During my walk with Emily St. John Mandel she talked about the phrase “survival is insufficient,” which she used in her book Station Eleven and originated in an episode of Star Trek: Voyager that she saw as a teen. An answer to the question of why humans continue to make art in spite of, well, everything. She also used the term “desperate joy,” which has stuck with me ever since. It made me think of the day I got my first vaccine, during which I walked and skateboarded most the length of Manhattan, my heart bursting with hope. It’s cold in New York City, so I could use a little bit of that feeling today. So tell me, what was a time that you experienced “desperate joy”?
(Disclaimer: I'm sorry if it's too soon for a Pandemic S1 anecdote)
It was the point in 2020 when a lot of lockdown mandates were being lifted and my partner ventured out to Greektown. She called me from outside a specialty grocer, breathless, letting me know that she found active dry yeast—something that I hadn’t been able to buy since lockdown commenced, and I begged her to bring home as much as she could afford out-of-pocket. When I unpacked her bags, I realized it was the brand my late Nonna had used exclusively in her focaccia before she came to Chicago. It also happened to be her birthday that day. 🌹
I would say my "desperate joy" came in late summer 2021. During the uncertainty of 2020 and the hell of January-March 2021 (Long story short, my mom, brother and I got COVID-19, then Mom suffered a heart attack with Dad passing away the next day. Thankfully, Mom is healthy now!), I had quit crocheting and knitting (two things I dearly love to do). This past summer, I started feeling like I wanted to begin "playing" with yarn. The first thing I made was an amigurumi dinosaur for a co-worker. I cried when I finished the last stitch because I felt like I was getting back to myself again.
Seeing my first show at Red Rocks in July - post-vaccine but pre-Delta - with a close group of friends - looking down over the crowd as Lucinda Williams took the stage for the first time since her stroke. The resilience of her performance, the beauty of the venue, the hope that we just might finally be do such things safely again (sigh), the whole moment moved me to tears.
My oldest kid is a travel and transportation hound. Last May, when it seemed like the whole world would get vaccinated and travel became possible, I took him to Boston and NYC to ride every train we could. He wanted to ride the Mattapan Trolley before it gets taken out of service and he ended up having a super in-depth conversation with the Trolley operator and a long-time commuter about the intricacies of the trolley. It was fabulous watching him be fully in his element and enjoying life! Watching him connect with others out in the world made my momma heart just about burst. :)
I experienced 'desperate joy' in mid June 2021. I was 2 weeks post my 2nd vaccine shot and a truly spontaneous opportunity came up to go to NYC (where I attended college) to have an evening with my college girls where most of us would happen to be in town for the night. It was my first time traveling out of state in a year and a half and seeing these girls for the first time in 2 years. The weather was absolute perfection - about 79 degrees. We took a ferry from Astoria Queens to lower Manhattan, had a wonderful dinner on a rooftop restaurant, and drank wine. I was in complete bliss. It was the first time in so long I actually felt alive and like I was living. To be with these ladies that I love so much, to laugh, catch up, sip wine, and hug. The little intimacies that we had all been missing for far too long. I was happy, excited, drunk on the possibilities of what the rest of summer would look like. I was hopeful and grateful. The evening was beyond magical.
November 7, 2020. I was watching my 16-year-old daughter's soccer game at the Parade Grounds; it was the 4th quarter. Her coach, the referee, and every adult on the sideline and on every sideline that day were glued to their phones for updates as the mail-in ballot counts continued to come in and we waited for someone to declare the solid winner. Every weekend during the fall and spring soccer seasons a multi-generational group of men originating from several different Caribbean islands gathers at the picnic tables between fields 8 and 9. They bring trays of food-- peas & rice, jerk chicken, yams--and stand around with their plates listening to island music, chatting, and watching the soccer games. That day, at the moment when the news came down that Biden had prevailed there rose a wave of elation that swept the expanse of those fields, the girls on the field pumping their fists as they continued to chase down the ball and their opponents, moms and dads jumping up and down, hugging and whooping, the drivers in car traffic down Parkside and up Caton blaring their relief as they lay on their horns... and the men with their plates began dancing and singing, the cadences of Jamaica and Barbados and St. Lucia blending in a spontaneous chant: "President Biden, President Biden, President Biden!" As soon as the final whistle blew, my daughter and I hopped on our bikes and just rode around the streets of Brooklyn for hours, fists raised, wind in our faces, high-fiving everyone we passed on foot and from car windows, screaming and calling out with desperate joy: "President Biden, President Biden, President Biden!"
