March 19
From the “Work in Progress” blog series
I head to Moscone Center for my second Pfizer shot. I take the same route—home to SF—I took for my first shot.
Again, I arrive early, can’t find street parking, end up in an expensive lot. I walk down Fifth Street to Howard. Wind swirls around me. People intent on where they are going pass me. The long lines outside the vaccine site tell me things are different than before.
A man in a blue t-shirt who is checking appointment times says, “We won’t even be queuing for that time until 11:30. You can wait over there.” He points to an island of people masked but huddled together (no social distancing) beyond the drop-off lane. “Or,” he says, “you can take a walk until it’s time for you to join the line.”
The volunteers are kind but clear: There is no moving up or through or forward until the person in a headset at the entrance hears from someone unknown and unseen that we can go in.
Now, there are more vaccines and better distribution. By late May, President Biden has said all adults in America will have access to shots. California is opening appointments to more workers and age groups and neighborhoods, and people are showing up.
When my appointment time is called, the check-in is quick. I show my ID and am asked to follow the green line, which takes me to the escalator. Like last time, I travel down one level. I join the multitudes there. We are face masked, social distanced, directed where to go. We stop-start, move forward, stop-start again. A muffled voice behind a fitted mask routes us to Section D.
Right away I realize I made a mistake. When I wrote about my first shot, I said there were “long rows of white tent-canopies.” But there are not. There are white cubicles, plastic and boxy. Was a change made? Is this a different set up?
Before, I felt my steps—and the moment—flowing. I saw what I felt and made it real. What else did I (or will I) misremember? Will I be able to see accurately now or will I again shape what I see to meet what I feel?
Yet what is here now seems also to match the moment. We follow the lines, stay within the structures, move forward one at a time.
I am motioned beyond people waiting in staggered lines to an open space with rows of chairs (I believe there are five, but I want to be careful about making pronouncements since now I know I can get the details wrong).
I watch the large clock and my appointment time passes. Music plays. It is not loud or soft. It is just sound. Finally, the man who led us here asks our row to stand. He says to the woman in black heels at the head of the row, “Will you be my leader?” and points where we should go.
A man in an orange T-shirt and mask directs the people ahead of me one by one to cubicles. Finally, I am next. “How are you today?” He says it like my answer will matter to him. A woman with green paddles waves to me, he nods for me to go toward her, and I don’t get to respond to him.
At the white cubicle, a young woman greets me. I sit in a plastic white chair. She wants to know if I had any reaction to my first shot. “We want to be careful of giving you the second if you had trouble with the first,” she says.
“I was fine,” I say, and that this time I forgot to wear short sleeves. “Let’s pull down the neck of this blouse,” I tell her. She does, and the shot pricks my skin.
“Congratulations,” she says, “you are fully vaccinated.” I thank her for all she is doing and for taking care of me. She hands me my vaccination card.
There are many people waiting their fifteen minutes. I sit among them. A nurse asks how I feel. The care is there—but the place is busy. We know the drill—speak up if we need something—otherwise, we sit with ourselves.
I am fine. The clock tells me my wait time is up. I have done what I need to. I don’t know yet what it means.
Dr. Fauci, as a cutout, still stands at the escalator. I give him a nod. Outside there is still wind, exhaust fumes, traffic noise. A very unsettled man stands on the sidewalk shouting and swearing. A female volunteer steps away from him. People queue, and many more wait for their time-bound place in line.
I could walk the city some. I could get lunch. I walk to the parking lot.
Later, I don’t feel much. My arm is sore. My friend says my voice sounds tired, even if I say I feel fine. I wrap myself in a red quilt, read a book, watch a movie. For me, it’s enough.
Now I leap. I hope you’ll leap with me.
Play is something I rely on in the art-making process. I needed it to create this piece. I wrote about getting my first shot at Moscone Center and had plenty to say. Then when I started this piece, I had a lot of doubt. Though my experiences were very different from each other, it felt like I might not have much or anything new to say or a compelling way to speak about getting the second shot.
Why not play and find out?
A lot of fun things did emerge for me—even a kind of parallel play. I played with getting down the details of my experience, and I also played with what the experience was telling me. The “same” experience different the second time? A different experience the “same” the second time? How many ways to play—how many items to play with?
For me, play involves two things:
Let’s see what happens: An attitude toward making, a way of being in the work that suspends result or outcome.
Let’s see what emerges: A way of engaging or attending* to art-making that lets the work find its way and me just follow its lead.
In play, I don’t try to make a perfect piece. I try to render what I see, what I experience, what I have to convey. I do get to learn what the piece has to offer or teach me. I become aware of the questions the piece raises, what works and doesn’t—and if I am ready or able to stay with the piece, to complete the work. Sometimes play helps me create better, more realized, or meaningful work. Sometimes, all I get is the learning it offers me, but like the vaccine, what I take in stays with me—and I’m good with that. For me, it’s enough.
What might play offer you? I hope you’ll find out.
*Thanks to Anne Bogart’s work for inviting me to think more about the word “attend” and its role in art-making. One more thing to write about.
Artwork by Neil Freese