The East Side Freedom Library community has been a platform for sharing stories, including the many workers’ stories that are at the heart of who we are as a society, as an economic force and as individuals. We were fortunate to have this story shared with us. This is one of our more powerful and important stories for today. It is filled with passion. It is filled with compassion. It is filled with important truths we need to heed in this multi-layered crisis we face around the world. Please read. Please share. Please be good to yourself, your neighbors and the people who are keeping our lives going. Thanks in advance for your care.
“Your silence will not protect you” – Audre Lorde.
I’ve been afraid to speak out. Afraid that I’ll lose my job, lose the family health insurance, lose my income, lose respect from my coworkers at the long-term care facility where I work. I fear that I will be be seen as weak or complaining. I fear that I’ll worry the residents who are my Facebook friends. Afraid that if I speak my truth, it won’t have the right context and I’ll start a panic. Afraid that my posting this will be seen as thirsty grab for attention. Just plain afraid… which then leads to feeling cowardly.
We have confirmed cases of COVID among residents and staff. Tragically, this weekend we experienced our first COVID death and are bracing for more to come. I read an article in today’s newspaper which featured quotes from high ranking spokespeople, representing a variety of organizations. The disconnect between what they said, from what I assume is the safety of their isolated home office, and what my reality is, feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
The spokespeople talked about how healthcare workers: “Don’t view this as a job. They view it as a calling.” To me, that feels like corporate speak to rationalize not paying workers a living wage, plus hazard pay, while the workers continue to show up every day, work harder than ever, doing jobs they never thought they would be asked to, while surrounded by an invisible deadly virus that is lurking throughout their workplace.
The people working at long-term care centers are predominantly female, persons of color and low income. Almost all of us have a second job to make ends meet. The work we do isn’t classified as professional. Although we aren’t doctors or nurses, we are valuable workers who show up every day, greet the fresh hell, and get to work. We are the “un” professionals who give direct hands-on care to vulnerable people, some with COVID, without adequate PPE.
The housekeepers, the culinary servers, healthcare staff, front desk, etc…, everyone does whatever it takes. Earlier this week, one of our team went to assist a confirmed COVID resident who became sick with diarrhea in their bed. The resident fell on top of our coworker, and because the worker feared the resident’s hip may have broken, the worker stayed pinned underneath the still-to-be-cleaned resident until the EMT’s arrived. If this worker doesn’t deserve hazard pay, I don’t know what does.
The same article talked quaintly about family members standing outside resident apartments, and residents playing “hallway bingo,” and broadcasting shows on closed-circuit TV. This simply doesn’t reflect any part of my reality. We don’t have technology or any extra staff to allow anything close to this.
It often feels like I’m not adequate or doing anything right, although I know I am doing exactly what needs to be done at any given moment. My days feel like I am the short order cook at a chain restaurant, and my building is on fire. I am using my biggest pan to toss water on the fire, and the franchise owners are telling me to start selling BBQ, and some patrons wanna get together and sing campfire songs.
I constantly have immense anxiety, that I am asymptomatic and giving coronavirus to everyone near me.
Yesterday, I tried to go for a run outside. The path allowed for twelve feet of distancing, but when I felt a light breeze, I thought my breath would be carried and infect everyone nearby. For the second time since this horror started, I broke down and sobbed on the park bench. I walked home through the woods, far away from any people.
I feel pressure now to make an eloquent call for action. I want to be a Nellie Stone Johnson or a Willmar 8 kind of woman. Truth is, I’m just so tired right now. Can someone please pick up the ball and run with it? I have to go back to work in the morning.