It was around 1998 or so. It was Christmas-time, and I had been expecting a large check for a screenplay I had just turned in. Only it wasn't a large check. The IRS had taken like 90% of it for reasons I was entirely clear about. I was broke, angry, and frustrated. My wife and I went to the take out section of our local shopping mall. I got Chinese food, and I was gesturing unhappily, I knocked the tray to the floor. Food went everywhere. I cursed. It was the last straw. Everything seemed entirely hopeless. And then, an Iranian busboy came by and started cleaning up. "You don't have to do that," I told him, "It's my mess." But he insisted, and then he did something entirely unexpected and lovely. He went to the Chinese place, told them what happened, and they made me a new plate which he bought to me. I can't properly describe what this act of kindness meant to me, but it lifted the terrible dark clouds that had descended on me. And when I got home, there was a residual in my mailbox which was large enough to keep us gong for a few more months until the next draft was completed.
Well, it's a cliché, but the moment the needle slid into my arm for my first shot, I almost wept with joy, thinking: Oh my god, I'm not going to die. And up to that point, I had never allowed myself to consider that I might get sick, much less die. That was late March 2021. In January 2021, I had taken an interactive NYT quiz that indicated I would be one of the last people in Baltimore vaccinated (combination of age and health) and I had assumed I would have to wait until fall for a vaccine. Which I was happy to do. Then, in spring, things got looser, but I wouldn't have gotten a vaccination if it were not for a Baltimore-centric Facebook group that found my first appointment for me. I'm a mom and I had been holding things together in my household, trying to find that pocket of safety-without-undue-anxiety. Four weeks later, when I returned for my second shot, I spent the 15 minute waiting period wandering the cookie aisle. Bear in mind, I live in South Baltimore, which manages the trick of being gentrified and gritty, but I was in a Giant grocery store in Timonium, which is super suburban (no judgment) and I was so amazed by the selection of cookies, especially the Milanos. I had never seen so many type of Milanos in my life. And I was just so happy that I had a shot of living long enough to try ALL the Milanos. (Full disclosure: I have not tried all the Milanos.)
Every day, when I improvise giddy nonsense songs about mundane tasks in a household with two older kids who are enduring anything but normal high school and college experiences. I am hoping to lead an example of desperate joy for them, and I get to have fun, too. (They think it’s just me that’s losing it, and not the entire world.)
This is a little dark, but maybe that's the point. I'm a medical humanitarian aid worker most of the time and spent last spring in Tigray, Ethiopia, where there is an ongoing war. We weren't allowed to leave the compound all that often outside of our work responsibilities, when you did leave, you were constantly confronted by the terrible things people do to each other. Not to mention COVID was obviously still a problem and we had absolutely no supplies to manage it because of reduced access to the region. That said, every Saturday night, rain or shine, we would have a BBQ and invite all the national and international staff on the compound, we would grill whatever food was available (limited variety), play whatever music was available (also limited given internet had been cut off to the region and if you don't connect to your Spotify account after a month, you lose access to it...just as an FYI to you all). And it was this really weird feeling, every Saturday, because we tried to let go for these few hours a week despite everything literally exploding around us.
When I was released, free of charges, from jail in 2014. I'd lost pretty much everything and had no idea how to rebuild, but I was free-- and not only free, but so absolutely clear on my calling and values. I had nothing-- no means even of getting home; no way of knowing what I'd find there-- but just wanted to weep from relief and joy.
It's mostly with people, family or our grandson when you're so happy in a moment of gratitude, you want to take a snapshot in your mind to remember that particular 'special' moment, so you dont lose them, cos these moments are so precious
Running the marathon, which was already so joyful for me, but particularly, reaching the 25th mile and looking to my right and seeing a beloved old friend, who I had no idea I would see on that day. I felt propelled to the finish.
First off, loved the walk/interview with Emily St John Mandel.
Desperate joy... I was definitely pretty dang happy when I got my first vaccine dose.
This past June we took a much-needed vacation to Key West, felt as safe as we had in over a year. Went on a sunset cruise, and on the cruise back, tipsy on rum drinks, we watched the colors of the sky and the ocean around us and sang along to the Backstreet Boys on the sound system and felt happy and hopeful.
I would say the first time was when my first son was born and I was 35 (high risk), everything went fine and we had two more ankle biters after that. But the best time of desperate joy was this past Christmas, when we hadn't had a Christmas together since the pandemic started. All the boys came, without significant others (for various reasons), and they stayed much longer than normal. We fell into our early traditions, went for walks, made puzzles, ate great food (thanks to my husband who is the cook), had nary one argument or uncomfortable moment. It was almost like someone was giving us this time and saying here, enjoy, make the most, remember. It was perfect and I'll never forget it, nor expect it to be the same again. This moment in time was everything.
