The Potential to Do Better
3ish years after the start of the Covid-19 pandemic, we're running from the past
Long Beach Island, NJ. PC: Author
I pulled up at the Arrivals gate at Philadelphia International Airport right on time in my cute little Prius, priding myself on the fact that I hadn’t needed directions to navigate the maze of exits and turns that drew one out of the city, across the Delaware River, and into the edge spaces -not quite suburbs- that defined where you would find PHL.
Ridley Park and Chester were right around the corner, markedly their own suburbs of Philly, but the airport was a city unto itself, a bustling hub of Uber and Lyft drivers speeding in and out all day.
And I, 5 years a Philadelphian, hadn’t needed directions to get here. In the last 5 months, I had etched the streets of Philadelphia into my memory more deeply than ever before as I had learned to kill or be killed on I-676 and to just go the speed of other cars. It was like the Wild West-people were rarely ticketed for bad driving and bad driving was the norm.
After months of accidentally driving into New Jersey and years of trying to navigate my own parents through the city I thought I knew so well as they drove, I had arrived at the Arrivals gate with no help from Google Maps, picking up my father so he could take me home. Wait wasn’t I already home? Well, yes. And, no. You’ll see.
I don’t know if I had ever loved this city as much as I did when I was about to leave it.
I spent a long time trying to get my father to find me. I, of course, knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, but Dad was lost. The airport had recently redone the arrivals and departures gates, so his map was showing him one thing and the airport was saying another.
Philly was funny like that. It had a way of pulling you in, telling you its secrets, but slowly. This was a place you couldn’t possibly take in all at once. You had to keep coming back for more, walking and driving the same paths and learning different ones, ultimately proving that you were worthy of knowing the city the way a local would.
Because by the time you did know the city the way a local would - the hidden spots, the gritty-ness, the scars it held, the beauty it offered, and chose not to turn away in spite of it- you were a local.
It made it so much harder to leave 2 years ago today.
I had decided earlier that May not to go to medical school. A decision that really did change everything. I moved home. I started over a lot. I fell in love. I don’t regret any of it. Last night, I was thinking about how fast this month has sped by.
There’s a beautiful poem by Rupi Kaur that says, “ I will never have this version of me again/let me slow down and be with her”.
That’s exactly how I felt last night. I’m hurtling towards an upcoming vacation(yay!) but of course, I will be changed by this solo travel time I have with myself. I just wanted to pause and be with myself last night. 2 years ago, I was trying to do the same thing.
I remember May 2021 as happy. I knew a chapter was coming to an end, a beautiful, hard-earned chapter full of heartbreak and triumph and late nights and being forever changed. I knew, somewhere in my heart, that nothing would be the same after I moved home. The day I left, I wasn’t sad it was over. I was happy it happened.
Last night, it hit me that it’s been 3 years and some change since every life on this planet was changed forever. The way in which we’ve callously moved on as a society breaks my heart.
How do we strike a balance between dwelling in the past and continuing on with the future? I like to think that perhaps it lies in learning from the past - something we certainly have not done.
How can we claim to honor the memories of those who died, of the healthcare workers and grocery store clerks and postal service workers that kept going in the face of fear when we have made no strides toward change?
After my dad and I had packed up my apartment on Cecil B. Moore Avenue, down the street from that great wooder ice (water ice) place, a nice walk from my favorite Starbucks in Fishtown, we got lunch. I dawdled around Old City as he drove on to Charlestown, WV, where we would spend the night. I had one more thing to do before I left.
For 2 hours, a needle inked a sailor’s knot around my arm. A sailor’s knot is a type of knot, but it’s also an ancient Celtic symbol of love, loyalty, and remembrance. It has no beginning and no end. The 2 ropes, or lines, that make up the knot cannot be undone. The inspiration for this tattoo came from the death of my grandfather, which happened right when the pandemic started and was very difficult for me. He was in the Navy and he loved the ocean. I feel him especially when I can sit by the ocean.
Now, when I look at this tattoo, it not only reminds me of the eternity of the bond between myself and my grandfather but of the interbeing-ness of all living creatures. Between us and what we cannot control. Between life and death. Between ourselves and the places we’ve called home.
And maybe, between us, the human race, and the potential to do better.
I loved the line about you being grounded in place while your dad was lost. It was universal and yet very specific.
I love that line you shared from Rupi Kaur that says, “ I will never have this version of me again/let me slow down and be with her”. So true, I want to do that. Thank you for sharing your story with us!