“Getting Over Myself”

I see her. A cross-legged, bouncy third grader with her hand raised high, she summed up our six philosophy classes: “I think what all this clear thinking means is I just need to be getting over myself now. Time for me to fall into life in this big, old world. Isn’t that kind of what you’ve been saying?” Oh, Girl, yes, in too many words, but yes, yes, it is!

Her voice reassures me when I read about protesters at statehouses, spitting demands for their freedom from governmental tyranny, enraged by stay-at-home mandates. I choose her “big world” vision over their unmasked, “big me” fury. We lack protective equipment and tests, tracing measures and viable treatments—physical distancing is the only option left to us for now, in the United States, to combat Covid-19.

I picture her eye roll at the anger of those temporarily denied a trip to the mall or diner, a perm, pet grooming, partying. Child philosophers are quick to understand the age-old distinction between what is necessary and what is not, between what we need as opposed to what we want. They may not like admitting that the latest video game—wait, any video game—is necessary. They may want those sneakers while knowing they don’t need them.

The global suffering caused by this virus defies comprehension—the future resists figuring. Never has perspective been more essential. In my case, I’m being asked to stay home whenever possible, with fresh food and clean water, and wash my hands. I’m not being asked to work at the hospital, shelve groceries, or deliver mail—nor do I have a family member in a nursing home, prison, or meat-packing plant. If I were teaching philosophy, how would I give students perspective on our current reality? Where would I turn for examples of handling fear, change, uncertainty, terror? Who faced the frightening unknown and not only survived but thrived?

I would introduce them to my grandmother and father.

This wide-eyed baby who would become my grandmother was born in 1904. She experienced the 1918 flu pandemic and World War I as a teenager responsible for her four younger siblings—her mother died when she was in the sixth grade and her father’s job required travel. She knew the Depression up-close, a single mother who supported her two baby girls as a massage therapist, a skill quickly acquired. World War II nipped at her fleet feet. She lived a life of uncertainty, without guarantees, and died after a robust 95 years. She found a lifetime of delight in sowing seeds and nurturing growth—then preparing, eating and sharing the harvest. I envision her today, on her knees with both hands in the dirt, planting potatoes. The above photograph captures her daughters’ hands in their mother’s memorial garden.

My father, born in 1918, worked his way through college, graduating in three years in May of 1942 with a love of Shakespeare and an appreciation for friendship. What a shock it must have been—holding in his hands June 6 draft orders and reporting that summer to flight school in Pensacola—a far cry from his life-guarding summers at the beach. Soon enough, the recent grad pilots rescue seaplanes in the Pacific, using this “aerial dead reckoning computer” as his guide. Looking today at his indelible pencil marks, I fill with his cockpit dread. My father’s lifetime delight was a lazy day spent with friends and family—his true treasure a sense of peace. He would understand the necessity for us to be apart now so that we can be together again. He did exactly that when he left everything behind, with no assurance of victory, as a Navy Lieutenant. I can see his toothy grin at Mayor Lori Lightfoot’s plea to Chicagoans for pandemic patience, reminding them that the Windy City waited 108 years for the Cubs to win the World Series.

I appreciate my grandmother and father in a spanking new way. I never heard talk of war or pandemic flu. Neither mentioned past hardship—they did what needed doing. How humbling, their sacrifices. What little I know of deprivation or terror. I must hold fast to this instructive perspective. “Getting over myself” seems the least I can do. May empathy always triumph over ego.

Two treats for you till we meet again. Patrick Stewart recites Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, the starship’s captain encouraging us that love endures, rises, wins. “Love’s not Time’s fool.” Aye, aye, Sir.

Each of us plays a part in my dear child philosopher’s “big, old world.” The April 18 global concert, “One World: Together at Home,” soared to its conclusion with “The Prayer,” performed by Lang Lang, Celine Dion, Andrea Bocelli, Lady Gaga, and John Legend.

“Help us to be wise.”

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