Matthew Gallaway

The Politics of Contempt (Week Two)

I imagined that, like one of our indoor cats, I was living in a very small world that felt very comfortable and familiar, but was contained within -- or constrained by -- a much larger world about which I knew next to nothing. This latter world, just by virtue of being unknown, was enticing -- I was curious to know more, to see it with my own eyes -- but it was also frightening. Thousands were getting sick and some significant percentage were dying. I listened to the cacophony of sirens and scrolled through the numbers on Twitter. The accompanying graphs and hockey-stick projections were alarming, a reason to double down on my (our) resolve to stay home as much as possible. But then I would read something more optimistic, something about how we might get through this crisis without too much harm (relatively speaking), and even though I recognized that the source of these hopeful projections were political leaders known for half-truths, outright lies, and corruption, the constant repetition of these statements in the news and on social media had an almost narcotic effect on me, so that I could feel myself drifting into magical thinking.  

This effect was amplified by the weather. The spring light, the new flowers, the chirping birds: all of it worked to create a kind of surreal oasis in which it was impossible to imagine our society splintering apart. 

I kept asking myself why people weren't angrier at our leadership. Some were angry, and had been for quite a while, and they (we) were still angry, despite being dismissed as overly idealistic and immature with sneering, patronizing contempt by those who knew how 'the real world' operated, even if they couldn't justify the reasons why it had to operate the way it did. But even after the virus began to spread into our backyards, even as millions lost their jobs and -- in some cases -- their lives, a majority of people were -- apparently -- still, somehow, not angry. To the contrary, I kept seeing polls showing a widespread approval of how things were being handled by the leadership of our country (and state and city). No surprise, given that I was on record as a Bernard Brother even before the crisis, I sided with those who couldn't fathom the concept of a 'relief package' like the one that was passed, which -- as I saw it -- offered a pittance to the middle/working classes and otherwise marginalized people who were suffering the most while offering a huge windfall to their corporate overlords, the same ones whose reckless pursuit of profit had done much to lead us to this disaster. So where was the anger? Or more to the point, where was the widespread, volcanic, unassuageable anger, the anger of those drowning in debt or unable to afford rent, the ones who sat in traffic for hours every day and made monthly car payments, who lived paycheck to paycheck, in fear of deductibles and trips to the doctor? What would it take to mobilize this majority, to get them angry enough to demand actual political change instead of platitudes? Did these people -- much less their anger -- even exist? In the wake of Bernie's Super Tuesday Massacre, I had my doubts, but I still wanted to believe they were out there, ready to be awakened to the possibility of different kind of life. 

Being gay, I have a certain predisposition for anger. It's easy for me to distrust the government. I won't pretend to have been an active participant in the protests that defined the first fifteen years of the AIDS crisis, but it was always on the periphery of my awareness, shaping my understanding of society. What's apparent to me is that the government of that era, out of contempt, was valuing some lives more than others, and it was this contempt that sparked the outrage of those who did whatever it took to obtain the necessary medicine and, in doing so, altered the relationship of gays and our government in ways that are still unfolding today. When people around you start dying and your government does nothing about it -- or even abets it -- you have to ask yourself whether this is the government you actually want. If the answer is 'no,' then the question becomes how to change it.  

Whether and to what degree the current crisis is analogous to AIDS is open to debate, but I think in terms of political representation of those who are getting sick, a good case can be made for the comparison. Our leaders are making a bet that the majority of coronavirus deaths (the most important metric) can be contained in a demographic -- poor, urban (primarily those who lack the means to escape to the country) -- for which these leaders already hold great antipathy. Like any true bet, however, this one has a big risk, which is that these deaths will not be limited to urban and lower-class populations, but will afflict the rich and the suburban. And if it does, those who have never witnessed the death of their own families and friends at the hands of a negligent or contemptuous government might finally become angry enough to do something about it. 

