At first I used to go home nearly every Sunday taking the early train from Montauban-Villenouvelle, at about five-thirty in the morning. And I would plead with Father to let me out of that miserable school, but it was in vain. After about two months, I got used to it and ceased to be so unhappy. The would was no longer so raw: but I was never happy or at peace in the violent and unpleasant atmosphere of those brick cloisters.
The children I had associated with at St. Antonin had not been by any means angels, but there had at least been a certain simplicity and affability about them. Of course, the boys who went to the Lycee were of the same breed and the same stamp: there was no specific difference, except that they came from families that were better off. All my friends at St. Antonin had been the children of workmen and peasants, with whom I sat in the elementary school. But when a couple of hundred of these southern French boys were thrown together in the prison of that Lycee, a subtle change was operated in their spirit and mentality. In fact, I noticed that when you were with them separately, outside the school, they were mild and peaceable and humane enough. But when they were all together there seemed to be some diabolical spirit of cruelty and viciousness and obscenity and blasphemy and envy and hatred in mockery and fierce cruelty and in vociferous, uninhibited filthiness. Contact with that wolf-pack felt very patently like contact with the mystical body of the devil: and, especially in the first few days, the members of that body did not spare themselves in kicking me around without mercy.
The students were divided into two strictly segregated groups, and I was among "les petits," those in "quatrieme," the fourth class, and below it. The oldest among us were fifteen and sixteen, and among these were five or six morose bullies with thick black hair growing out of their foreheads almost down to the eyebrows. They were physically stronger than anybody else and, though less intelligent, they were craftier in the works of evil, louder in obscenity and completely unrestrained in their brutality, when the mood was on them. Of course, they were not always unpleasant and hostile: but in a sense their friendship was more dangerous than their enmity and, in fact, it was this that did the most harm: because the good children who came to the school quickly got into the habit of tolerating all the unpleasantness of these individuals, in order not to get their heads knocked off for failing to applaud. And so the the whole school, or at least our part of it, was dominated by their influence.
Merton learns how to deal with the bullies at the Lycee. How to tolerate their unpleasantness. Looks the other way, to save his own neck. Let me tell you that the whole world right now is being bullied by a tiny virus. People are terrified of this little thug, for good reason. It's a life or death thing, like walking on a frozen lake in the spring.
I work in a medical office. That medical office is attached to a hospital. That hospital is going into virtual lockdown as the coronavirus spreads. The exponential growth of it is sort of staggering, and, considering the situation in Italy, it has the potential to absolutely overwhelm the United States' healthcare system.
Now, you all know that. I'm not saying anything that you haven't read before. But let me give you a few glimpses into the day of a healthcare worker:
- All day, I register patients, answer phones, confirm appointments, and call insurance companies while wearing a mask (which actually isn't a whole lot of protections against this bully of a virus).
- Most of the patients with whom I speak on the phone are terrified of coming to their appointments. I spend more time talking about the virus than anything to do with their current problem.
- I isolate myself in the office where I work. Don't go to the cafeteria. Don't go for walks.
- If I cough, people look at me strangely. If I sneeze, people look at me strangely.
- After filling out paperwork, patients hand me their clipboards and pens. I sterilize them with bleach wipes immediately.
- At the end of my shift, I put on gloves and sanitize the entire office. Computer keyboards. Counters. Pens. Pencils. Computer mouses. Scanners. Cords. Chairs. Today, I even bleached a sticky note I needed to keep.
- When I get home at night, I leave my shoes and coat on the front porch, march straight to the bathroom, strip, put all my clothes in the washer, and wash them in hot water.
- I still worry that I've carried something home to my family.
I am not an alarmist. Everyone who knows me can tell you that. I try not to sit at home reading poorly researched social media posts that are simply meant to panic people. I've given up listening to or watching the news. Yet, I am not immune to pandemic panic. It's kind of hard not to be.
Tonight, around nine o'clock, an alarm went off on my daughter's cell phone. We were all on the living room floor, playing a board game.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"Oh," she said," that tells me when the International Space Station is passing directly over head."
We all sat staring at each other for a moment. My wife. Daughter. Son. Me. Then, we got up off the floor and went outside.
There it was.
We stood staring up at a bright pinpoint of light moving across the dark bowl of night. For a few minutes, none of us spoke. Then, "It's kind of crazy to think there are people up there right now," said my daughter.
My son and wife nodded.
"Talk about social distancing," I said.
For the ten minutes or so we were outside, we forgot to be bullied by Covid-19. Didn't worry about breathing in something that could kill us. Instead, we just gave ourselves over to wonder.
Saint Marty was happy for a little miraculous in his life tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment