The Pain, Love, & Awakening of 2020

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t think anyone will disagree with the statement I am about to make: 2020 was a mess. Full stop. 

 But the funniest thing about it, unlike any other year I’ve been aware of, we all experienced the year in the exact same way. So, let me qualify that statement within the next few minutes as I attempt to defend our shady-ass friend 2020. 

 I bet if you asked the closest person next to you (and by next to, I mean in excess of 6 feet for no more than 15 minutes, cumulative) how they experienced 2020, they would start to talk about how the coronavirus pandemic had monumental effects on their life.

 "Wear a mask." 

— Dr. Anthony Fauci

 They would probably tell you that it damaged the economy to its lowest point since the Great Depression, or they might tell you that it forced them into a lonely quarantine in which social distancing was paramount for survival. And that’s only if they don’t tell you about “essential businesses” and “essential workers” suddenly becoming the hottest commodities in America, while “non-essential businesses” were forced to close thereby causing the job loss or substantial decrease in income for millions of Americans, but I’m sure they will.

 Another possible topic of conversation may also be the idea of panic buying, of which I certainly fell victim to the effects of multiple times at the start of the pandemic. And they’ll most definitely talk about the mission critical processes of grabbing a face mask before leaving the house, and for those at highest risk, sanitizing those groceries. 

 On a more somber note, they might even tell you that they, or someone they know survived the disease and its various effects; or even worse, they’ve lost someone, if not multiple people that they knew and loved to such a horrible disease.

 “This is America”

—Donald Glover 

 And if you happen to be talking to a person of color, more specifically a Black person, the rabbit hole gets even deeper. On top of being disproportionately affected by the pandemic and all of its side effects, the struggle for racial equity and equality came to a head in 2020. I remember it literally being the second day out of the national quarantine. Former President Trump had let everyone out just in time for Memorial Day. And no more than a day later, the world learned of the death of George Floyd.

 But here’s the thing; the circumstances of George Floyd’s death, to the Black Community, was not any different than the death of Alton Sterling, or Atatiana Jefferson, or Philando Castile, or Trayvon Martin, or Tamir Rice, or Freddie Gray, or Sandra Bland, or Eric Garner, or any of the many, many others who have lost their lives to police brutality or fell victim to the shattered race relations in America.

 It’s just that: we all saw it. As it happened. In living color, on national television. There was no discrepancy about how this man was killed. He was lying on the ground, crying and screaming for his deceased mother, pleading for his life with a knee full throttle on the back of this neck, airways constricted, because he may, or may not have had a counterfeit bill. But we’ll never know because it wasn’t inspected upon his arrest. Think about that. 

 "I can't breathe."

 — George Floyd

 I could have had that bill. You could have had that bill. Sometimes the bank will unknowingly hand out counterfeit bills and you would never know. It doesn’t happen often, and I won’t try to convince you that it does, but the chance isn’t zero.

 And that was it. 

 We all watched the life of this man being compressed out of him. There was nothing you could say to dispute that video. If you did, you had just called millions of Americans blind. I know I wear glasses, but I saw that clear as day, just like you did and I cried. 

 I called my father, and I cried. Because that could have been him. That could have been any of my uncles, or cousins, or future nephews, or future sons, or any other young man I have been blessed enough to have crossed paths with in this lifetime. And let’s be clear: Black women are not excluded from this narrative. That could have been me. That could have been my mother. That could have been my sister. And so, such is life. 

 Massive national and global protests, largely peaceful, were initiated in the honor of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor. May to September, had to be the darkest 2 quarters of the year for America. The COVID-19 cases and subsequent deaths were spiking, and my people were in deep turmoil with the country our ancestors worked so hard to build (mind you, unpaid and in more than harsh conditions, nonetheless).

 And America was finally forced to have a real conversation about what happens next. For the first time in my short 25 years of life, I saw real actions. I saw the removal of Confederate flags and monuments honoring those who reveled in the oppression of the African diaspora. I saw the removal of art pieces that glorified those who dehumanized people of color. I saw non-people of color in entertainment giving up their roles as Black faces to actual Black faces (and yes, most of it felt, and was performative, but for the most part, I get it, you have to start somewhere).

 I saw a deepening resistance to the police force and how it polices Black communities. I saw that same resistance plead for a redirect of the oft-misused monies funding those forces into places that, while have so few resources, have the promise to uplift and better communities those same forces can so easily destroy. And I saw other communities finally standing up and no longer being okay with living in complicit silence. All because they had seen the same video I saw. You saw. The video, in which a Black man, helpless, was murdered unjustly in the streets at the hands of those sworn in “to serve and to protect”.   

