As the pandemic slowly comes to a close I cant help but to think about ‘bubbles’. How many ‘bubbles’ were popped, how many were reinforced.
I’ve only ever lived in a small cities and only ever been Black. When someone crosses the street as I move towards them in stride my assumption is that they fear my Blackness.
As the pandemic was ravaging our cities and minds I couldn’t help but to feel free. The ‘cage of Blackness’ in America at times can be purely psychological. With one slight…that morning or afternoon walk can make me sick. The potentiality of catching a fatal virus from a random on the street is high that I’ve been enjoying that extra space on the sidewalk. I can’t get sick in both meanings. I enjoy the space in my mind. Freedom to have philosophical and interesting ideas. (Not that I ever have) But, what I mean is; the thought of someone crossing the street because their racist falls second or maybe third.
When they cross the street now I am happy. I am happy to be taking up space in my mind and in the world. I am happy to be healthy. I am happy in my ‘bubble’. The pandemic has offered me a special a freedom that I am rarely afforded. Freedom of mind.
On my walk: the air is crisp this time of year. I wander. Are those ‘bubbles’ social media created now representative in physical spaces like streets and groceries stores. Should I worry about my bubble?
The echo chambers of today are largely responsible for the worse parts of the pandemic are they not? They don’t want to distance, they don’t believe the science. They…being “Those voters”. The voters that live in their bubbles, bouncing their voices off others like solemn truths. They do seem so happy…
…until they’re not.
