On the Coronavirus, Kindness, and Friendship

I suspect the coronavirus—the pandemic—is top of mind for all of us.

“Breaking News” flashes across my television and my phone with a regularity that only contributes to my anxiety. And, yes, I am anxious as I look at the impact in other countries and recognize the dearth of preparation in the United States to address this dire situation.

My email is full of messages from sources as diverse as my DC Council representative, Walmart, TDBank, and the Kennedy Center. Everyone is reminding me of what to do to keep myself and others safe during this national/international emergency. The number one recommendation—social distancing—has become a common term. Stay at home, away from crowds, is the preferred practice.

Before we isolate ourselves, we must get ready, an action that often involves being in crowded situations. I noticed something last week as I negotiated grocery store aisles packed with shoppers (no real distancing then!). People were friendlier, Christmas friendly. It wasn’t exactly a festive air, but there was a kindness that seemed to permeate every grocery store or pharmacy I visited. There was a chattiness, helpfulness, a genuine “we’re all in this together” sense of community. I like that. It feels good.

And I’ve realized something else. I’m not concerned about the prospect of being in my home for two weeks, a month or longer. Well, I am an introvert, but it’s more than that. I have food, television, music, books and I have my friends. No, these aren’t imaginary friends. I haven’t gone off the deep end yet. I have friends with whom I am connected via social media.

internet-3113279_1920Experts talk a lot about how we have already self-isolated because we focus more on social media than pure social interaction, direct one-to-one contact with people. I believe that some, particularly young folks, may go overboard with their level of attention to Snapchat, Instagram, or whatever platform draws them in. But I see the benefits/the positives. Facebook and Instagram are my preferred sites. Posts from my friends offer glimpses into their worlds. It’s not the same connection as sitting for hours over a glass of wine in a favorite restaurant. Still, the back-and-forth on Facebook and introducing new views and experiences into the “conversation” offers a one-on-one connection.

As a person in the high-risk category for coronavirus, I am mindful of what will keep me safe. I won’t attend anything where there are crowds. My exposure will be limited to the grocery store, and I hope there won’t be much of a need for that. I will take walks, read, watch movies, Facebook with friends, and settle into a quieter life. The seriousness of this situation must stay somewhat in the background — just for now; so I can stay centered and calm.  But, please know …  I am concerned about hourly wage workers – many of whom are black and brown — who are being negatively affected by the canceling of sporting and major entertainment events and the closing, or significant shortening of hours, of restaurants and other venues. I am concerned about the health status of Lyft and Uber drivers. And worried about school children, so many of whom have their healthiest (and perhaps only) meals at school and who may not have the technology at home to enable their access to online education. I am extremely concerned about the declaration of a national emergency that places somewhat uncontrollable power into the hands of the president. That concerns me a lot.

The coronavirus is our shared enemy, and people come together when there is a shared enemy. I will rely on my friends to keep me centered, sane, and in community with them. I will depend on the rationality and public policy expertise of elected officials (and their staffs) to address our national response to this disease in a manner that is science-based and human-centered. I will rely on the kindness of strangers—tall ones—to get that last box of penne pasta I can see on the top shelf but can’t reach. And I will cheer on folks like the multiple NBA players and the team owners who have said they will pay for arena workers’ salaries while the stadiums are closed. And I applaud the members of philanthropy—my former professional community—who are asking what philanthropy can do as they adjust restrictions on grants and thoughtfully consider how to best support their grantees and the people they serve.

I know that examples of greed and insensitivity have popped up during this emergency. I suspect more will come, but I hope that kindness, friendship, and understanding will predominate. I hope that as serious and deadly as this pandemic is… in the aftermath and as we go through it, we all learn something and realize we—all people—are part of the greater whole. Show compassion and treat each other well.

 

Can New Friendships Grow 50 Years Later?

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.” Nelson Mandela

I have a lot of friends. Some are closer than others. I think I understand what it takes to build and maintain a friendship: shared experiences over time, mutual respect, similar values.

Earlier this fall, I attended a milestone high school reunion. My fiftieth. John Marshall High School, Richmond, Virginia, Class of 1969. I suspect that for many, a 50th reunion is a long-awaited event to renew acquaintances and recapture friendships. It seemed to me that a lower percentage of black than white graduates attended. I wonder if fond memories of high school were not shared equally by both groups.

The ‘60s were a time of great racial change in Richmond and across the country. My high school started the decade as a primarily white institution and finished as a mostly black one. White flight was real. The John Marshall class of 1969 was probably the last one with a white majority. Our class felt the impact of the changing demographics. The black and the white students were classmates, associates in school clubs, or teammates playing a sport, but, mostly, we were not friends. At least not friends as I consider them. We didn’t go to social events together or hang out at each other’s homes. Our interactions were casual conversations in the halls of the school or at school sporting events.

For my friendship group, the 50th reunion felt more like an inevitable event, not a much-anticipated occasion. We had attended the 40th where everyone, including me, mostly stayed in our old high school cliques, with only nominal mingling. As an inveterate traveler, it is noteworthy I even passed up a trip to Greece with another group of friends so I could attend this 50th reunion. I guess it may have been more important to me than I wanted to admit.

