In the early days of the Corona Epoch, I was distressed to hear that people of Asian heritage were being harassed.
Then I learned of some friends in the South who were told to “get the f**k out” because their car had New York plates.
Now, I have to admit, I wonder if I’m branded by being a Wegmans employee.
Sure, people thank us for staying on the job, stocking and selling the staples everyone needs. But, really, they want to steer clear of us. Grocery workers across the country, exposed over and over again, are contracting and dying of the virus.
My rational streak scolds me for being so self-absorbed. My situation, I’m reminded, is nothing like that of health providers and emergency personnel. Of course, people don’t want to be around me. If they’re smart and responsible, they don’t want to be around anybody.
True, my miserable self whimpers. But what about later? What about when we finally emerge? I don’t expect any immediate invitations to dinner parties.
My adult side, busy with the practicalities of life upended, doesn’t bother to respond.
It’s Easter Sunday, and so many families who are accustomed to being together on this day will be Skyping. The properly distanced line outside my store early this morning was not in a celebratory mood. People were masked and shivering and not talking to their fellow shoppers.
My observance of the holiday began with Wegmans feeding us ham and potatoes for dinner and giving us free Easter bouquets.
After ending my shift, I bought two pots of pansies for my front porch. As a friend would say, despite political incorrectness, pansies aren’t pansies. They can withstand spring’s harshest conditions.
Toughen the f**k up, my braver voice says.