Chapter 4: Dear Isabella

Dear Isabella,

It wasn’t the dailiness of juggling a work schedule with homeschooling, the online school-work you were assigned in the spring that was a problem during the pandemic. Nor was it keeping up with the endless dirty dishes, laundry, and the impossibility of being productive with scholarship and teaching. But rather, it was the witnessing of the pain and trauma that you experienced as a result of the pandemic and the continuous killing of Black lives that affected you so.

It was late and you were having trouble falling asleep, tossing, and turning, as you got twisted up in the blanket. I finally asked, “Are you ok?” You have always had trouble sleeping. Looking up at me, you responded, “Mom … I don’t wanna die … I don’t want you to die,” as you began sobbing into your pillow. How do I assure you that I will not die? How do I look at you and tell you that, if I can’t guarantee it myself? How can I lie to you when I know I’m immunocompromised and my anxiety shot through the roof at the beginning of the pandemic? All I could do was hold you and try to reassure you “We are going to be ok … we’re gonna get through this,” as we held each other and eventually fell asleep.