Moral questions aside, it strikes me as a very risky bet for our leaders to be making, given how little we seem to know about how far the virus can be expected to spread and exactly who will be susceptible to it. But this scenario is far from hypothetical: over the next few weeks or months, we'll know the answers to these questions. Will the more rural and suburban areas of the country -- the areas on which our leadership draws its support -- suffer in the same ways that the cities are? And will this suffering lead to the kind of institutional change -- universal medical care, environmental protection, reformulated wealth distribution, and so on -- that will help to alleviate the possibility of another crisis? 

For the sake of those individuals who might one day pay the price, I hope the answer is no, but for the sake of those who are paying right now, I hope the answer is yes. 

My Life as a Mostly Indoor Cat (Week One)

I felt nervous coming back from Florida last Sunday. While I was there, it was obvious that the vast majority of people were not paying close attention to the news, and were paying even less attention to the social-distancing directives. For me, getting home meant passing through what I could only imagine were virus strongholds in the Orlando airport and at LaGuardia. Though I had no symptoms, it was of course possible that I was already infected: I had taken a business trip the week before and, before going to Florida, had moved around the city in the usual ways: subway to work, meetings and lunch with people in the office, and so forth. I had been compulsively washing my hands and trying to keep my distance, but -- like so many others who aren't professional athletes or otherwise swimming in the needed money and connections to get tested -- I couldn't be sure. 

I was less worried about contracting (or having contracted) the virus on my own account than I was about passing it to Stephen, who for his own reasons was being extra-cautious. By the time I walked through the door, he had already sanitized everything; all I had to do was remove and wash my clothes, clean my phone and luggage, and then join the rest of world -- or at least those of us who don't work in essential jobs -- in waiting. 

In some ways, the adjustment to my schedule has not been difficult. Although Stephen and I have been keeping our distance from each other -- which we will continue to do for at least another week -- we have plenty of space to do so; we also have a garden, which is just beginning its spring bloom. As always, the hellebores are first. 

We're particularly proud of our Helleborus foetidus 'Dunham,' whose alien flowers blossom in an unusual candelabra arrangement. 

Here's a view from above. 

The days have passed in much the same way they did for me before the virus, given that I already worked from home several days a week. I wake up, exercise, eat breakfast, take the cats out to the garden, and work, which is all done via my laptop. (Thank you, technology.) Time passes. I eat lunch and work some more. Then dinner, maybe some television or some reading (for pleasure) or playing guitar, which I find relaxes me before bed. The cats are very attuned to this routine; they modify their own habits so that we come together and drift apart several times a day. 

The biggest change for me has been not running. When Stephen first mentioned the idea to me -- I was still in Florida -- it seemed a bit ridiculous; I couldn't imagine how I would contract the virus on a run, at least the kind of running I tend to do, which is relatively fast and solitary, usually in the early morning along the river. The vast majority of news reports downplayed the risk, so long as you continued to show no symptoms. But once I got back and began to assess the situation, it didn't seem like such a big sacrifice to give up a daily run. There are plenty of workout programs available online for free. I've been doing them. I miss running -- there's nothing like it, especially as we move into the spring season -- but it feels good to concentrate on other muscles, to teach my body to move in different ways, to be flexible, to adapt. 

I've now spent eight days in the house without going any farther than the sidewalk (once, to put out the trash). I'm reasonably confident that I don't have the virus, but there's always some continuing uncertainty. If I cough, is it just a cough -- my spring allergies are definitely kicking in -- or the beginning of something far worse? 

If the news is to be believed, it's possible that I'm infected but that the symptoms haven't appeared. It's also possible that when I finally leave the house -- eventually I'll need to go somewhere -- I'll be infected, notwithstanding every reasonable (or unreasonable) precaution I might take. 

This sense of uncertainty is not unfamiliar to me. If anything, it defined years and possibly decades of my -- young, gay, closeted -- youth. I remember being petrified after my first gay kiss, being certain that I was going to die, even though I knew I was being illogical. And after I did more than kiss, the fear never went away; I'm sure most gay men -- particularly of a certain age -- know exactly what I'm talking about, and I'm also sure that a lot of people who are not gay men are being introduced to this kind of uncertainty -- this question of 'have I been infected by a deadly virus' -- which, if you let it, can become completely consuming to an extent that it overshadows whatever pleasures life has to offer, even or especially the small ones. 

