A Silver Urn
I grabbed orange-colored poster board from the art section at Walgreens, then joined my wife in the check-out line. I made sure to stay six feet apart from the person in front of us, even though I'm double-masked. I felt the customer behind standing too close and turned around to see she was not wearing a mask.
"Why are you not wearing a mask?" I snapped at the fifty-year-old, white woman. "It's illegal to not have one."
"I forgot to bring one," she said with a smile. The three people behind her were socially distancing and wearing masks, as was the Walgreens clerk ringing people up behind a plexiglass panel. I looked at the woman behind me again and felt my insides bust open with rage. It was as though a grenade had exploded.
"Wait for me outside," my wife interrupted. I threw the poster board down hard in front of the maskless woman and stormed out to the car. I am not typically a violent person. I am embarrassed to say that I am a licensed psychologist; my job is to understand human behavior. Truth be told, I didn't care why she didn't think the rules applied to her. My unshakeable sense of justice wanted to make her comply or shame her.
Via Telehealth, COVID has invited me inside my bereaved clients' homes. What I thought would be a barrier to connection, particularly with my Spanish-speaking clients, has instead accelerated vulnerability. I see pictures of their families behind them on the couch or hanging on the wall alongside the miniature ceramic houses with terracotta clay roofs and wooden balconies that hang in so many Latino homes. That morning, before I left for the pharmacy, I saw a client who had recently lost his wife to COVID. He shared with me how every spring, his wife filled the front porch with potted hydrangeas. He stopped in mid-speech.
"Do you want to see her?" Miguel said, a seventy-two-year-old widow. Before I could respond, he jumped out of his seat, walked back towards his kitchen, then reappeared in front of the camera holding a silver urn. I saw his hands shake as he lifted it for me to see.
"Bella," I said. He brought the urn down to his chest and held it tight, weeping. A year later, COVID is still killing people. The news covers vaccine distribution and business openings more than the ongoing march of death that continues through some communities more than others.
"You can't be talking to people like that," my wife said as she entered the car with a plastic bag full of toiletries and my poster board. "Next time, just wait for me outside." This was not the first time I'd lost my cool on people for not wearing masks.
"I just don't get it," I said. In graduate school, I was trained to find compassion for all. Some days were better than others.
In my next session with Miguel, he introduced me to his son, who was helping him pay his bills online.
"He has your smile, Miguel," I said after his son left the room. Over time I've gotten to meet several of Miguel's family members who drop off flowers or pastelitos de guayaba. Sometimes they sit with him to look over pictures he wants to show at her memorial service in summer when the ground is warm. It does not seem accidental that their visits coincide with his online therapy sessions.
"She's everywhere inside this house," he said. "I dreamed last night that she was sleeping next to me." He cries, like the many other times he talks about Claudia. Before the end of our session, I remind him to wear his mask and sign up for the vaccine. He waves me away.
"Estoy muy viejo para esas boberías," he says. I try to convince him otherwise. He has plenty of life to live still. But honestly, I don't know how I would feel if I were in his shoes. When I work with clients like Miguel, I am aware of the extra burden he carries, the emotional and psychic toll of being a dark-skinned Spanish-speaking immigrant in this country. As a psychologist, how do I help my clients feel safe when I see the world as unsafe?
The other day, my wife and I were walking together on the sidewalk, masks on, when a white couple ambled our way. The man wore no mask. We scooted to the side to allow them to pass. The man barrelled down the middle of the side walk and almost ran over my wife. It was as if he was daring us to react. My body shook with anger, and I wanted to chase him down and spew ugly words about his privilege. But my wife stood in my way. "He's not worth it.”
COVID has stretched me thin as a professional. It’s forced me to dig deeper inside myself to find unconditional acceptance. This pandemic has highlighted the best and worst of who I am, simultaneously making me more compassionate and more inflexible, and angry. I have found that, as a therapist, I have my limitations. I need to find my equilibrium in a world that is not currently balanced. Some days are better than others.
-Sara Orozco
Sara Orozco is a first-generation, middle-aged, queer Latina writer and a three-time Boston Moth StorySLAM winner. Her published essays have appeared in The Delmarva Review, Oxford Magazine, and Bay Windows. Sara is a licensed psychologist with over 25 years of experience working in the nonprofit sector. Raised in a Spanish-speaking household in Miami by Cuban-born parents, Sara has experienced firsthand the joys and challenges of getting ahead as an individual in a world that favors labels. She lives in Boston with her wife, dog, and twin sons when they are home from college.