Desperate joy was volunteering at a vaccine clinic outside of Houston last March. That joy was paired with such strong hope - I will remember that day for a very long time. Other times I've felt desperate joy? When family or friends have achieved a dream that they've worked so hard for.
The first time (really, every time) I played Boomerang Hugs with my 20-month old son. This is a game where his father and I sit facing each other on the floor with our legs extended to make a diamond. Our son toddles back and forth between us falling into our arms for hugs.
When my father Eusebio was dying nearly 12 years ago, his four children would drive home from the hospital and assess whether or not we had a good or bad day. An example of a good day would be when a bag of medicine would be removed from the plethora inserted into him. An example of a bad day would be when his team of doctors would call us for a meeting for another perplexing problem they found. On one particular bad day, my brother, the eldest of us four, began singing in the car, "How do you solve a problem like Eusebio?" to the tune of Sound of Music's "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" and it gave us the needed buoyancy during that dark season. It was a revelation to me how you can still have good days even during a terribly bad season.
(Disclaimer: I'm sorry if it's too soon for a Pandemic S1 anecdote)
It was the point in 2020 when a lot of lockdown mandates were being lifted and my partner ventured out to Greektown. She called me from outside a specialty grocer, breathless, letting me know that she found active dry yeast—something that I hadn’t been able to buy since lockdown commenced, and I begged her to bring home as much as she could afford out-of-pocket. When I unpacked her bags, I realized it was the brand my late Nonna had used exclusively in her focaccia before she came to Chicago. It also happened to be her birthday that day. 🌹
I would say my "desperate joy" came in late summer 2021. During the uncertainty of 2020 and the hell of January-March 2021 (Long story short, my mom, brother and I got COVID-19, then Mom suffered a heart attack with Dad passing away the next day. Thankfully, Mom is healthy now!), I had quit crocheting and knitting (two things I dearly love to do). This past summer, I started feeling like I wanted to begin "playing" with yarn. The first thing I made was an amigurumi dinosaur for a co-worker. I cried when I finished the last stitch because I felt like I was getting back to myself again.
Seeing my first show at Red Rocks in July - post-vaccine but pre-Delta - with a close group of friends - looking down over the crowd as Lucinda Williams took the stage for the first time since her stroke. The resilience of her performance, the beauty of the venue, the hope that we just might finally be do such things safely again (sigh), the whole moment moved me to tears.
My oldest kid is a travel and transportation hound. Last May, when it seemed like the whole world would get vaccinated and travel became possible, I took him to Boston and NYC to ride every train we could. He wanted to ride the Mattapan Trolley before it gets taken out of service and he ended up having a super in-depth conversation with the Trolley operator and a long-time commuter about the intricacies of the trolley. It was fabulous watching him be fully in his element and enjoying life! Watching him connect with others out in the world made my momma heart just about burst. :)
I experienced 'desperate joy' in mid June 2021. I was 2 weeks post my 2nd vaccine shot and a truly spontaneous opportunity came up to go to NYC (where I attended college) to have an evening with my college girls where most of us would happen to be in town for the night. It was my first time traveling out of state in a year and a half and seeing these girls for the first time in 2 years. The weather was absolute perfection - about 79 degrees. We took a ferry from Astoria Queens to lower Manhattan, had a wonderful dinner on a rooftop restaurant, and drank wine. I was in complete bliss. It was the first time in so long I actually felt alive and like I was living. To be with these ladies that I love so much, to laugh, catch up, sip wine, and hug. The little intimacies that we had all been missing for far too long. I was happy, excited, drunk on the possibilities of what the rest of summer would look like. I was hopeful and grateful. The evening was beyond magical.