Let's hope that, at some point in the near future, this virus won't have to be so consuming; that we'll be able to go to a doctor or a clinic and find out in a few minutes whether we have the virus and, if so, get some medicine to treat it. (And not have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to do so.) 

But until that time comes, I know from my own experience that it helps to focus on other things. For me, it's the new leaves of our Japanese maple. 

And the red flowers of our cold-hardy camellia, which this year has multiple blossoms for the first time. 

And the daffodils, cheerful and curious, a perfect flower for early spring. 

And my gratitude that, for this period of time, that I am in a position to say that this day -- whatever day it is -- can be expected to look exactly like tomorrow.

Vero 2020

Last week, I went to Florida. I flew out of New York City (LGA) to Orlando on Tuesday and came back Sunday. I had planned the trip almost a year ago, with the expectation of spending a few days with my parents, something I've done for many years. 

My parents live in Pittsburgh but have a condominium in Vero Beach, where they spend winters. When they first announced their plan to go to Florida, I was skeptical: it seemed like they were somehow giving up on life, resigning themselves to aging and the inevitable decline that comes with it. Did they not have any dreams beyond sitting on a beach? I was also skeptical about Florida, which I viewed as an unfolding environmental disaster populated by a mix of leather-skinned seniors and vacuous spring breakers. Twenty years later, and more comfortable with the idea of resigning myself to aging -- especially if it involves access to a beach -- I've come to appreciate Florida. I like the people I've met. I like the big, Florida sky and its verdant landscape, the golden light that turns everything and everyone into silhouettes at twilight. (I know this happens everywhere, but somehow it's more magical in Florida: don't ask me why, it just is.) 

This year I went with three of my brothers. Two of them flew to Orlando around the same time as me -- we rented a car -- while a third drove from Tennessee. When we planned the trip, almost a year ago, we didn't expect to be on the precipice of a pandemic, but that's of course where we found ourselves. I'm not sure if you remember last Tuesday -- just ten days ago -- but the landscape was very different then than it is today (and, no doubt, will be tomorrow). The wave of cancellations and closures was just beginning; there were only a handful of deaths in the United States, far fewer, for example, than the casualties of a typical flu season or even the ~100,000 people who die every month around the world in car crashes.* 'Social distancing' mostly meant avoiding handshakes in favor of elbow bumps and half-heartedly trying to avoid touching your face. (How?) But for those of us inclined to scroll through Twitter in the middle of the night, there was cause for alarm. Italy was getting serious; they were supposedly digging mass graves in Iran. In the days leading up to our departure, my brothers and I began to debate if and how we should modify our plans. One of us was nervous about flying at all, another suggested we not attend a concert my mother had already purchased tickets for, another questioned whether the media was exaggerating the potential impact of the virus. I'm sure these are the kind of conversations that were happening everywhere: there was so much information -- much of it contradictory -- that it seemed equally rational to act as if nothing bad were happening, or, on the other hand, to go into complete isolation. (I tended toward the latter extreme.) On Monday, we agreed to go ahead with the trip, mostly on account of our parents. It still seemed reasonable to fly and to socialize in small groups, although we agreed that we wouldn't bring them (or attend) any large events. 

*Google it. 

But on Tuesday afternoon, as my brothers and I gathered at the baggage claim at the Orlando airport, our attitude had already shifted. The purpose of the trip, we agreed, had now changed from vacation to evacuation, or perhaps vacation + evacuation: we needed to convince our parents, who were not slated to leave Florida until early April, to leave now, or soon; maybe not in the next day, but definitely by Sunday, when we were scheduled to go.   

