I can tell you I wasn’t being a good ally. I was sitting in my comfort, in my privilege, when I turned on the news to see burning vehicles. To see bats being swung and other objects being hurled into windows. Glass raining everywhere. People running into a store to rip everything off the walls, throwing it all to the ground, and lighting it on fire.

I started crying. Admittedly, this was because I was upset to see the city being destroyed. On a daily basis, my heart is wrenched by watching Seattle change and in some ways, degrade. In the time of COVID-19, I worry all the time about it surviving.

But then I removed my own self-interest.

If I’m upset about this, how would I feel if on a daily basis I was worried about MYSELF surviving? How would I feel if my family members were being falsely arrested, convicted, and senselessly murdered? How would it feel to know if I had children, that I would have to teach them how to protect themselves from those who are supposed to be serving and protecting them? How would I feel if I knew just living my life in skin of a different color would make others feel uncomfortable? Ready to call the police or attack me if I so much as move in a way they don’t like?

I’d be Sad. Hurt. Fed up. Angry.

The local news stations continued to focus on rioting and looting and my tears and anger grew because I know there’s a story not being told. The images on the screen are distracting from the message and the purpose. People DID protest peacefully. Where is that story? I also heard about moments of negative, unprovoked police response to peaceful protest. I didn’t see that, either. At least I didn’t see it by means of local media in Seattle. We’re seeing it in cell phone videos by citizens. We’re seeing black women being shoved and thrown to the ground for speaking their piece. Crowds being run into by police cars. Protesters not demonstrating any violence being tear gassed, including children. Violence by anyone aside, there are thoughtful and powerful speeches, moments of silence and banding together not being seen. Words that need to be heard and plans of action that we need to take aren’t reaching the rest of us. The rioters, a lot not even there for BLM protests, are getting all the attention. Not only is our justice system as a whole failing blacks, so is our media. I may not be professional press, but I can tell you one thing I learned earning my degree in communications: journalists have a duty to report truth and accuracy, fairness and impartiality, and to present all sides of a situation to the best of their ability. Even this morning, I would hear a half sentence about how things “started off peacefully” before being hurled into images and airtime dedicated to the aftermath. The leaders that organize and mobilize these protests are being asked by media to give their thoughts on the riots, not on the endless police brutality and oppression they’re fighting to be freed from.

I don’t know the real struggle because it’s not mine. It never has been and it never will be. But I can be a better ally than I was yesterday. I can seek ALL sides of this. I can listen to those who ARE struggling very carefully and be open to more education. I can know that I don’t want the lasting images of this movement to be the shock value of destruction, putting the black community in danger yet again, by being framed for the chaos that we’re force-fed by the news. I can commit to sharing what needs to be seen most if the media won’t. We all can.

This morning, droves of community members are cleaning up Seattle. I am thankful for that; because for everything I don’t know, I’m pretty sure destroying the city isn’t the answer. Like Killer Mike reiterated in this speech, burning down our own home isn’t the way. But at the end of the day, buildings can be cleaned up and repaired. Things can be replaced. The lives of black men, women, and children, can’t be. They need to be heard. They need to be seen. They need to survive.

Exactly one month before the executives of our firm sent out an email ordering us to work from home until further notice, my colleagues-turned-friends treated me to lunch at Il Corvo to celebrate my birthday. Il Corvo was our favorite choice when we had the time to wait in line, and sometimes even when we didn’t. We were shocked and thrilled to find the line contained within the restaurant when we arrived that day, since we’d grown accustomed to long waits on the sidewalk as it trailed from inside the long and narrow space. We remembered the time we happily waited over an hour before we could finally order the dish we’d already decided on before arriving. (Il Corvo would post their daily offerings every morning on a blog, before moving over to Instagram to do the same.)

Most lunch spots in the downtown core of Seattle exist for the purpose of hurriedly grabbing a bite to aid in powering through the rest of the workday. But Il Corvo was different. First timers could be identified by their nervous expressions while hovering over the tables flanking the walkway where the line queued; their eyes breaking away from the chalkboard menu to scan the tables full of guests. You knew they were wondering if they would fit in somewhere. Regulars knew there was nothing to worry about, of course. The folks running the show never failed to secure you a spot among the masses.

