*The almighty dollar
I read, with some interest, the account of a gym in New Jersey. Atilis Gym, owned by Ian Smith, opened this past Monday in spite of the statewide order to remain closed. Said Ian, "The 14th Amendment states that no state shall pass any law that infringes upon our rights as citizens, and we’ve been forced into our homes. Enough is enough."
For the record, in 1787, there weren't a lot of gyms being opened or closed so the framers of that fourteenth amendment to the Constitution of the United States may not have had Ian's specific case in mind.
No matter. Mister Smith opened his doors and let folks in at eight o'clock in the morning. The police showed up a little after ten. "Formally, you are all in violation of the executive order. On that note, have a good day. Everybody be safe," the officer said before walking away as the crowd erupted in cheers.
Note the "crowd" in that last bit. Crowds are not, by definition, currently safe. Not during a global pandemic. Which is probably why state officials felt the need to remind its citizens of just that. New Jersey's Attorney General: “New Jersey’s law enforcement officers are on the front lines of this pandemic – not just protecting and serving all residents, but also balancing public health and public safety as they enforce the Governor’s executive orders. Those individuals who violate the Governor’s orders make it harder for our officers to do their jobs and they put our officers at risk. I commend law enforcement’s bravery and diligence today and every day.”
So let's go back to that fourteenth amendment again. This is not a law that was passed. This was an executive order. On the day that the Atilis Gym invited folks back in to get properly pumped, more than ten thousand New Jerseyians had died from COVID-19. The state had nearly one hundred fifty thousand confirmed cases. For some perspective on those numbers, the United States recently passed ninety thousand deaths. That means that New Jersey has just a skosh over ten percent of the death toll for the entire country.
Why would anyone not want to err on the side of caution?
Perhaps because if they choose to flaunt their "constitutional rights" by beasting up, they can get themselves on television. Fox television. Tucker Carlson. But television nonetheless. Feel free at this moment to start a clock on any and all patrons and staff of Atilis Gym and their continued health. Science has shown that acts of "civil disobedience" such as this have generated hot spots that have made everyone's jobs, and lives, more difficult.
And yes, I fully expect that if there hasn't already been an obituary printed that insists that the dearly departed gave his or her life to get totally jacked. As clearly outlined in the United States Constitution. Everyone knows that James Madison would get completely shredded about five times a week.
But not during a global pandemic.
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
A Little Short In The Clue Department
For nearly fifty years, Fred Willard was "that guy." On TV. In films. He was the guy who showed up and made you cringe. Not because he was overly loud or excessive, unless he was excessively clueless. When casting directors wanted someone like that, they didn't scream at their underlings to "get me a Fred Willard type." They did the rational thing. They screamed "get me Fred Willard."
This is to say that Fred was one of a kind.
Like so many pop culture phenomena, I was alerted to Fred Willard's presence by my mother. She let me stay up late to watch this show called Fernwood 2 Night. It was a spin-off from another late night comedy, Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. My mother and I had also tried out Mary Hartman, but it was just a little too arch for us. Martin Mull and Fred Willard as Barth Gimble and Jerry Hubbard were just the right bit of silly to take the edge off the social commentary found in Fernwood. Making Barth Gimble appear clever by comparison was Fred's job as second banana Jerry. This was not everyone's cup of tea, however, and the show only lasted a few months. A year later, Barth and Jerry got another few months, under the title America 2 Night. But it wasn't a lasting presence.
Fred was, however. He was around back in mid-sixties Chicago as part of Second City. He later moved on to become a founding member of the improv group Ace Trucking Company. All of which set him up to strike out on his own in the seventies. Maybe you missed Fernwood. You must have seen one of the Christopher Guest mockumentaries. Spinal Tap. Best In Show. A Mighty Wind. Waiting For Guffman.
Okay. So maybe mockumentaries aren't your thing. Fred also portrayed Buy 'n' Large CEO Shelby Forthright in Pixar's WALL-E.
