The Other Virus

By Jean Kearney

Everyone is home all the time now. My husband and I live with our daughter and her family. It feels safe, even with the virus raging outside. We have family dinner every night, I call it “Family Joy.” Now the boys do too- “Nana, what’s for family joy tonight?” “Family joy smells good.” “It’s Dad’s night to cook family joy, get ready for spicy!” Our son-in-law, Gene, is a wonderful cook. I’ve learned so much from him about spices and sauces that I had no idea existed. We have become a good team in the kitchen. Everyone cooks something. Grampa is great at breakfast, on the weekends it’s brunch really. Eggs, bacon, waffles, you name it, he’s got it. Kofi has a great recipe for fried rice which was shared with him via facetime by his friend Donovan. They facetimed the first time he made it and “Donno” walked him through it. Now it is a regular in our meal rotation! Apple crisp, my favorite dessert, is Shannon’s specialty. Besides making delicious brownies, Fynn is a champ at smashed potatoes. He found a recipe on, where else? TikTok!

My sweet, kind, sensitive boy, our youngest grandson, Fynn, bakes brownies often during the lockdown, because his mom likes them. Later, When Zoom class ends, he takes the puppy for a walk. - “Don’t go far, wear a mask.” Shannon, my daughter, calls to her other son, ‘’Kofi, walk with your brother please!”

This weekend there’s a drive-by birthday party for a school friend, like a parade, I think. Kofi says we should decorate the car, it will be a rolling party. I ask, “Do we sing happy birthday out the window or what? Everyone brings a mask, just in case.”

“He is eleven today,” so maybe, ’Happy Covid Birthday to You,” sings Fynn.

We pass by a bigger parade. It blocks the road for a little bit. Beautiful, colorful masks, drums, a few people skipping, arm in arm. Smells like a barbeque! There is music and, in the distance, a voice on a bullhorn. Not really a parade, a protest.

“Dad! Can we stop? Can we get out? Bullhorns! so cool! Dad! What’s BLM? Dad! Who’s George Floyd?” I think, I’m so sorry my darlings, there is another virus, it has no vaccine.” My son-in-law, ever gentle, always calm: “Sure, we can stop for a minute. Just don’t get out…and... We can talk about it tonight during Family joy.”

We did talk about it. The boys know more than we thought about the other virus. They chat freely at the dinner table about their own experiences with racism. They are 9 and 11 years old. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces as Fynn talks calmly about his friend Patrick who promised to buy him if President Trump brings back slavery. He is concerned that his mom won’t be with them since she is not black. I can hardly breathe; my heart pounds and I do not trust my own mouth. How do you respond to a thing like that? This child, my precious innocent boy has heard the ugly name, the N word and has had it applied to him already. His brother has his own experiences to add. Friends, teammates asking if it’s ok to use the word. They use it in his presence and look to see how he reacts. He says, “if I tell them it’s bad, they won’t want to be my friend anymore.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Sorry we could not and cannot protect you from this ugliness. I am surprised neither my son-in-law nor the boys seem sad. Later their father tells them,” Don’t give away your power. Do not put your happiness, your self-worth in someone else’s hands. You know these words are meant to reduce you, to put you down. Do not allow it. Your friends do not know what they are saying, one day they will, and I hope they feel shame. It is not your job to educate them. Be yourself, be happy, be confident. No one can hurt you if you don’t let them.” Tamir Rice comes to mind. He was twelve.

The corona virus vaccine is being tested on human subjects; cautious optimism is the news of the day. Our neighbor sent an email asking everyone to participate in putting rainbows around when we took walks. This way we could enjoy looking for them during daily walks around the neighborhood. Shannon and Kofi, Fynn and Gene used colored chalk and drew them everywhere, on trees, rocks, the road.

Our neighbor has a Blue Lives Matter sign on his lawn. It brings up questions… Uncle Joe is a policeman, of course he matters. They are putting it together, these two, “Dad, is BLM and Blue Lives Matter the same group?” I remember when I was pregnant with my own children, wishing I could keep them safely inside me so they would not know about bad things. Tonight, at this dinner table, I almost wish the vaccine did not work and we could shield these two from that ‘’other virus.” If we could keep them here, in this house, away from the world, maybe they would not be hurt. Maybe they could be safe from it. Gene says this race thing is something black kids just know. They know from childhood that some people view their brown skin as a bad thing and do not question it much. I bought a Black Lives Matter sign for our front lawn. I was mad and, though it is a small thing-- I wanted to shout it--even if only through a lawn sign. The boys got a kick out of it. Anything is exciting when you are a child. Two days later our sign was gone.

Our neighborhood is small, usually the only folks we see are neighbors and delivery people. We are sure someone hit the sign by mistake with their car, so I buy another, and we place it closer to our house, away from the road. Again, the sign disappeared. It was small, nonthreatening, and just a simple fact-Black Lives Matter. Was a neighbor upset with our sign? There were plenty of other signs on lawns-some Trump, some local politicians running for town positions, so it was not a sign issue. It was a specific sign issue. This time I set one up without involving the children. They would not notice it unless we went out in the car, and we had no plans to go anywhere. Third time, back from the road, a little to the right so it was not noticeable from the dining room window. It lasted one day and was gone in the morning.

This is where we live, our neighborhood. The adults had a conversation about it, we decided to let it go. What is the point? we are not changing opinions with our little lawn signs. My son-in-law is so unflustered by the micro aggressions, and macro-ones for that matter, but I am raging inside. He is used to it. This sickens me. These lovely people, whose skin is another color, have to take in stride all the hatred spewed by monsters that don’t even know them.

Fynn suggests maybe someone who thinks Black Lives Matter wanted to put the sign up at their house, and maybe they had no money to get one and they thought we wouldn’t mind. Maybe.