I entered the first event of the reunion weekend with a bit of trepidation. “Cautiously curious” would best describe my emotions at the Friday evening, Meet-and-Greet. There was a much different feeling from the 40th. It was welcoming, inclusive, people seemed genuinely happy to see each other. Racially mixed groups—genuine laughter and what-seemed-to-be real conversations—was what I saw and experienced. That feeling of camaraderie continued at the weekend’s culminating event, the dinner dance on Saturday night.

What had happened between 2009, our 40th reunion, and 2019?

A significant conversation about race had started in the United States. Did that play a role? Did we understand the dynamics of race in a way that we never had before, and did that understanding make basic conversation easier?

Over the decade between the 40th and 50th reunion, cell phone videos had captured startling displays of injustice that could not be ignored. Newspaper articles, magazines, television documentaries were layering messages about racial inequity throughout the popular media. And great attention to the topic surrounded the presidency of our country’s first African American president. Awareness of race and the disparity between races had probably become more prevalent in America during this decade than since the civil rights movement, the time when our connections as classmates were forming. Maybe these discussions and events were a factor in making the encounters across race more genuine. I wonder if the heightened understanding made it easier to walk up to people of a different race and start conversations. We did, after all, have a shared framework—the halls of John Marshall—if not a wholly shared experience. Maybe it was that recognition of only recently revealed, parallel universes that opened some conversations.

When speaking at the dinner, Carolyn Mosby, one of the few African American faculty at John Marshall, said to the group, “tonight we will throw back any regrets, any dislikes, any old grudges.” In those words, she acknowledged that many of the black students had felt prejudice, discrimination, aloofness, racism during our time at John Marshall High School, and acknowledged that some white students, consciously or unconsciously, through words or actions, may have hurt their black fellow students. That was real, but she wanted us to move on. Ever the teacher, she was helping us bridge any racial chasms that had existed and to recognize the passage of time.

Regardless of race, we had all been young with the callousness and insensitivity of teenagers. AND, we were the front guard. The mid-to-late ‘60s were still the early days of integration. When we were in high school, there was not even the semblance of a road map for understanding racial differences and promoting honest dialog across races. There were no experienced guides. We plotted that territory. Mrs. Mosby reminded us to cut each other some slack. We were all very different now than we had been fifty years earlier.

That is an important reminder. We must give each other room to grow, to change beliefs, and to adapt to new understandings of historical “facts” and current reality. Who we were does not reflect who we have become.

I don’t have white friends from high school, at least not yet. In the last few years, I have crossed paths with a growing number and enjoyed those connections. We are friendly, but not yet friends. But who knows, by the next reunion, some budding relationships may evolve into real friendships.

 

Daughters of the Dream: The Book!

Last September, I launched my Daughters of the Dream blog to share stories about growing up amid segregation, integration, civil rights and the ongoing push for racial justice. Now, I have captured those stories, and so much more, in a book by the same name. If the blog speaks to your heart, your mind, or your soul, I hope you will order my new book.

If you are a fan of Amazon, go to: https://www.amazon.com/Tamara-Lucas-Copeland/e/B07DLY2L2T/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0.

cover photo

If Barnes and Noble is more your choice, here’s the link: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/daughters-of-the-dream-tamara-lucas-copeland/1128850552?ean=9781937592813.

And, one other option—Books A Million has the book at http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Daughters-Dream/Tamara-Lucas-Copeland/9781937592813?id=7284467936313.

For all the options, the book can be pre-ordered before its release on June 18.

Through vignettes of the life experiences of eight friends from Richmond, Virginia, the book presents one person’s perspective of what it truly is like to be black in America. Let me know if it makes you think differently, opens your eyes to another reality, or if it simply reminds you of meaningful life experiences.

Forever Friends

One day I got a call from a longtime friend. Madeline, a civilian employee of the US Department of the Army, was seeking a high-level security clearance and had noted me as a reference.

“The form asked how long I had known the person listed as a reference. When I wrote 50+ years, I startled myself,” she told me in her typical dryly humorous way.

We chuckled. How could that be?

It seemed like just yesterday we attended high school homecoming games cracking up at halftime as alumni from various years would be invited onto the football field: 20 years, 30 years, 50 years, even 75. We would laugh out loud and comment in that sarcastic, all-knowing-teenager way, “50 years! Can they still walk?”

Now it is our turn; almost 50 years since we graduated from high school. Sadly, Madeline won’t be walking out on the field for that 50th high school celebration. Dr. Madeline B. Swann, chemist, passed away on July 12, 2017.

You never think of your friends dying. Eight of us had been an unbroken circle since middle school. We were first the Junior Valianettes, then the Valianettes and then in our adulthood, the name that stuck was Divas. We had missed some years in between as we went off separately to college and established careers and families, but we came back together as we reached our forties. We always got together in Washington, DC to celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Day and went to see the latest black-themed movies. Dreamgirls, This is It, and The Help stand out. We constantly talked about the challenges facing black people in America and bemoaned the ones we faced growing up in racially-segregated Richmond, Virginia.

When I told the group that I was writing a manuscript to try and capture our decades-long friendship—with the overlay of race in America—they were all supportive. But Madeline truly was one of my biggest cheerleaders. She loved the concept and the name I gave my book-to-be, Daughters of the Dream.

madeline-cross-stitch.jpg

Her last gift to each of us was a framed group picture with a cross stitch of each name on that individual’s gift and the inscription: Daughters of the Dream. Today I am even more committed than ever to finishing my book, and I know that Madeline is near, still cheering me on.