No?
Well maybe you've watched television in the past four decades and maybe you've had a chance to take in one of hundreds of guest and recurring appearances he has made on sitcoms, variety shows and soap operas.
Yes. He was a on The Bold and the Beautiful for seven episodes. He won an Emmy for that. Okay, a Daytime Emmy, but still.
And if this whole bit feels a little like something you might hear Fred say about himself, then you've experienced some of that magic. Fred Willard didn't so much stomp on the Terra as stumble across it, much to our collective amusement. He will be missed. Aloha.
This is to say that Fred was one of a kind.
Like so many pop culture phenomena, I was alerted to Fred Willard's presence by my mother. She let me stay up late to watch this show called Fernwood 2 Night. It was a spin-off from another late night comedy, Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. My mother and I had also tried out Mary Hartman, but it was just a little too arch for us. Martin Mull and Fred Willard as Barth Gimble and Jerry Hubbard were just the right bit of silly to take the edge off the social commentary found in Fernwood. Making Barth Gimble appear clever by comparison was Fred's job as second banana Jerry. This was not everyone's cup of tea, however, and the show only lasted a few months. A year later, Barth and Jerry got another few months, under the title America 2 Night. But it wasn't a lasting presence.
Fred was, however. He was around back in mid-sixties Chicago as part of Second City. He later moved on to become a founding member of the improv group Ace Trucking Company. All of which set him up to strike out on his own in the seventies. Maybe you missed Fernwood. You must have seen one of the Christopher Guest mockumentaries. Spinal Tap. Best In Show. A Mighty Wind. Waiting For Guffman.
Okay. So maybe mockumentaries aren't your thing. Fred also portrayed Buy 'n' Large CEO Shelby Forthright in Pixar's WALL-E.
No?
Well maybe you've watched television in the past four decades and maybe you've had a chance to take in one of hundreds of guest and recurring appearances he has made on sitcoms, variety shows and soap operas.
Yes. He was a on The Bold and the Beautiful for seven episodes. He won an Emmy for that. Okay, a Daytime Emmy, but still.
And if this whole bit feels a little like something you might hear Fred say about himself, then you've experienced some of that magic. Fred Willard didn't so much stomp on the Terra as stumble across it, much to our collective amusement. He will be missed. Aloha.
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Praying To Sister Mary Elephant
With apologies to both Cheech and Chong:
"Okay. The first day on my isolation, what I did on my isolation, the first day on my vacation, I woke up. Then, I went to the living room to look for something to do. Then I hung out on the couch. The second day on my isolation, I woke up, then I went to the living room to look for something to do. Then I hung out on the couch. The third day on my isolation, I woke up..."
If you feel compelled to shriek "Shut up!" at the top of your lungs, it's understandable. The essential numbness of the daily routines around here have begun to take their toll. My wife, whose alter ego, America's Friend Polly Polkadot, began with her typically perky approach. She was going to sew a button on a denim jacket she had to mark each day we spent sheltered in place. She had also taken it upon herself to make a broad X through those days on our calendar with a bright orange pen. That pen ran out of ink. Really. And though there are still buttons left in her sewing basket, the sheer weight of the garment she was crafting was becoming ungainly and absurd. This is not a knock on my wife, or Ms. Polkadot. It has simply become more and more difficult to make things cheery.
Which helps to explain why there continues to be protests and demonstrations arguing against the essential job we have all been asked to do: Stay home. When my job became focused on Zoom meetings and working from my desk at the front of my house, I began to reconsider all those times when I pined for the chance to just sit around at my desk at the front of the house. Now I find myself moving from room to room with my laptop in hopes of finding a new venue: one that doesn't feel like the same old place.
Because I am now excruciatingly familiar with most of the nooks and crannies of the home I share with my wife. Familiar enough that I feel comfortable describing them as "nooks and crannies." I have cleaned or cleared out many of them. I have discovered items including, but not limited to, our second wok, a bag of assorted spices, and a post that was a little wobbly at the bottom of our back stairs. I have conversations with my wife that have touched on, but not limited to, the bag of postcards on top of the refrigerator, the placement and overall health of our houseplants, and that wandering wok.
