A few days ago I was awakened by the sound of an airplane overhead, something I haven’t heard in weeks. My apartment lies on a direct flight path to JFK and the roar of jet engines is usually constant, especially during the warmer months when I sleep with my windows open. Apparently there are still some commercial flights operating, and airlines need to fly their aircraft to reposition them, as well. But recently I’ve heard only sirens from the ambulances outside my building, as well as the incessant calls of birds that have grown more emboldened in their chirping now that the urban racket around them has diminished. The noise from the plane reminded me of one of the many aspects of our former lives that have been altered in our bizarre new reality.
New York State now has more confirmed cases of coronavirus than any other country in the world, including Italy and Spain. The center of the outbreak is a collection of immigrant neighborhoods in Queens—Corona, Jackson Heights, Elmhurst—where many residents work as taxi drivers, restaurant workers, or day laborers. Across the country, African Americans are more likely to die from COVID-19, and rates of infection are disproportionately high in Black and Latino communities. While tragic, it’s hardly a surprise. Our public health infrastructure has been decimated for decades by budget cuts and neglect, and our system of medical care doesn’t address structural inequalities; it amplifies them. Race and poverty track in unison, and poor people are more likely to have underlying medical conditions that can lead to complications from coronavirus: asthma, cardiovascular disease, high blood pressure, obesity, diabetes. What’s more, people of color are filling the “essential” jobs that make them more likely to become infected, working as delivery drivers, grocery store clerks, and warehouse employees. Those who are more able to stay at home are white and wealthy. Some have simply fled the city for their second, or third, homes.
Last night I dreamt I went to the grocery store where I normally shop. The store itself had expanded, adding a seafood counter and a home décor section that sold fossilized Knightia fish. Inside, no one was wearing a mask and I realized I hadn’t had to wait in line to enter. The store was crowded and I took my time, selecting ice cream and fresh vegetables. It seemed the pandemic was over, but when I woke up, I didn’t know whether I had been dreaming of an earlier era or projecting ahead to a point when we will have moved through this. That time will come, but when it will be and what it will look like none of us can know.