2020 in Review
The thing about world changing events is that there is a before and an after. Those things, moments, situations are the pillars, the waypoints from which we see our past selves. There is a Before. There is an After. And there is a Thing.
COVID-19 engulfed the world quicker than any other Thing, and personally affected every single human on the planet earth, all within a year. [Side note, include the dozen astronauts on the ISS.] In our modern connected world, nothing has ever happened quite like this. Even though all the signs pointed to this potential situation. H1N1. Pandemic, the flash game. Ebola, Zika, West Nile. It’s not like we didn’t face AIDS or Polio or Malaria or Cholera or Measles or Tuberculosis etc.
I remember the before. I had ended 2019 drinking on a rooftop bar to fireworks. I had woken to go to brunch deep in heart of Saigon. I had kimchi fried rice. My friends had Eggs Benedict. We all had champagne. [I stole a meatball from other diners as they left them on the table, untouched. Totally worth. Ah to be pre-covid carefree again.]
I flew that day to Miami, spending the night in a hammock in a public park. My good friend Quis was checking in the next day and offered me a spot in his hotel room. I did not want to pay for a single night and felt confident in my camping skills. I was awoken by a mid-fifties Jewish lady, who begged me not to sell drugs and simultaneously threatened to call the cops. She changed her tone after getting a good look at me, a hilarious reimaging of her considerations on what a homeless vagrant looks like. Young. Chinese. All of my teeth.
The next week was a reunion with some of my closest friends and favorite people as we obliterated the universe on a cruise ship. Then some of us did it again, just for the lols. [Decompresship]
I would take a solid week in Cancun to recover! Tacos, runs to the beach, more tacos. Beer. Unlimited gin and tonics that one night. [Ooof. That was a fun adventure.]
I enjoyed Holbox and Valladolid. Bacalar and Belize City. Placentia and Chetumal. But I ended up in Utila, Honduras.
I finished a book draft under the stars and by the sea.
Flying back was bittersweet; home was okay, but without friends, without even seeing my family, no where is much of a home.
The protests in May/June/July/August drove something else to the forefront. The American veneer was polished off and underneath it writhed the generational demons of racism and hate. As a Chinese descendant, I felt my anger too. Driven by the recent proclamations of the Chinese Virus, giving fear and hatred to things They didn’t understand.
I did not grow up hearing the n-word. It still feels foreign in my mind or rolling around my mouth. But chink has been leveled at me more than a few times. We can relate.
And we did. Asians came out in droves. The amount of Chinese characters I saw on cardboard signs marching day-in and day-out. Traditional and Simplified. We knew where we stood; next to our darker sisters and brothers, holding their backs as they lead us forward.
But my time was sucked into a 17-week coding bootcamp immersive. This was known. It had been one of my goals, and I had applied when I arrived back. I spent protest time rushing to get a voter/election information table together, garnering some 700 hits on our Find-Your-Representative linktree and submitting some 200 voter registrations. I barely completed a couple of open mic events to provide platforms for diverse voices and garner support for the cause, doing what I know; making space for people to share their stories. It was a wild success.
But I was unable to find mentees and the group dissolved without me. [Sort of! Here’s hoping for an ECAC revival!]
So it goes. Next time.
The coding camp was as intensive as they say, and for 25 weeks, I did nothing but eat and breathe code. It was difficult, intensive training and study. Class every day; review and prep every night; homework every weekend. It’s supposed to be 17 weeks, but I failed the first midterm, so I had to retake the whole first half of the class. Yeah. Let’s not talk about that again.
Actually no. Let’s discuss this. I found my second midterm grade as a 92. After failing my first one by 2 points, I was elated. Time for a little celebration. Maybe too much celebration. That night of my success, I will have my wings clipped. A healthy dose of humility in the form of a car accident.
The weeks that followed were among the worst of my life. Still confined to home, still bound in a sling, still crouched over a computer screen. For weeks, I struggled to balance medical visits with medical bills, legal meetings with job interviews, code work with resume work, mental health against the deepening spiral drain.
Without exercise as a release, my mental efforts were titanic. My rewards were bare survival. Slog on slog, mountain waves pouring from the relentless ocean that threatened to pull me over the edge of the infinite waterfall.
Eventually the surge calmed. It’s been three/four months since being hit. I have a therapist now, I have legal working on medical bills, a surgery postponed, and I am working on onboarding to my new (old) job. Though, there just keeps coming more obstacles. Still working on getting care. Still working on my health.
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There’s the Met. There’s the week in Yellowstone. There’s dinner at Batard. Family meals with many friends.
What I’ve been calling election day, where New York and the World took a huge sigh of relief. We went wild with release. All my activist friends and I shared a crazy amount of “we earned this” from the months of protest.
The last quarter of the year, I performed some poetry. Made some new friends. Found a job. In the chaos, there are moments of joy.
I even get another series, Uprising, into position, a pure ecstasy to find space in these trying times and support the people around me. Seriously. I love putting my friends on.
It’s during one of my daily PT routines that I find myself, if not grateful, happier. Simply because we can move from 5lb weights to 10lb weights. Progress.
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I like to look back at my 2019 year in review, just to see how I did against my expectations. It’s funny, to me, to see how close and far I have been. For things within my control, I did well.
The book draft is done.
I finished coding and got a job.
I had been in incredible shape. I had come back to New York in good shape, and I spent those months before injury getting stronger. I distinctly remember after Colorado’s altitude, I was able to run an easy, easy, 18 miler. I was planning to race as soon as I was able. I am well assured that I will find my Iron soon. This injury will not stop me. 2022.
I did my Mics! All told it’ll be 3.
I did, sort of, service my community with protesting and organizing and cleaning.
I didn’t read nearly as much as I wanted, though I did finish some decent books this year.
I haven’t done enough yoga, but…
I did not get an Iron Chef in. Waiting to flex some flavors from my travels.
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This has been a ridiculous year. Absolutely preposterous. Here and around the world.
There have been some highlights, but mostly it’s been rough going.
Still. Reveal the in the successes. The tiny wins every day. Take some naps. Have some tea. Relish that Donnie is served an eviction noticed. [At least that]
I know that with everything we feel right now; these just might be the worst goddamn days on the planet yet. That might even be true if you squint at it hard enough. But holy shit if I didn’t hit that asphalt blessed to feel it’s unforgiving surface; alive. A huge wave of relief. At least alive.
Next year is important. I’ll call it now: Foundation and fire. My self, my family comes first. All the PT and exercise towards redemption. Take my father traveling. Take my mother to a half marathon. Build safe and celebratory spaces for my friends. Hone these passions to become gifts I can share.
2021 will be humble. 2020 has been a tough teacher. No hate, but more focus.
Hopeful and working towards a 2021 revival. And a 2022 explosion.
Much love,
Winston