And then there's the couch. Where I find myself perhaps all too often, even though I have been making a conscious effort to be anyplace else. I believe that it is the gravitational vortex of our little corner of heaven.
Did I say, "heaven?"
I'll have to get back to you on that.
"Okay. The first day on my isolation, what I did on my isolation, the first day on my vacation, I woke up. Then, I went to the living room to look for something to do. Then I hung out on the couch. The second day on my isolation, I woke up, then I went to the living room to look for something to do. Then I hung out on the couch. The third day on my isolation, I woke up..."
If you feel compelled to shriek "Shut up!" at the top of your lungs, it's understandable. The essential numbness of the daily routines around here have begun to take their toll. My wife, whose alter ego, America's Friend Polly Polkadot, began with her typically perky approach. She was going to sew a button on a denim jacket she had to mark each day we spent sheltered in place. She had also taken it upon herself to make a broad X through those days on our calendar with a bright orange pen. That pen ran out of ink. Really. And though there are still buttons left in her sewing basket, the sheer weight of the garment she was crafting was becoming ungainly and absurd. This is not a knock on my wife, or Ms. Polkadot. It has simply become more and more difficult to make things cheery.
Which helps to explain why there continues to be protests and demonstrations arguing against the essential job we have all been asked to do: Stay home. When my job became focused on Zoom meetings and working from my desk at the front of my house, I began to reconsider all those times when I pined for the chance to just sit around at my desk at the front of the house. Now I find myself moving from room to room with my laptop in hopes of finding a new venue: one that doesn't feel like the same old place.
Because I am now excruciatingly familiar with most of the nooks and crannies of the home I share with my wife. Familiar enough that I feel comfortable describing them as "nooks and crannies." I have cleaned or cleared out many of them. I have discovered items including, but not limited to, our second wok, a bag of assorted spices, and a post that was a little wobbly at the bottom of our back stairs. I have conversations with my wife that have touched on, but not limited to, the bag of postcards on top of the refrigerator, the placement and overall health of our houseplants, and that wandering wok.
And then there's the couch. Where I find myself perhaps all too often, even though I have been making a conscious effort to be anyplace else. I believe that it is the gravitational vortex of our little corner of heaven.
Did I say, "heaven?"
I'll have to get back to you on that.
Monday, May 18, 2020
Mail Merge
Playing Post Office. Please, Mister Postman. That awful movie with Kevin Costner. Maybe you don't remember or never saw it, set in the future of 2013, in a post-apocalyptic world where a man picks up a bag of mail and brings order back to dystopia. Something like that.
My grandfather was a mailman. A good friend of mine was, among the various jobs he had before becoming a science teacher, worked for the Post Office. He is also the only card-carrying communist I know.
I remember going down to the Post Office when I turned eighteen to register for the draft. Not that there was a draft at the time, but I was willing to sign myself up for a lottery that might end up with me winning the chance to serve my country. Not as a mailman. As a soldier. Interestingly enough, that same science teacher friend of mine served some time in jail for resisting the draft. He's a little older than me. Joan Baez sang in front of the courthouse during his trial. Eventually he found a way to serve his country after he was exonerated. He was a mailman, as I have noted, and he was a science teacher. A really good one.
All of this is to say that the fabric of my life seems to be interwoven with postal memories. My brothers and I used to make an excursion on any given summer day of hiking up to the mailboxes at the top of the road where our cabin sat. The locals didn't get delivery directly to their door. In those days, the mailboxes were clustered in a row where all the mail could be doled out. It was here that we would wait for our father to return home from work down in town. He was delivering the mail for us from there. We did not have a mailbox. We only vaguely had an address. It was seven tenths of a mile down the hill. On the left. When we hopped into dad's car, we all wanted to see what messages came from civilization. Was there a Time magazine? Maybe a card or letter to someone other than Resident? And every so often, there was a package.
