As our country watched the news roll in of increasing COVID-19 cases, cancelled or postponed shows and contracts, school closures, and supply shortages, we were also inundated with requests from our universities, our grant funders, our children’s schools, and other places. In these first weeks, the push has been to continue business as usual.
Many of us haven’t had time to stop and feel; we’ve been pushing the emotions down to triage tasks that have to be completed: trying to keep up with instructions about switching to remote learning for our children and creating lesson plans for our students, stocking medications for older relatives, making sure we have supplies after weeks of being told to go about our daily lives. In addition, many of us are losing jobs and watching the economy crash. And, when we do have a moment to feel and express our feelings, they get can get policed on social media and by others. I have had several conversations in the past couple weeks where someone begins to express their grief or disappointment and follows it with, “I know people are dying and this isn’t a big deal.” But grief isn’t a competition, and two things can be true simultaneously. Yes, there are larger problems, but also losing a creative opportunity, postponing a wedding, losing a job, losing childcare, and the many other loses suck, and so many of us are feeling it all.
It’s not business as usual in the academy or the theatre, so let’s respond accordingly.
Last year my campus was subject to a school shooting; students, colleagues, and I were celebrating at an end of year party a few hundred feet away. A couple days later we were back at meetings, making plans, sharing the slogan “Charlotte Strong,” and carrying on. Only we weren’t all carrying on. Some of us were making mistakes and becoming forgetful. I was convinced I had the flu and went to my doctor about sore throats and a headache. She said it was trauma and I had to (slowly) learn to give myself permission to rest, and to feel. I believe that’s what we need to give ourselves in this moment.
Many cultures allow time for grief and processing. Many religions include a sabbath period weekly and a time for mourning after death. These practices not only give us a minute to breathe, but allow us to have connection with our community and loved ones. This break in the normal, the acknowledgement of loss, can allow time to heal, and also gives us a moment to reflect on what might be good going forward.
We live in a world where we now receive information and even work 24/7, so even when we try to disconnect for worship, rest, or family we can receive emails or even texts on personal devices. What if we had a national moment of grief, of trauma, acknowledging the devastating loss for artists and theatres, both established and emerging: the massive hours of work that will go unrecognized, debuts that won’t happen, and economic security that is now impossible? What if we allowed for a collective one-day breath to comfort our children and other loved ones, and, now that we know we are looking at months and not weeks of change, figure out what we will do and process our feelings?
This break in the normal, the acknowledgement of loss, can allow time to heal, and also gives us a moment to reflect on what might be good going forward.
I love the resourcefulness and can-do attitude I see: the readings being streamed and virtual play festivals popping up, the impulse to take heartbreak and create or be productive—sometimes driven by the very real need to salvage budgets. But I worry that we have forgotten how to pause and take stock of our situation. That the drive to continue with minimal interruption and maintain operations may actually cost us down the line. What if we also took this moment to teach our students about grace, compassion, flexibility, and priorities? There are examples around the country. Many institutions are switching their grading to satisfactory/unsatisfactory. Professors are reminding us of the hardships students will face while converting their own courses online and writing guides to help others do the same. Students are being offered flexible deadlines, notes, low technology, and asynchronous options. Struggling theatres are also raising money for organizations in need. Many parents are wondering how they will work without the availability of school and daycare and are finding solace in online groups; homeschool moms (it’s mostly moms) are offering some advice to parents thrown into distance learning at a moment’s notice.
Some people may seem like they’re overreacting to panic, but let’s remember that their response could be because they have an undisclosed condition that puts them in a high-risk group or may be due to them having limited ability to stock up at a moment’s notice. Let’s remember that being prepared—and being available for hourly email updates—is also a mark of privilege, as are the financial resources to have bought two weeks of groceries before the panic started, and the time free from small children or elderly relatives to be productive at home.
We can use that privilege as so many already have to pull together, provide toilet paper to a single mother or elderly neighbor, share websites and resources with those who may not have them, encourage other artists and theatres doing “virtual pass the hats”—pooling resources and partnering with non-profits—and most of all simplify what we are asking from each other and ourselves. There will be a time to ramp up and create and produce theatre again, but what if we catch our collective breath and take a quick time out first?