Invocation

From the “Work in Progress” blog series

For Meg Jordan

On February. 26, I got my first shot of the Pfizer vaccine. I traveled to Moscone Center, a place I’d driven by many times but had never been to before. I was struck by its size and the legion of people outside, directing drop offs, reviewing appointment codes, motioning us to the circular doorway that would sweep us inside. 

There was traffic noise and that perpetual San Francisco swoosh of wind. Volunteers in masks and windbreakers gently herded me and those who arrived when I did toward check-in. “Thank you,” the person I gave my confirmation code to said. “Please, step inside.”

Inside, there was a long line of kiosks, people at every one, pulling out identification or reaching for cell phones, handing over slips of paper or nodding their heads as response. I took it all in. I had not been around so many people in a long time. There was lots of movement—bodies in motion--but not much noise. Soon, a man in an orange T-shirt called me over. He checked my IDs–and asked me if I was afraid of shots. 

“Not really,” I said. “But I do like to look away when I get them.”

“Good idea,” he said. “The needle is eight inches long.”

Despite myself and what I knew to be true, I gulped. I was more nervous than I thought. 

He grinned. “No,” he said. “Just kidding. You won’t even feel it at all.” 

He told me how he had to postpone his wedding because of COVID and wasn’t sure when to schedule it again. I told him my son’s friend had postponed his wedding twice but hoped to have it in the fall.

Then—like the space around us—we were quiet, and we did not rush. We let the conversation wrap up, then I moved on.

A woman in a white shirt and blue mask pointed me toward the escalator. “Down?” I said.

She said, “Yes.”

When I placed my foot on the moving step, I felt myself descending into different time. I was aware of the people in front of me—social distance between us—and so little sound.  

When I reached the lower level, another person in an orange T-shirt and double mask motioned for me to go right. There was no loudspeaker—no one barking directions—no music or Muzak—no one pumping up the volume or warming up the crowd. There was a soft murmur of voices, the shuffle of shoes on ground.

500,000 dead felt like the predominant sound. 

I looked to the line of people in front of me— all of us walking—keeping our six feet between us. We weren’t in step with each other, but we weren’t out of rhythm with each other, either; we were moving together through all that has been these past 12 months.

Beyond us, five sections with long rows of white tent-canopies lined the large open space. A woman in a bright orange mask directed me to Section C, and I waited in a short line for my turn. 

I felt family members with me. Some older than me and with health needs that meant they needed the vaccine now. I would give them my place in line, but 3,000 miles and our separate lives didn’t allow for that. 

A woman waving a green paddle—like an air traffic controller gently guiding a plane toward the gate—motioned for me to move forward. I did, but a faint hope for our cultural health and the loud silence of the pandemic dead accompanied me.  

I stepped under the tent-canopy and a young man greeted me—he must have been at least twelve. He wore dark blue scrubs, his brown hair was spikey and dyed white blond across the top. I liked him right away. I thanked him for all his work.

I said, “What you are doing is brave.” 

He said,  “I love this work.” 

Then we didn’t talk anymore. He gave me my shot. I looked away. I didn’t feel anything. He gave me a sticker with a big 15 and the time underneath it, and I stood up. 

He cleaned his station, and before I could cross the aisle to the chairs where I would wait my fifteen minutes, someone new was already on their way to him. I sat down in a white folding chair. My eyes trembled with tears. 

An MD asked, “How are you feeling?”

A nurse said, “If you feel anything at all, just let us know.”

The woman next to me said, “I just had my eyes dilated, and I can’t even read my watch. What symptoms am I looking for?” A woman motioned to two elderly people (maybe her parents?) to stay with her. I couldn’t hear what she said, but they pulled chairs close together and all sat down as one. A tall man in the small chair behind me said to a nurse, “I am supposed to sit for fifteen minutes, but can I go the bathroom now?” 

For fifteen minutes, in this one small room of America, questions asked were questions answered. Between and among us, we seemed okay in the waiting, with the quiet, with no one rushing us. 

When it was my time to leave, I walked the long corridor to the exit. A life-sized cut out of Dr. Fauci was perched by the escalator. Many stopped to take a photo or give him a hug. I liked that. 

I wanted to stay with the moment—in a tension between what’s next and what’s been lost—and I took the escalator up. 

Here is where I make a quick leap; I hope you’ll make it with me.

Today, I have been sharing my experience with you, and I have also been making a piece for you. What I am making is trying to become art. I have made reflective choices (which words to use, how to structure the story, what belongs and what doesn’t, why this work?). I’ve considered the impact of my choices on the piece and you. If I’ve made the choices well, I’ve found ways for you to experience the art. The possibility of that—that we might relate or connect, sit together or experience each other through what is made—what if that’s an invitation for makers and the art? To step more fully into our humanness (and humanity) and bring all that we are and might be into each chance to create? 

*Many thanks to Meg for her work vaccinating health care staff in skilled nursing facilities in Marin County. See ECHO (February 2021).

Artwork by Neil Freese