A package of any sort was like a jolt of electricity for any boring week. My brothers and I periodically sent away for stuff from the back of comic books just so we could have that experience.
Now, not for the first time, there are rumblings about the Post Office going out of business. This kind of news hits me squarely in the place where I shiver upon hearing that they are about to do away with pennies. This can't happen. This should not happen. It is too much change for me. Or in the case of the pennies, not enough change.
I would miss the cards that come to our box. I would miss the daily check, pulling the door open to peer inside. I would miss waving from the porch to our mail person. It's a comforting ideal that I am not ready to surrender.
Not yet.
My grandfather was a mailman. A good friend of mine was, among the various jobs he had before becoming a science teacher, worked for the Post Office. He is also the only card-carrying communist I know.
I remember going down to the Post Office when I turned eighteen to register for the draft. Not that there was a draft at the time, but I was willing to sign myself up for a lottery that might end up with me winning the chance to serve my country. Not as a mailman. As a soldier. Interestingly enough, that same science teacher friend of mine served some time in jail for resisting the draft. He's a little older than me. Joan Baez sang in front of the courthouse during his trial. Eventually he found a way to serve his country after he was exonerated. He was a mailman, as I have noted, and he was a science teacher. A really good one.
All of this is to say that the fabric of my life seems to be interwoven with postal memories. My brothers and I used to make an excursion on any given summer day of hiking up to the mailboxes at the top of the road where our cabin sat. The locals didn't get delivery directly to their door. In those days, the mailboxes were clustered in a row where all the mail could be doled out. It was here that we would wait for our father to return home from work down in town. He was delivering the mail for us from there. We did not have a mailbox. We only vaguely had an address. It was seven tenths of a mile down the hill. On the left. When we hopped into dad's car, we all wanted to see what messages came from civilization. Was there a Time magazine? Maybe a card or letter to someone other than Resident? And every so often, there was a package.
A package of any sort was like a jolt of electricity for any boring week. My brothers and I periodically sent away for stuff from the back of comic books just so we could have that experience.
Now, not for the first time, there are rumblings about the Post Office going out of business. This kind of news hits me squarely in the place where I shiver upon hearing that they are about to do away with pennies. This can't happen. This should not happen. It is too much change for me. Or in the case of the pennies, not enough change.
I would miss the cards that come to our box. I would miss the daily check, pulling the door open to peer inside. I would miss waving from the porch to our mail person. It's a comforting ideal that I am not ready to surrender.
Not yet.
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Dis Traction
Good news.
Count your blessings.
This too shall pass.
And so on.
John Krazinski, perhaps better known to you as Jim from The Office, has taken to the YouTubes over the past several weeks to spread Some Good News. There are stories about people helping others, as well as semi-frequent celebrity guest stars. Brad Pitt does the weather. Steven Spielberg and Oprah Winfrey deliver commencement wisdom to the quarantined class of 2020. And a plethora of life-affirming moments that vacillate between the quiet and mundane to the celebrity cameo.
I believe this works so well because we are all starved for feeling. Feeling something other than fear and loneliness and confusion and despair. This notion of "returning to normal" is not felt by just the armed militia making sure the hairdresser in Texas can stay open. The majority of us who are sitting on our couches waiting for the all clear would like to have a taste of this elusive "normal." We can get this sensation from looking at others going about their business, whether it is talk show hosts broadcasting from their living rooms or stars coming out to raise money for PPE or food banks or long cotton swabs. Seeing familiar faces at this point is a premium since we don't tend to see one another's faces unless they are obscured by a mask.
