For the record, my smart, thoughtful brother is not a loser. He is a proud, disabled Vietnam veteran who served this country. Bobby never applied for a waiver or a deferment. As eldest sibling, whose income was of great import at home, he never sought a familial exemption to avoid a difficult assignment. Instead, he bravely faced the unknown.
Like our paternal grandfather before him, both young men had not even turned 21 when they were sent to war. There were no wealthy, influential parents to secure arrangements away from the bloody front lines. My Popa Daddy was not a sucker or a loser either.
Such divisive language continues to sadden and shock millions. Four words sicken me at this moment.
“It affects virtually nobody,” the president recently said of COVID-19 and its deadly impact on America. I could not determine if cheering supporters, at that rally, were giddy with agreement or just unable to feel empathy for others whose lives were dismissed in two words: “virtually nobody.” And not “fellow Americans?”
If this were an open letter to the commander in chief, I would let Donald Trump know that two months ago on my birthday, I woke early, prayed, turned on the news, and lazily contemplated how to celebrate another precious year. There were no concrete plans or virtual Zoom parties. The usual rituals for taking stock were muted.
Then, the phone rang. I knew it could not be good news before 7 a.m.
The basketball-playing big brother, who used to walk me home from school and terrorize little boys who had elementary school crushes, said his wife did not survive. He was unsure how long it would take to make arrangements that adhere to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines for funerals. Bobby was in shock at his own heartbreaking words. I learned he was also sick. I tried not to cry as he spoke, fearful that if his beloved sibling broke down one iota, it would deplete whatever remaining strength he needed to recover.
If this were an open letter to the president, I would let Trump know that two weeks later, we said goodbye to a beautiful lady who loved God, her family, and the work she did to benefit college students on their academic journeys. She was not “virtually nobody.” She was not virtual; she was real. And my sister-in-law can never be described as a nobody. She was awesome.
If this were an open letter to the president, I would share that I am in a rage over her departure and the sad exits by thousands more Americans. I’m enraged that many of us cannot even say goodbye before memorials become necessary to post on social media. For my brother’s wife, the funeral organizers outlined their strict policy. No indoor service. Twenty minutes at the grave. An economy of kindness, two Scriptures and a prayer. Another family waited a few socially distanced yards back.
My sister-in-law is one of the 200,000 virtual nobodies we have lost, and one of the 6.8 million Americans infected with the virus. Upon learning that loved ones were ill, millions of ordinary citizens like me uttered comforting words of assurance. “They are fighters,” we said to ourselves. We prayed hard that their courage would be enough to get them back home, so we could hold them again, laugh with them again, talk with them, one more time.
If this were an open letter to Trump, I would share that my rage stems from agonizing what-ifs. What if COVID-19 had been taken more seriously in January, February or March 2020? What if we all wore masks?
My July nightmare birthday wickedly fits what we know about the COVID-19 monster and the crushing sorrow it delivers. Like millions who are grieving at this surreal moment, I have stopped bracing against feeling overwhelmed. I was exhausted long before George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and the shattering July call from my dear brother.
If this were an open letter to Trump, I would ask the president to have someone in the White House mailroom find my 2019 letter to him about the power behind words of hate vs. words of hope. At that time, I sent Trump a copy of my book, Hate Crime: The Story of a Dragging in Jasper, Texas, encouraging him to choose his words wisely. Trump is the only White House occupant I have written to in 30 years who did not write back.
If this were an open letter, I would close with sincere condolences to members of the other families who have lost loved ones to COVID-19, Americans who were absolutely somebody to them, too. We will endure, as a simmering rage heats, on hold, waiting for a greater empathy to help ease our collective pain.
Signed, Virtually Nobody’s Sister
Joyce King is a writer in North Texas and the author of several books. Twitter: @joyceking722
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