 “It is what it is”

—Michelle Obama

 So, to my earlier point, no, my year was no different. I also had to quarantine. I also had to work from home. I also had to give up impulse shopping. I had to make it a priority to keep sanitizing wipes on-hand, too. I worked through my first site closure, and it was the most draining thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. I saw a once thriving facility of about 300 people dwindle down to less than 30. My whole team of 10 reduced down to just me. I’ve seen friends and coworkers get laid off or have to jump ship before they did. I fussed at my TV as the NBA, and MLB, and NFL and other sport entities and entertainment sectors came back for no discernibly good reason, while small business owners, and the rest of us in lower tax brackets had to continue to face economic hardships and hope that maybe our government would help us out and return some of the tax money we so graciously provide at the end of every pay period; all while these professional athletes and actors and producers made millions of dollars, running the risk of exacerbating the already horrible spread of COVID-19 (which of course did happen), because virus be damned, I guess.

 I watched school districts and state governors be undermined by their federal leader for trying to do the right thing in the case of public safety and follow CDC guidelines for the sake … of public safety.  I had to watch a parent lose her parent in the middle of a pandemic and struggle with planning a funeral in the hopes that it not only honored her mother, but also wasn’t a super spreader event. 

 Save for being blessed enough to not have had the virus myself (or anyone else in my nuclear family (except the jury is still out on whether my father had it right as the pandemic was beginning or not, but we all think he did)), I’ve had other family members to have it and survived, and have had others to have not been so lucky. And this is by far the least important thing I will say, but I’ve also been a victim to life behind foggy lenses because masks are just not conducive for those of us who wear glasses, and it’s just a shame, honestly. 

"One day it's like a miracle, it will disappear."

—     Donald Trump, and probably the rest of us pre-pandemic in 2020 

But I’ve also been a hypocrite about all of this. For example, I don’t believe in malls being open right now; but, since they are, I mask up and hit the closest one at my leisure making sure I’m properly social distancing and washing my hands as frequently as I can. I’ve also attended, and hosted, multiple small gatherings that I just don’t believe in having right now. But I justified it because I live alone and am, at any given time no less than 500 miles away from my family. 

 Kobe Bryant and Chadwick Boseman, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Alex Trebek were among the millions we mourned in 2020. Everyone’s Twitter, Facebook and Instagram was overrun with memes of World War III, news of Trump’s first impeachment, Prince Harry and Meghan stepping down from their royal duties, and those wildfires along the West Coast and Australia. It was also a historic whirlwind election year in which millions of Americans (myself included) looked forward to the promise of restored peace and stability in our democracy. Concerts were canceled, churches were closed, curfews were set, and Zoom was the newest word to pop up in the American vernacular. We also survived the emergence of TikTok. Congratulations. 

 The point is that I lived the exact same 2020 as everyone else. I just happen to be a young Black woman while doing it. And no matter your opinions, your beliefs, or your morals, the facts are facts. Twenty-twenty was what it was, and the overarching themes of the year didn’t really vary from individual to individual.

 “Hope is not a lottery ticket; it’s a hammer for us…to break the glass, sound the alarm, and sprint into action.”

 —Barack Obama

 And it’s a tough time right now. And I don’t know when it’ll be over. But I do know that as we move forward, we can look at 2020 as a catalyst for change. Life as we knew it doesn’t exist anymore so leaving 2020 the same way in which you came would be a gross negligence of the opportunity to have grown; be it physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, financially, spiritually, or personally. 

 Unfortunately, 2021 won’t just magically make the pandemic go away, nor the threat of being Black in America any less prevalent. But that’s okay. In defense of 2020, the shared experiences by all of us is what should unite us. 

 In further defense of 2020, without it, how long would we have had to wait to see and drive actual pillars of change? Would we have re-elected the Trump administration if not for the handling of the 2020 COVID-19 crisis? Would you not have questioned your very existence and privilege in regard to racial security when just simply buying a couple things from a convenience store if not for video evidence of the murder of George Floyd? Would the extra time to be with loved ones and to further develop talents or skills or hobbies have arisen if not for quarantine? I don’t really know the answers to these questions, but if I’m being fair to 2020, I would like to think that the answers are yes, no, and no, respectively: answers that beget 3 entirely different conversations surrounding morality in politics, race, and economic freedom (or what I like to call, classism) in America.  

 So, as we move forward, we have to hold our elected officials accountable to the deliverables of which they promise, but we also have to hold ourselves accountable to sustain the growth and stimulation we experienced and received in 2020. 

So, in defense of 2020, however rough it may have been, it was the last year to say a “change is going to come,” because in defense of 2020, that intangible phrase became a manifestation.

 Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.