing redness and burning. I hadn't noticed this before due to the respiratory impact being primary. My next plan is to bring the boxes (or have them individually brought down for me) to the back garden patio so that I can wear a mask and continue my operation. Plan B is to have the boys and my husband do it for me. That really is a long shot. If Josh weren't in Brooklyn, he might be convinced. Maybe Cody. But he's dangerous. He is a minimalist and his idea of sorting is to throw everything away or shove it into a place so that it can be hidden from sight. I still haven't found my Christmas presents after he staged the house for this year's Christmas party. Lance is a full on dead-end. Lance is not a sorter. We'll leave it at that. What made me think to write about my allergy to mold and the "room" made me think of what happened in the run up to the insurrection. Let's not call it anything else. It was months, years in the making. I won't pretend to know the extent of what people were fed as far as misinformation. I can, however, understand what happens when you tell people over and over again, lead them down rabbit holes with snippets that drive them further and further down into darkness. I am a privileged white woman. I have had my obstacles, my trials and tribulations. I was raised in a white household with my immigrant family from England. No extended family and a very limited understanding of how Americans did things. Although I was young when we emigrated, I grew up as if I was in England. All of our family friends were from England or Ireland or a part of the British Empire. My dad became racist. My mom always said to accept people as they are not as they present to be. I took that to mean regardless of religion, color, race, nationality, I was to meet the individual not the representative. I didn't realize how sheltered I was until much later. I exposed myself to poverty. I found myself addicted. Not once but three times. I burst out of the bubble and realized that others did not have the safety net I enjoyed. I realized that my color put me at the front of the line. Actually, just behind the white men but ahead of everyone else. Police were kind to me for the most part. Shop owners greeted me and often gave me things or didn't charge me. I was smiled upon. I was believed. To a point. Every job I had, I was sexually harassed. Every single job. When I was stalked and I called the police, they were responsive until I told them it was my white ex-boyfriend and then the tone changed. Why don't you give him another chance? He clearly loves you. He just wants to be with you. There was a line, you see. A line of privilege. Well beyond that of others, but still existing. When I dated a black man, my mother was extremely upset. She wrote me a letter letting me know how clever and pretty and other positively attributed things I was and that I was throwing life away. I remember being on the phone with her and saying that she had taught me to accept everyone as individuals. Was that not accurate? Why, with all the bad choices in men I had made was she choosing this specific one who was actually the kindest man that I had ever been with to raise the alarm? The beauty of this world is that we are all so different. It's fascinating really. That two people can experience the same thing and have completely different perceptions is incredibly appealing to me. You can never assume anything. You are forced to stop the natural behavior of categorizing to create order. When we approach an individual as brand new and receive that person as completely unique, it is a success. Because everything in us pulls us into our frame of reference so that we can predetermine and ascribe the necessary tools and skills to interact. That is how we operate, right? The first time I do something, like vote for example, there are all sorts of things associated with that. There is the basic insecurity of not knowing what you are doing. What the process is. Even if you research the process and decide based on that research the candidate that best reflects your beliefs, there is a nervousness associated with the actual engagement. You might feel that others are looking at you as ignorant. You might have an aversion to appearing foolish by asking "stupid" questions. When in the weeds of it all, what do I do? What if they don't take my id? How embarrassing will it be to be turned away? All the little human sensitivities surface and make their presence known. To the point that you might actually put if off. But you do it. You go, you fumble through the process, you follow like the poor animals to the slaughter through the guides and instructions. And you do it. You get your little sticker and once complete, you feel the flush of accomplishment and achievement. As well as pride in performing your civic duty. The next time elections come around you use that experience to expertly navigate through, possibly assisting some poor soul who looks like he hasn't done this before. You do not start all over brand new. You don't look at this particular event as an untrodden trail. You have been here. There might be minor changes but you have done it before. This is how we navigate life. It's how we learn. How we learn to speak. To drive. To interact with others. But there is a danger here. A danger of assigning responses, reactions, etc. based on experiences