Last night I worked my last shift, again, for who knows how long, again. On November 18^th, Multnomah County goes on a “freeze” for four weeks, possibly more. My restaurant isn’t open Mondays or Tuesdays, so last night my coworkers and I said our goodbyes and wished each other good luck.

I understand it’s inevitable.
I understand it’s for the greater good.

It doesn’t make the impact any less threatening to my livelihood or mental wellbeing.

I’m not angry at Kate Brown. Or the virus. I’m angry at the world. At our lack of cooperation. At the anger and hate that’s been spewing amidst this sickness. As if a divide and dislike of each other will ensure our immunity.

It saddens me to see this city’s walls fall to hate tags, streets strewn with garbage, seemingly more people on the streets than off them.

I was born at St. Vincent’s three decades ago. I have lived many other places but continue boomeranging back despite my family dissipating to other states. It is still my home, and I’ve always harbored romantic “grass is greener” fantasies when living in Manhattan, LA, Malibu, Santa Barbara. All of these lively, beautiful places I said goodbye to because Portland felt superior in my mind.

Then why am I riddled with thoughts of escape?

It could be the drive-by shooting I witnessed last Saturday, (casualties also including my car and neighbors apartment) that claimed the life of a homeless man living 20 feet from my front door. His tent is now a makeshift memorial, amidst the dozen others on my adjacent sidewalk.

It could be my coworker’s bike being stolen right outside her living room window.

Or the hit-and-run I witnessed yesterday morning, by an extremely angry truck driver and the victim in a Nissan Leaf. Screw you, truck driver. Pick on somebody your own size.

It could be the morbid articles my friend sends me daily, detailing the aforementioned hate put into action.

Though perhaps it’s just the reality that I’ve now lost my job for the third time this year, due to circumstances out of my control, and it feels as though I’ve time traveled to March, though a few things are different. One being the lack of federal help to individuals and small businesses. Now my boss gets to man his takeout operation with no help, 7 days a week, because he can’t afford to pay any of us to come in.
Second being, we are not on the brink of Spring, but of its evil cousin, where the days continue to shorten and rain continues to fall.

Not all of these realities are Portland’s fault, but they are all my reality living in Portland.
I know logically that other places are experiencing this with us, but I can’t turn off the fight or flight instinct in which my fight has been drained for months.

These situations together have allowed an anger to seep in to my soul, and it makes me feel likeminded to the atmosphere here. And I do not want to be likeminded.

I want my happiness back.

If you unfold these layers, Portland is still beautiful. It still smells of the crisp, fresh air I’d thankfully fill my lungs with after a flight from NYC.

The leaves continue to change, heedless of a pandemic, ignorant to political tension. Their autumn hues going through the exact same process in 2020 as they did in 2019.

The view from the top of Tabor Park, sitting on a bench overlooking all of Hawthorne, allows you to imagine a different world. The tiny cars at that distance, trundling up and down, could seem like a snapshot of any other year in the past decade.

Our residents have a pride for their state that the US would envy.

We accept tourists and transplants, are eager to share all our hiking secrets and brunch knowledge.

We are a kind people.

But we live in a world where we’re told not to socialize with others. Keep your distance, don’t travel unless necessary. No frivolous outings, take-out only, cover your face. We treat each other like a disease, which is not far off from what we’re trying to avoid, but it’s turned into more than that. We are being trained to avoid each other. They didn’t lie, it is indeed the new normal.

I now watch movies and marvel at the strangeness of all the naked faces, cringing at close contact.

It is hard to remember our love for each other when we can’t show it or see it in a passing smile. Our muted affection has allowed other unseemly emotions to surface.

My best friend asked me if I wake up with anxiety like she does. I said every day. Like something bad has happened but it slipped your mind, and you’re just left with the feeling, unable to pinpoint exactly why it’s there. I joked that if we could harness all the anxiety in the US, we’d have clean energy for a millennium. Clean and nervous.

Do me a favor in this lockdown: read a book, write a letter to your loved ones, order takeout from your favorite places, shop locally, do kind things for yourself. Allow time to breathe and reflect and remember that everyone is a person deserving of love, despite the hideousness of judgement these past few years have brought. Hate begets hate. Kindness and understanding beget compassion and respect.

Oregon is so much more than our current reality, and the sun will one day shine on our mask-less faces.