We're all in this together
Originally posted on April 19, 2020Over the past week, I’ve used my free time to read poems, finish a book about our planet dying, and watch a TV show about adults competing as a group to not have sex with each other.
I take breaks to scroll Instagram and click on ads: soft fabric, bright cookware, pretzels that are made in small batches in Boston and delivered directly to your door.
I click and click and click. “Our shipping may be delayed,” I read on temporary banners at the top of every page. Next to the words, there’s an illustration of a heart cradled by a set of hands. Inside the heart it says “COVID-19.” Under the heart it says “We’re all in this together.”
When I’m not clicking on ads, I’m searching the names of celebrities who I unfollowed but am still compelled to watch. Their pages have rebranded from luxury to relatable: sourdough, a glass of wine at 2pm, a roll of toilet paper on its last sheet. A clay mask, a messy bun, a homemade cinnamon bun, a video from TikTok. The captions are different versions of the same message: We’re all in this together.
“NO WE’RE NOT,” I think.
For example, yesterday morning I tied on my sneakers and a quick-dry face mask I bought on REI.com. I placed a second mask into my backpack along with my wallet, inhaler, a lightweight pullover, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. I ran along the Embarcadero and ended up at the Ferry Building, where I changed into the clean mask, pulled on the pullover, sanitized my hands, and picked up a box of organic produce I’d pre-ordered online. When I got home, I opened my fridge and realized that I’d stuffed it so full that I’d blocked the vent and caused it to overcool, freezing most of my food.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK,” I wailed, shaking an icy jar of capers, flexing a solid tortilla, and palming a stone cold egg.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” I flicked ice crystals from a glass container of leftover pasta, manhandled a solid Icelandic-style yogurt, and peered inside a half-eaten can of beans.
I spotted the strawberries I’d intended to eat that morning. “THIS IS THE LAST FUCKING STRAW,” I thought. “YOU CAN’T JUST FREEZE AND UNFREEZE THESE THINGS.” I sniffed back actual tears. “THEY GET … TOO … WATERY!!!!”
This is the this that I’m in. I’m spoiled, alone and sometimes lonely, sensitive, irritable, irrational. I think about food all day, alternating between worrying about running out and about having too much — will it go to waste? Or will I gobble it all up this exact second? One minute I’m crying over a bowl of frozen noodles and the next I’m pulling my shirt over my ribs to look at my stomach in the mirror.
Some people may be in this with me, but “we” aren’t. Like, imagine me renting a car and driving 70 miles south to Watsonville. I get out of the car and walk through the field where my strawberries were grown and find the person who plucked them from the ground. I stand six feet away, show them my flat stomach, show them a picture of a refrigerator, and ask which one they’d choose if they were me. “We’re all in this together,” I say. I would rather die.
I work in marketing and I’ve spent hours wringing words into sentences that “resonate” and are “authentic,” not too “salesy.” Sometimes I fail: I wrote an email in March that a customer forwarded to my boss with a reply. “THIS IS BOTH CRASS AND BAD BUSINESS,” it screamed. “I’LL REMEMBER IT.”
It wasn’t my job to reply, but I wanted to write “Dearest customer, we’re all in this together” on a rag, dunk it in gasoline, stuff it in a bottle, light it on fire, and hurtle it back — not because those words are true, but because they’re an effective way to say “HOW DARE YOU CRITICIZE ME DURING A PANDEMIC.” We can’t all be heroes.
So when I see this phrase now, I don’t read it as a statement of unity through collective suffering, I read it as an apology delivered proactively. Some of us just have crass jobs selling silly things. Could you please not be such a dick about it?