Hugs and smiles are in ridiculously short supply. That is the state of things currently. Finding ways to bring something that feels alive into a room that has not changed for more than two months is a difficult task. That's why, on Mother's Day, I went to the trouble to inflate a number of flotation devices in our living room. A flamingo, a unicorn and a big yellow duck swallowed up the floor space for most of the day until the slow leak from our flamingo friend brought an end to the festivities. The good news there was that we didn't have to stay six feet away from our inflatable friends, and when they ran out of air, we just folded them back up and put them back in their boxes. Eventually we will have to come up with a new distraction. Something frivolous or silly to keep from slipping back into the vortex of sameness.
I am suddenly reminded of those exercises to which astronauts have been subjected in anticipation of lengthy space voyages. Could you stand being cooped up with the same two people for months at a time? Bring your best conversational gambits and a forgiving spirit and hop aboard the rocket ship to Mars. Maybe Oprah will stop by.
Count your blessings.
This too shall pass.
And so on.
John Krazinski, perhaps better known to you as Jim from The Office, has taken to the YouTubes over the past several weeks to spread Some Good News. There are stories about people helping others, as well as semi-frequent celebrity guest stars. Brad Pitt does the weather. Steven Spielberg and Oprah Winfrey deliver commencement wisdom to the quarantined class of 2020. And a plethora of life-affirming moments that vacillate between the quiet and mundane to the celebrity cameo.
I believe this works so well because we are all starved for feeling. Feeling something other than fear and loneliness and confusion and despair. This notion of "returning to normal" is not felt by just the armed militia making sure the hairdresser in Texas can stay open. The majority of us who are sitting on our couches waiting for the all clear would like to have a taste of this elusive "normal." We can get this sensation from looking at others going about their business, whether it is talk show hosts broadcasting from their living rooms or stars coming out to raise money for PPE or food banks or long cotton swabs. Seeing familiar faces at this point is a premium since we don't tend to see one another's faces unless they are obscured by a mask.
Hugs and smiles are in ridiculously short supply. That is the state of things currently. Finding ways to bring something that feels alive into a room that has not changed for more than two months is a difficult task. That's why, on Mother's Day, I went to the trouble to inflate a number of flotation devices in our living room. A flamingo, a unicorn and a big yellow duck swallowed up the floor space for most of the day until the slow leak from our flamingo friend brought an end to the festivities. The good news there was that we didn't have to stay six feet away from our inflatable friends, and when they ran out of air, we just folded them back up and put them back in their boxes. Eventually we will have to come up with a new distraction. Something frivolous or silly to keep from slipping back into the vortex of sameness.
I am suddenly reminded of those exercises to which astronauts have been subjected in anticipation of lengthy space voyages. Could you stand being cooped up with the same two people for months at a time? Bring your best conversational gambits and a forgiving spirit and hop aboard the rocket ship to Mars. Maybe Oprah will stop by.
Saturday, May 16, 2020
As The Poet Said
Robert Frost once wrote: "Nothing gold can stay." Old Bob might have been talking about a lot of things, but currently I believe he was referring to Seamus.
Seamus is our friend and his original gold has a dusting of snow these days. His pathological need to retrieve has abated, but not disappeared completely. There were days not too long ago when he would go from prone to sixty miles an hour down our front steps to get the ball we threw for him. When he stopped by a few days ago, he was still enamored of that ball, but his friskiness had abated somewhere to the point that he appeared to be an old dog.
How could Seamus have suddenly become an old dog?
The cancers.
We became familiar with the Golden Retriever susceptibility to all sorts of nasty cancers from his mom, a neighbor of ours. She used to talk wistfully of her prior dog who had gone to heaven some years back. Consequently she had enrolled Seamus in a study when she had first come to her in order to keep a watchful eye on any such unfortunate developments.
How could this vital force of nature be slowed down by anyone or anything? Seamus' favorite greeting was the full-body wag assault, leading an eventual attempt to merge his skull with yours. We were always glad to welcome him into our home, especially after a dog-shaped hole was left in our lives Aside from the occasional drop-ins when he and his mom were on their way up the street to the post office or the pastry shop, we welcomed him in for a dogsit when he couldn't go to Hawaii. Seamus reminded us of all the ways that having a big furry reminder of unconditional love made everything better. Going for a run, sitting on the couch, opening the front door. Everything was an event. Everything was new.
