Tuesday

I live next to squatters. They aren’t the worst neighbors, legal or not. Generally keeping to themselves, the most I can say in criticism is that they’re sometimes too loud when I’m trying to sleep. It would be absurd to consider them bad people on the basis of their housing situation, but I can’t help but wonder about the circumstances that led them there. I wish they had a place to call their own. I begin to ruminate about the material conditions of the people in this area. I stay up too late, partly out of stubbornness, and vow to do better with my time management. I resign myself to my bed as I have work in the morning.

I do not sleep well.

Sunlight comes and alarms blare. I hit the snooze button even though I promised myself I would stop this bad habit. I know that the sleep that I will get by getting back in the bed will be negligible, but the prospect of not having to face the day just yet is too strong a siren’s call. I fall back into bed and get as close to Ashe, my partner, as I can. I stay here, in the silence, the bliss, for as long as possible. My alarm calls once again, demanding I begin my morning routine. I concede, rising to make the most of another day in this writhing mass of misery we call a society.

I put on my work outfit, a suit. I don’t like the way I look today but I can’t figure out why. My partner says I look great. I attempt to strike a balance between accepting the compliment and believing they’re lying. 60-40 acceptance. I am spared body image issues for the day it seems. More to the point, I am grateful for being able to wear the suit, if only to seem more put together. I still haven’t let go of my thinking from last night. My partner is ready to go. I look at them and smile, doing my best to mask the worry I feel every time we eventually part ways in our travels. They smile back at me, and I see them attempting to do the same thing.

Neither of us comment on this.

I exit my home. The streets are strewn with garbage. Trash day is not for a few days, so the best we can do is pretend not to notice it. A gentle breeze, welcomed relief from the oppressive humidity, kicks up loose pieces of garbage, testing my ability to ignore reality. I succeed by checking myself over and straightening my tie. We begin to walk towards the subway, and I must pass the squatter house. It is an awful unfinished husk of a building. When it is windy a piece of the roof strikes its side as some sort of terrible poverty bell. I avert my gaze and begin to walk at an almost hurried pace.

North Philadelphia stands as a testament to the city and this country’s failure to take care of its citizens, to say nothing of citizens failing to take care of each other. I see the ruins of progress. The cross street to my own serves as a major thoroughfare from where there used to be plenty of businesses. Now, the area consists of mostly dilapidated structures and the people who do their best to live here. Thankfully, I don’t have to walk past the buildings to get to the subway stop. The trade-off to this however is more trash and other indicators of poverty. It doesn’t matter where I look. The greenery of the grass and trees is tainted by snack wrappers and other junk. The sidewalks are cracked and uneven, making us conscious of every step. Looking at the asphalt, I’m grateful I’m not driving, as at least I can avoid the myriad potholes in the city.

I try not to look at the people sleeping in the alleyways on mattresses.

I have kept my thoughts to myself up until this point, but it is the gentrification that sets me off. A new testament to luxury has replaced some of the architecture around here. Sleek new buildings of muted colors stripped of all personality remind me that many areas in the city are changing. I think back to the conversations I’ve had with my parents and their surprise at the hounding they’re receiving from developers asking them to sell their house. I know they aren’t the only ones. Snapshots of abandoned factories, warehouses, and homes flash in my mind from my travels around the city. Potential housing, foodbanks, clinics, and community centers reside in limbo as nothing more than pipe dreams. I also know that, more likely than not, people like my parents wouldn’t be able to afford to live in the house they’ve had for years after the developers were done with it. But of course, that doesn’t matter. I say as much to Ashe, expressing my disgust at the whole situation and the unfairness of it all. They listen, like they always do, to my frustrations, dreams, sadness. They give me the space to feel all of my indignation. In the middle of yet another rant I become embarrassed at myself, catching the rising of my voice and the venom coating it. I sigh before falling into silence, making my way down into the subway station to begin the next leg of my journey.

More trash. I do my best to find a bench that isn’t surrounded by it. We find one and sit, having idle conversation as we wait for the train. It’s not long before it arrives and we’re on our way. I people watch during the pauses in our talking. I can’t tell if it's just me, but many of the eyes on the masked faces I see seem...preoccupied. I wonder what the spread is between those just trying to get on with their day and those who are doing their best to keep it together. Thankfully, I find myself in the former camp today. Having just come out of a depressive episode there is a bit of a spring in my step, an eagerness to move forward with my life in some way. I hope I make more progress before the next episode. They seem to be coming more frequently lately. I know I’ll manage though.

That’s about all I seem to be able to do lately.

We reach our stop, City Hall. Getting off the train, Ashe and I share a fleeting kiss before we go about our day. I wish for their safe return to our home, a prayer to no deity. The homeless scattered here are impossible to ignore. There is something surreal watching them create makeshift living spaces in the heart of Philadelphia’s judicial, economic, and legislative centers. Take your pick of tourist attractions in the area (Love Park, Reading Terminal Market, etc.) and I guarantee you will find either the homeless, the mentally ill, or some combination of the two. I think back to visiting those places and seeing those who we collectively ignore while taking pictures for our social media profiles. I do my best to do the same as I make it to work.

I fall into my routine, doing my job efficiently with a smile on my face, even if the mask hides it. My code switching is impeccable, such that the only two things that a bigot could say was “too black” about me was my skin color and my locs. Nevertheless, I know how lucky I am to have this job. I have a wonderful relationship with my colleagues and interesting legal problems to research. Time goes by quickly, and it is not long before I am on my way back home. Back in the City Hall subway station I walk by someone wearing a black shirt with white bold letters that says, “FUCK YOUR VACCINE”.

I try to resist, but the exhaustion hits me like a truck.

I get home, throw my clothes into a pile on the chair in my room, and I lay in my bed while staring at the ceiling. The most devastating thing about this lethargy is that it seems to happen almost daily. It is relentless. I am never sure what the tipping point is going to be but I know how it’s going to play out. I cycle through the things I’ve seen throughout the day and the exhaustion turns to anger at the way everything has played out since March 2020.

The United States of America has unequivocally failed in its pandemic response. When the vaccine wasn’t available, our government was pushing conspiracy theories about its origins and the effectiveness of treatments. Now that the vaccine is available, there are those among us who choose to not get the vaccine without having a proper medical reason to do so and expect to be catered to because of their selfishness. Further still, the refusal to adhere to other mitigation measures (masks and social distancing) are seen as infringements on “personal liberty”. As such the pandemic continues, primarily ripping through the unvaccinated.

I count my own family amongst this number.

My father calls, a somber tone accompanying his voice. Another family member has died from Covid and another has one foot in the grave as their organs are failing. He sounds defeated, and if I’m honest I’m sure I do too. That will make four people since the pandemic started. The first two were taken by the virus when there wasn’t a vaccine available, yet these last two actively chose not to get the vaccine.

I am numb, an unfeeling being locked in a hell not of my own making. How to process this? Sadness? If only for the fallout of having to pick up the pieces of people’s selfishness. Anger? That goes without saying. This clash leaves me in a state of trying to process the news for the rest of the evening. The number of cases is going up again. If there is any light at the end of the tunnel we haven’t found it yet. I wonder how much worse it’s going to get. I don’t know if it will be a good thing if I ever stop being surprised at how low the country can go because, of course, it’s not just about the pandemic. The collective, society, has failed its people on multiple levels, and continues to do so everyday. But I’ve already stayed up too late and I need to get in the bed as another work day is approaching. As I fall asleep there is one final thought that carries me until I am taken under:

It’s only Tuesday.