has never felt more helpful at a time when the pandemic is making history of our daily lives.

Increasing access to the vaccine has been allowing many people to begin to look forward to something again: reunions with family, plans with friends, a reprieve from the weight of intense fear and anxiety, or the simple pleasure of wind on your face.

Not so long ago, all we could think to look forward to was the existence of a vaccine. As more adults in the US get vaccinated, the possibilities for what there is to look forward to are expanding, but still we find ourselves wanting to unfold slowly, taking time to focus on what we are grateful for and acknowledging what truly matters. 

I subscribe to American life in Poetry, which sends a poem to my inbox each week, and yesterday it was Lucille Clifton reflecting on the death of Langston Hughes in "5/23/67 R.I.P.". The anecdote about how she wrote so much while raising six children is priceless, but also the line to "remember now like / it was". (You can read this poem, and more of Clifton's work, in a beautiful edition of her selected poems, How to Carry Water.)

Moments of unbearable grief, and specifically the sense of helplessness that may accompany them, do not belong only to the pandemic, nor to the times that we are alive to witness now. I was reminded of that when I strolled out of a crowded grocery store this weekend and passed a man wearing a t-shirt that read, Black history is now.

We wrote last Fall about a sense of reluctance to move on from the intense energy of Black Lives Matter demonstrations over the summer of 2020. We are feeling something similar to that in relation to the pandemic. Although we are so grateful for the existence of vaccines, and our access to taking one, we are also hesitant to go back into the world as if nothing has changed. We are uncertain how to navigate the freedoms of being vaccinated while also having young children in our homes. And the threat of COVID is still real and ravaging other countries, which amps up the sense of helplessness I mentioned earlier. 

As Mother's Day approaches this Sunday, we feel our hearts opening to the many different ways to celebrate, or avoid, this day. We think of how we at GFJ identify as biological mothers, yet also crave an expansive definition of a 'mother' as a woman-identifying person who nurtures and cares for others. We find ourselves resistant to a top-down imposition of joy or appreciation of motherhood, and yearning for a self-defined way to recognize and acknowledge the mothers in the world who have led us through the woods. 

This brings us back to the feeling of relief that comes from being a caregiver who is able to receive the care of getting vaccinated. Today we're sharing our vaccine stories to highlight how our self-care is wrapped up with caring for others, and why that's something we do not to take for granted.

. . .

Tay:

For me, the only words to describe getting the first dose of the vaccine are: overcome with emotion. After a challenging year I had adjusted my expectations, thinking that we'd not be eligible for a vaccine until the end of summer 2021 at the earliest. But our time came much sooner than we thought, and we got our first dose on February 28th, about two weeks after we learned that we were eligible. 

I got my shots at the NY state mass vaccination site in Albany. As someone who loves process and organization and rallying around a common cause, I was so inspired by and grateful for the supreme efforts of the dozens of people working the site. I had my shot within 5 minutes of arriving in the parking lot. It was seamless. 

Once I had figured out how to secure timely appointment cancellations at the NY state mass vaccination sites, I spent the next two months securing appointments for anyone that I could find that was eligible and wanted one. It felt like it was one small thing that I could do to contribute to the cause. 

As of April 29th, any NY state resident age 16 or older can go to any NY state mass vaccination site without an appointment and get their vaccine. It put my short-lived volunteer gig into early retirement, but I'm grateful to redirect my energy to other incredible causes that build a sense of community, support, and resilience. 

. . .

Sam:

Last Wednesday, I sat in the driver's seat of my car with my sleeve rolled up, preparing for my second dose of the vaccine. The drive-thru vaccination tent at my local hospital was easy and efficient. (Honestly, I would have liked to linger a little longer!) Just like the first dose a month earlier, I had a huge smile on my face. I could not believe it was my turn, just like I can hardly believe I am fully vaccinated now. Noticing my shirt, the man who administered my second dose struck up a conversation about the merits of linen for keeping cool. He couldn't abide the wrinkliness; I very much can. After administering the shot he looked at me and said with such sincerity in his voice, "I'm so glad you got your second shot." 

It was such a small exchange. Yet here I am a week later: no longer with a sore arm, but with a heart bursting for all of the folks dedicating their days to encouraging, facilitating, and administering life-saving vaccines.

. . .

Dor: 

I watched my husband, who is a first-responder, get his vaccine early in the winter, and then my in-laws, who are over 65. I could feel the concern growing around me, the questions and encouragement about how I would get mine soon, but I couldn't bring myself to feel a sense of urgency about it. After all, I'm relatively young (under 40), I have no underlying health problems or complicating conditions, and I work from home, so my risk of getting COVID, or of dying from it, is comparatively small. I knew that when my time came, I would be thrilled to get it, but it wasn't about 'when' - it was about knowing that it would be possible, regardless of when.

When eligibility opened up to people in my age group in early April, I was surprised and delighted. All the plans I had begun to look forward to later in the summer, unsure whether I'd have to cancel based on not yet being vaccinated, became sure things. The ability to count on something became a sudden, unexpected gift.

By the end of this week, I'll be fully vaccinated. I can hardly believe it. I plan to celebrate while holding onto the memory of the limitations of this past year, because they remind me of how important it is to notice that the past is a part of today. 

. . .

Next week, we look forward to sharing a newly created, fresh-off-the-drawing-board guide to writing a more equitable job post. The information will not be new to those who've been reading these weekly thoughts, but it will be concise, to the point, and share-able. See you next week,

Yours in food, justice, and food justice,

Dor + Tay + Sam

photo by Azra Sadr for GFJ Stories