And now we prepare to send Seamus off on the next leg of his journey. He and his mom came by so we could say our proper farewells. His new and subdued manner let us know that the clock was sadly winding down. The thunder that he once was had grown more distant, but he was still enthusiastic enough to go after a tennis ball that rolled under our couch.
Oh, how he will be missed. Seamus ran and stomped and dug around the Terra. Like all dogs, he will go to heaven where no one ever gets tired of tossing the ball for him. And that's where the gold will stay. Aloha.
Seamus is our friend and his original gold has a dusting of snow these days. His pathological need to retrieve has abated, but not disappeared completely. There were days not too long ago when he would go from prone to sixty miles an hour down our front steps to get the ball we threw for him. When he stopped by a few days ago, he was still enamored of that ball, but his friskiness had abated somewhere to the point that he appeared to be an old dog.
How could Seamus have suddenly become an old dog?
The cancers.
We became familiar with the Golden Retriever susceptibility to all sorts of nasty cancers from his mom, a neighbor of ours. She used to talk wistfully of her prior dog who had gone to heaven some years back. Consequently she had enrolled Seamus in a study when she had first come to her in order to keep a watchful eye on any such unfortunate developments.
How could this vital force of nature be slowed down by anyone or anything? Seamus' favorite greeting was the full-body wag assault, leading an eventual attempt to merge his skull with yours. We were always glad to welcome him into our home, especially after a dog-shaped hole was left in our lives Aside from the occasional drop-ins when he and his mom were on their way up the street to the post office or the pastry shop, we welcomed him in for a dogsit when he couldn't go to Hawaii. Seamus reminded us of all the ways that having a big furry reminder of unconditional love made everything better. Going for a run, sitting on the couch, opening the front door. Everything was an event. Everything was new.
And now we prepare to send Seamus off on the next leg of his journey. He and his mom came by so we could say our proper farewells. His new and subdued manner let us know that the clock was sadly winding down. The thunder that he once was had grown more distant, but he was still enthusiastic enough to go after a tennis ball that rolled under our couch.
Oh, how he will be missed. Seamus ran and stomped and dug around the Terra. Like all dogs, he will go to heaven where no one ever gets tired of tossing the ball for him. And that's where the gold will stay. Aloha.
Friday, May 15, 2020
Across The Great Divide
Last Saturday, I was fortunate enough to have a tech from Xfinity come into my home and run a check on why my connection to Al Gore's Internet was dropping out. This connection is extremely important given all the ways I am currently involved in online communication. This blog, though it is extremely therapeutic, shows up way down the list of reasons for why I need a steady link to cyberspace. Maybe you've heard about the global pandemic and how it's forced so many people to move their business online. My business is teaching, and business is not so good.
The reason I suggested earlier that I was fortunate to have a human being come into my home is obvious if you have spent any time on hold with the cable provider known as Xfinity. Or Comcast. Or "the cable company." They will tell you, or rather a pre-recorded voice will repeat to you over and over about the safety of all concerned and how that safety is being carefully weighed with each transaction. It took me several hours to break through the phone barrier just to speak directly to a human agent to discuss my problem as it was happening. After a few very well considered attempts at doing things their way, I was at last allowed to go step by step through the challenges I was having with my connection. After exhausting the scripted restarts and resets for the umpteenth time, I was granted an appointment with someone who I was assured could fix the problem. But I was first admonished that the technician would only be able to give me limited help with my problem, given that there is this global pandemic and all.
When Saturday morning came and I was alerted that my tech had arrived, I put on my mask and met him on the stairs coming up to my front door. He wore his mask and neither of us flinched as he entered my house and went straight to the modem to try and figure out why I was having trouble staying connected. He asked a few questions, checked a few things, made a few calls, and eventually made a correction that seemed to fix the problem. I was happy that when he left, there was a strong, steady signal coming into my home.