erroneously. Allowing ourselves to be a bit lazy by categorizing without thinking. And there are external forces at work. Sounds like a super thriller that I might read. But it's not fiction. There are forces with ulterior motives that push agendas and prod those who have had negative experiences by feeding them a narrative. I personally believe everything went to hell with the 24-hour news cycle. Sounded like a good idea, I guess. Always know what's going on instead of hearing a talking head say "poison in the city's water? Find out at 10." What city? Wait. What? It's two in the afternoon and I've had several glasses of water. That all changed with access to news at any time. But news had to be new, right? It had to bring a viewer over from the other channels. So the competition for more titillating, provocative and new news became fierce. Then we get the information age, access to anything at any time, social media exploded and the gotcha videos and audio recordings blew up. And the algorithms were created to direct your attention to that which most interested you based on a host of variables. Like your own personal shopper. Who wouldn't like that? Someone who "gets" you. Provides the information, links to news, fashion, gossip, eateries, events all based on your personal preferences. Sounds great. And it is great to a certain extent. I deactivated my Facebook account. I am rarely on social media. I found that even if I lingered over an image for too long, suddenly I was getting ads over and over again for that particular item. I found my world was a mirrored cube just reflecting my preferences and beliefs back at me. I hadn't noticed at first. But once I broke away and stepped outside, I found that I missed the fresh perspective. The variety. The diversity. My world had become mold infested. Without realizing it, I was sucking in toxins that entered my system and had a negative effect on me. And it was counter to reality. Damn republicans! All racists. All greedy. All capitalist pigs. Conservatives who don't care about others, who want to rip the government cheese from the hands of the hungry. Fuck. Them. But the reality is that my best friends are conservatives. My family members are conservatives. My coworkers are conservatives. And not one of them fit that stereotype. If they had certain beliefs that were counter to mine, we could talk about it. I could listen respectfully and value their experience and understand why they had the beliefs that they did. And I could offer my perspective and be listened to and valued. And maybe that person thought about what I said and came back to me and discussed it further. And perhaps that person even hugged me and chided me for making them think too much and evaluate themselves a bit more. And definitely, I loved and valued these individuals because they were not monsters. They were complex individuals. And that is what we are missing. That is what the misinformation campaigns thrived on. Boiling us down to single issues. Turning us against "them". Clever, targeted actions to keep us from talking to each other and create a divide. People are afraid to talk to one another. People who get along and interact at work for hours avoid political conversations at all cost. Because it’s toxic. You see people shouting at each other. Fights. Polar opposite factions amping up, saber rattling. Until we have a January 6, 2021. That didn't just happen. That wasn't organic. That was manufactured by pumping toxins into the air and distorting reality. I won't pretend to know why a perfectly decent person would get caught up in an insurrection. I have been in marches for a wide variety of issues - from Anti-Apartheid to Animal Rights to Women's Rights to Environmental Actions. While participating in an anti-war/anti-Bush bicycle protest in San Francisco it was uplifting and empowering. But there was an element there. Individuals that took that energy and drove it in a different direction. It was something that I felt, suddenly. This exhilaration of being involved in something that was getting attention, that a bunch of people came together to try to make a change shifted to a darkness. Disguised as excitement and fueled by adrenaline I saw as the riders incrementally changed. I was caught up in it feeling that rush. Something in me, not necessarily an alarm, more like a dimmer switch that I noticed out of the corner of my eye causing me to turn my head and the light came full on. I didn't like this. I didn't want to be here. I slowed and moved towards the edge of the massive group of cyclists extending as far up and back as I could see. I peeled off onto a side street. And I found that others were doing the same. There is a moment when you suddenly realize that for all your good intentions and righteousness something has changed. A shift. It can be in a massive group. It can be a realization as you glance through social media. It can be while taking in information from a news source. It is different for every individual. The thing is, you have to make an effort. You have to take the time to do an honest self-inventory. You have to be willing to throw open the blinds and the shades and the darkness and bring everything out into the light. Once there, in the open, you will see the mold. You will see how it has affected you. And you will have decide for yourself what to do about it.