And the best way to savor the pasta made fresh every morning was among the masses. Elbow-to-elbow with your colleagues, friends, or even strangers amid the organization veiled as chaos. Whether assigned to sit on the long wooden bench resembling a church pew or at the large high-top marble table reserved for solo diners, all patrons could count on sinking their teeth into firm but springy gluten goodness paired with a sauce containing the perfect blend of salt, fat, acid, and heat. If everything I ever sampled at Il Corvo could be described in one word, it would be “bright”. Not often a word associated with a plate full of carbs.

And every time we arrived as a group, we couldn’t quite limit ourselves to just the pasta, either. We knew this would be a long and relaxed lunch break spent together, so why not order the house focaccia to share? Or the marinated olives? A bottle of wine! We’d share antipasti while we talked and laughed about anything other than work. We’d sneak bites from each other’s plates of pasta when we didn’t feel so nervous about spreading germs. Savoring the food was a must, but savoring the time together was paramount.

Obviously, food is a necessary to our survival, but we all know it’s more than something physical. Food represents celebrations, comfort, culture, and community. More than Il Corvo being the best pasta in the city, it represented colleagues-turned-friends breaking from the stress and frustration of work to bond. It represented the rarity of Seattleites dropping their notoriously cold and distant behaviors to squeeze in next to a stranger to enjoy the same meal. It represented one of the last true charms of Seattle you could share with your friends and family from out of town.

No one knew what was coming. And while it makes logical sense that small businesses would struggle to survive in a time like this, you never imagine the institutions of your city to fall. There’s more to losing Il Corvo than losing really incredible pasta (in fact, you can still get James Beard award winner Mike Easton’s pasta in West Seattle if you want to make the drive without the convenience of the bridge), it’s about losing something so special to a community who has lived and worked in the area for years. It’s losing a beacon of familiarity and comfort for when we do finally bounce back from this and enjoy our time together again.

Had I known my latest visit to Il Corvo would be my last, I would have savored the pasta and the experience just a little longer.

 

I’ve generally never felt like I needed people around me on a regular basis. In fact, more often than not, I need my alone time. March 11 was the last day I was in the office before I began working from home full time. I work from home a lot, so the first few weeks didn’t phase me. The state went into lockdown, closing non-essential business, and I was fine. By the end of March, I had even come to terms with the fact I wouldn’t get to see Italy for the first time like I planned.

It wasn’t until we stepped into April when the sun consistently showed, the flowers started to bloom, the birds started singing, and temperatures stayed unseasonably warm, that I felt the effects of everything starting to build in me. Typically, the Seattle area doesn’t get this nice so early in the year. It’s making me ache for the summer I’ve been waiting for since October.

Another blow came when my company furloughed over 10% of the company for the next three months. I’m not furloughed, but those of us staying will have our pay cut for the next three months. They tell us this is a conservative estimate to ensure our furloughed colleagues can return. This amount of time scares me. Three months from now puts us in late July. Though there’s no telling if the planned return of my colleagues and the time needed to social distance coincide, the thought of distancing deep into the most beautiful season of the year hurts.

I try not to think about it, but I can’t help it sometimes. Summer is when we can enjoy sunsets past 9pm. It’s when we can sit on the soft green grass of an amphitheater,  listening to a favorite band. It’s when we can catch happy hour on the floating deck of Ivar’s as boats and kayakers drift by on Lake Union. It’s when we can float lazily down the river, absorbing the sun and water in one. It’s driving through the mountains with the windows down, sun streaming through the car and the music blasting. It’s shorts, sandals, and tan lines. It’s drive-in burgers and shakes. It’s hikes and camping. It’s the smell of bonfire smoke on your clothes. It’s enjoying a wine tasting on a sun-drenched patio. It’s barbecues and fireworks. It’s sipping a beer while you watch baseball and the sunset, simultaneously. It’s strolling around the farmers market, smelling the fruit and admiring the beauty of the flower bouquets. It’s festivals, movies in the park, and car shows. It’s backyard hangs and home projects. It’s people watching at the beach. It’s picnics in the park. It’s road trips. It’s ice cream cones.

So while I’m not always the first person to need people around me at all times, I do need the things I experience with other people. The experiences I look forward to each year, and sometimes take for granted, is what enriches the memories I have with the people in my life. I do miss my friends and family. But most importantly, I miss the things we do together.