Having made at least the rough draft of an evacuation plan, there seemed to be little to do but go forward with the vacation part. We picked up the rental car and drove east. On the drive, we mostly discussed politics: as a Bernie supporter, I was still dismayed by the Super Tuesday results and the party and media machinations that -- in my view -- had led to it. I couldn't believe that the party was coalescing around someone I found as uninspiring and incoherent as Joe Biden, whose record was marked with unforgivable transgressions (Anita Hill, bankruptcy, social-security, the Iraq War) and in no way promised the kind of structural change I believed (and believe) necessary to address the systemic inequality and environmental degradation we've experienced in the post-war era. My brothers, though sympathetic to my arguments, felt that Biden, despite his record, was more 'electable' and could at least begin the process of getting our country back on course, even if the changes were only incremental. As siblings are often required to do to remain on speaking terms, we agreed to disagree. 

After picking up my mother and father, we went to our rental house, which was right across the road from the beach. Booking early had clearly paid off, I thought, building a flimsy wall between my immediate surroundings and the lurking fears that roamed beyond. 

The house was old and charming, filled with vintage knick-knacks, some of which cut against the grain of the stereotypical (beefy, male, lunkhead) lifeguard. I wondered who had inspired this artwork and where she was now. (Was she washing her hands?)

We went to dinner with my parents, who -- after listening to our unanimously voiced reasons for doing so -- pretty quickly agreed to fly home early. My mother's biggest concern was that we spend the rest of the week in Florida; she didn't want the vacation to be ruined. She was close to ninety; she didn't have many vacations left. It was hard to argue with her, at least emotionally. We agreed to stay through Sunday, although I continued to have my doubts. The NBA had just canceled its season and the NHL was rumored to be next. Would it be possible to relax? 

It turned out that it was possible, or half-possible. The next few days passed in a slow-moving blur of unremarkable family gatherings (meals, games, beach) punctuated by frantic planning and anxiety. We bought new plane tickets for my parents and made other arrangements -- shutting down the cable and phone -- that seemed ominous and frightening. Then we went to the beach and rode the waves, just like we had always done. The surf was rough, but it felt good to be pummeled by the water. 

Each morning I went running, either along the sidewalk of Route A1A or through the streets of old Vero, which are lined with live oaks. The houses -- not pictured -- are understated and tasteful; they represent old money. They are built on one level to withstand hurricanes. The only people I saw were the landscapers. 

I veered onto a golf course and -- realizing my mistake -- quickly veered off. 

Would a virus be able to find a home in such a neighborhood? From what I could tell, it seemed like a lot of people were banking on the answer being no. 

On the early-morning beach, where I went after my run, there seemed to be little evidence of social distancing. 

There was even less evidence on the afternoon beach, where clumps of teens played volleyball and chased each other into the water. We huddled in a circle closer to the dunes, where one of my mother's acquaintances passed by and, after saying hello, scoffed at the idea of a global pandemic. 'She's a Fox News-er,' said my mother, who then confessed to having her own doubts about the virus while at the same time recognizing that her doubts were not politically motivated but were formed out of a very conscious desire not to have these perfect-weather days come to an end. 

I was anxious to get back to New York City -- to Stephen and the cats -- but I knew what she meant. Everything becomes more valuable when you realize that you're leaving it behind. Which of course is a constant of life, except that we train ourselves not to think about it except in unusual circumstances. 

After leaving the beach, I stopped to rinse off my feet and put my towel on one of the nearby park benches, each of which featured a memorial to someone who had lived here. I felt like I could be friends with Ronald Smith, unless he was also a Fox News-er. 

Would I have noticed these dedications at a different time? Would I have made fun of them? Possibly, or possibly not. Something that might seem pointless and trite now resonated with unspoken truth. It was no different than the Hallmark photos of the beach and the seagulls I was obsessed with capturing (and then deleting). A quick glance at Twitter confirmed that the news was getting worse. They had just closed Disney World in Orlando. Would the airport be next? Or if not, would it be mobbed with tourists trying to get home? Would they close state borders?  

I tried to push the uncertainty aside. I admired the small plant and the colonizing moss. 