I could continue my stated mission of supporting distance learning with the three hundred kids at my school.
Which was awesome.
However, I know for a fact that this kind of service is not available to everyone. Specifically, it is not available to those who cannot afford it. I pay a couple hundred dollars a month to have someone come out and make sure that I still have something for which I can continue to pay a couple hundred dollars each month. There are dozens upon dozens of families I teach who do not have this option. And yet, the only way we can currently offer them my services is through Al Gore's Internet.
And it occurred to me, as I watched my tech go about his business, that wi-fi should be a public utility. It should be free or nearly that for all who want or need to use it. In the twenty-first century when we can order toilet paper from distant lands via online shopping, we should be able to offer those in need a hand - or a way to get one. Not just for a generously donated month or two, but moving forward and not just for a limited time. This is now the way we transact not just the dollars and cents but the A,B,Cs and the 1,2,3s. This link to the world outside, down the street and across the globe will remain a priority well after this virus has been ameliorated. The families of the kids I teach and those who need a way to connect shouldn't have to beg, borrow and steal Al Gore's Internet. They should have someone as clever and competent as I had come into their house to get them set up. Or at the very least, they should be offered a signal to which they can latch onto in order to live in the world with everyone else.
This is one of the lessons I have learned over the past two months.
That and how to wash my hands really well.
Don't they both seem like common sense?
The reason I suggested earlier that I was fortunate to have a human being come into my home is obvious if you have spent any time on hold with the cable provider known as Xfinity. Or Comcast. Or "the cable company." They will tell you, or rather a pre-recorded voice will repeat to you over and over about the safety of all concerned and how that safety is being carefully weighed with each transaction. It took me several hours to break through the phone barrier just to speak directly to a human agent to discuss my problem as it was happening. After a few very well considered attempts at doing things their way, I was at last allowed to go step by step through the challenges I was having with my connection. After exhausting the scripted restarts and resets for the umpteenth time, I was granted an appointment with someone who I was assured could fix the problem. But I was first admonished that the technician would only be able to give me limited help with my problem, given that there is this global pandemic and all.
When Saturday morning came and I was alerted that my tech had arrived, I put on my mask and met him on the stairs coming up to my front door. He wore his mask and neither of us flinched as he entered my house and went straight to the modem to try and figure out why I was having trouble staying connected. He asked a few questions, checked a few things, made a few calls, and eventually made a correction that seemed to fix the problem. I was happy that when he left, there was a strong, steady signal coming into my home.
I could continue my stated mission of supporting distance learning with the three hundred kids at my school.
Which was awesome.
However, I know for a fact that this kind of service is not available to everyone. Specifically, it is not available to those who cannot afford it. I pay a couple hundred dollars a month to have someone come out and make sure that I still have something for which I can continue to pay a couple hundred dollars each month. There are dozens upon dozens of families I teach who do not have this option. And yet, the only way we can currently offer them my services is through Al Gore's Internet.
And it occurred to me, as I watched my tech go about his business, that wi-fi should be a public utility. It should be free or nearly that for all who want or need to use it. In the twenty-first century when we can order toilet paper from distant lands via online shopping, we should be able to offer those in need a hand - or a way to get one. Not just for a generously donated month or two, but moving forward and not just for a limited time. This is now the way we transact not just the dollars and cents but the A,B,Cs and the 1,2,3s. This link to the world outside, down the street and across the globe will remain a priority well after this virus has been ameliorated. The families of the kids I teach and those who need a way to connect shouldn't have to beg, borrow and steal Al Gore's Internet. They should have someone as clever and competent as I had come into their house to get them set up. Or at the very least, they should be offered a signal to which they can latch onto in order to live in the world with everyone else.
This is one of the lessons I have learned over the past two months.
That and how to wash my hands really well.
Don't they both seem like common sense?
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