I felt grateful to believe in nature, which always wins in the end.  

March Light

On Sunday, Clio and I went for a walk in the garden, which thanks to the unusually warm weather is about three weeks early.

Clio basked in the sun while I dreaded many things, including a flight to Indianapolis scheduled the next day. 

The flight was uneventful except that my glasses fell out of the seat pocket during takeoff and I spent the next two hours anxiously looking for and failing to find them. You can picture me crawling up and down the aisle using my phone as a flashlight. The flight attendant told me we could 'scour the plane' after everyone else had exited (sigh), which was not an enticing prospect on the verge of a global pandemic. But after we landed, a woman three rows back found them, and I felt happy to have them as I drove through the bracingly flat Indiana landscape. Living in New York, it's easy to forget that much of the country is flat and severe (yet still beautiful). 

On first glance, the city seemed very generic, defined by highways and a cluster of skyscrapers. Rather than fixate on the eradication of what was apparently once a vibrant downtown African-American neighborhood, I admired the clean, wide busway and thought about a recent tweet (from a satirical account: the New York City mayor but good) announcing the creation of several new bus lanes to build on the success of 14th Street.

Imagine Broadway closed to cars — or at least private vehicle store — so that buses (and bikes) could fly up and down the island. It feels like a pipe dream, but why? It would clearly benefit more people than not. Why is it so difficult to get anything done in our country that doesn't involve weapons or punishing the poor? Incremental change is more frustrating than no change at all during a time when -- for any number of reasons -- more radical change is needed. 

On the morning of Super Tuesday, I ran along the canal and thought about the primary elections unfolding all over the country. I had high hopes for Bernie a week earlier during the five seconds he was begrudgingly acknowledged as the front runner. ‘Anyone but Biden,’ I had thought countless times over the past eight months and then South Carolina happened. Now here we were, stuck with Biden, the most uninspiring candidate since John Kerry.

What could I do? The sunrise was beautiful in Indiana.

Back home, Zephyr enjoyed the March light.

And Elektra made plans for a future she wanted to see. 

 

The Week in Extremely Local News

SUNDAY

In the effort to expand my horizons, I ran across the GWB into New Jersey. The bridge and snake pit of highways getting on and off is a chore, but the park that surrounds the Palisades is beautiful and big, with miles of car-free roads and trails.

Here's a trail heading north on the cliffs overlooking the Hudson. As usual, I was fixated on the moss. 

MONDAY

On Monday I returned to more familiar -- and more beautiful, but much smaller -- territory in the form of Fort Tryon Park, where the heather was glowing in the late February sun. 

TUESDAY

On Tuesday, the orchid was in bloom. It wasn't the day it bloomed, but it was one of the many days when I stopped to admire it. I can never get enough of this color, which is closer to tangerine in reality but photographs a deeper red. 

WEDNESDAY

On Wednesday, the roses captured the weak afternoon light, which is reflected from the windows in the apartment building across the street. Sometimes we buy flowers and they don't last or don't open; these roses opened and lasted. 

THURSDAY

The garden, including this flowering Hellebores foetidus -- which we're very proud of, owing to its notoriously fickle temperament -- is coming to life very early this year.  

The winter aconites are also very early (and very cute). 

FRIDAY

On Friday, Zephyr and I pondered many things. Zephyr was relieved to be removed from so much that was happening; I -- being closer to these things -- was less sure how I felt. 

On Friday afternoon, on the way home from work, I picked up my guitar from the technician, who somewhat miraculously lives less than a mile away from me, in Harlem. (The miracle is that I was able to walk home.) My guitar, an old Martin from 1930, is comically small but has a lovely, warm tone. When I bought it -- in 1990 -- 1930 seemed like a very long time ago, but now, 1990 seems pretty far away, too. Whatever the case, I had forgotten how time stops while playing an instrument, even if your audience is a trio of reluctant cats. 

SATURDAY

On Saturday, Clio and Zephyr said goodbye to February and looked forward to the March sun.