November 7, 2020. I was watching my 16-year-old daughter's soccer game at the Parade Grounds; it was the 4th quarter. Her coach, the referee, and every adult on the sideline and on every sideline that day were glued to their phones for updates as the mail-in ballot counts continued to come in and we waited for someone to declare the solid winner. Every weekend during the fall and spring soccer seasons a multi-generational group of men originating from several different Caribbean islands gathers at the picnic tables between fields 8 and 9. They bring trays of food-- peas & rice, jerk chicken, yams--and stand around with their plates listening to island music, chatting, and watching the soccer games. That day, at the moment when the news came down that Biden had prevailed there rose a wave of elation that swept the expanse of those fields, the girls on the field pumping their fists as they continued to chase down the ball and their opponents, moms and dads jumping up and down, hugging and whooping, the drivers in car traffic down Parkside and up Caton blaring their relief as they lay on their horns... and the men with their plates began dancing and singing, the cadences of Jamaica and Barbados and St. Lucia blending in a spontaneous chant: "President Biden, President Biden, President Biden!" As soon as the final whistle blew, my daughter and I hopped on our bikes and just rode around the streets of Brooklyn for hours, fists raised, wind in our faces, high-fiving everyone we passed on foot and from car windows, screaming and calling out with desperate joy: "President Biden, President Biden, President Biden!"
It was around 1998 or so. It was Christmas-time, and I had been expecting a large check for a screenplay I had just turned in. Only it wasn't a large check. The IRS had taken like 90% of it for reasons I was entirely clear about. I was broke, angry, and frustrated. My wife and I went to the take out section of our local shopping mall. I got Chinese food, and I was gesturing unhappily, I knocked the tray to the floor. Food went everywhere. I cursed. It was the last straw. Everything seemed entirely hopeless. And then, an Iranian busboy came by and started cleaning up. "You don't have to do that," I told him, "It's my mess." But he insisted, and then he did something entirely unexpected and lovely. He went to the Chinese place, told them what happened, and they made me a new plate which he bought to me. I can't properly describe what this act of kindness meant to me, but it lifted the terrible dark clouds that had descended on me. And when I got home, there was a residual in my mailbox which was large enough to keep us gong for a few more months until the next draft was completed.
Well, it's a cliché, but the moment the needle slid into my arm for my first shot, I almost wept with joy, thinking: Oh my god, I'm not going to die. And up to that point, I had never allowed myself to consider that I might get sick, much less die. That was late March 2021. In January 2021, I had taken an interactive NYT quiz that indicated I would be one of the last people in Baltimore vaccinated (combination of age and health) and I had assumed I would have to wait until fall for a vaccine. Which I was happy to do. Then, in spring, things got looser, but I wouldn't have gotten a vaccination if it were not for a Baltimore-centric Facebook group that found my first appointment for me. I'm a mom and I had been holding things together in my household, trying to find that pocket of safety-without-undue-anxiety. Four weeks later, when I returned for my second shot, I spent the 15 minute waiting period wandering the cookie aisle. Bear in mind, I live in South Baltimore, which manages the trick of being gentrified and gritty, but I was in a Giant grocery store in Timonium, which is super suburban (no judgment) and I was so amazed by the selection of cookies, especially the Milanos. I had never seen so many type of Milanos in my life. And I was just so happy that I had a shot of living long enough to try ALL the Milanos. (Full disclosure: I have not tried all the Milanos.)
Every day, when I improvise giddy nonsense songs about mundane tasks in a household with two older kids who are enduring anything but normal high school and college experiences. I am hoping to lead an example of desperate joy for them, and I get to have fun, too. (They think it’s just me that’s losing it, and not the entire world.)
This is a little dark, but maybe that's the point. I'm a medical humanitarian aid worker most of the time and spent last spring in Tigray, Ethiopia, where there is an ongoing war. We weren't allowed to leave the compound all that often outside of our work responsibilities, when you did leave, you were constantly confronted by the terrible things people do to each other. Not to mention COVID was obviously still a problem and we had absolutely no supplies to manage it because of reduced access to the region. That said, every Saturday night, rain or shine, we would have a BBQ and invite all the national and international staff on the compound, we would grill whatever food was available (limited variety), play whatever music was available (also limited given internet had been cut off to the region and if you don't connect to your Spotify account after a month, you lose access to it...just as an FYI to you all). And it was this really weird feeling, every Saturday, because we tried to let go for these few hours a week despite everything literally exploding around us.
When I was released, free of charges, from jail in 2014. I'd lost pretty much everything and had no idea how to rebuild, but I was free-- and not only free, but so absolutely clear on my calling and values. I had nothing-- no means even of getting home; no way of knowing what I'd find there-- but just wanted to weep from relief and joy.
It's mostly with people, family or our grandson when you're so happy in a moment of gratitude, you want to take a snapshot in your mind to remember that particular 'special' moment, so you dont lose them, cos these moments are so precious
Running the marathon, which was already so joyful for me, but particularly, reaching the 25th mile and looking to my right and seeing a beloved old friend, who I had no idea I would see on that day. I felt propelled to the finish.
First off, loved the walk/interview with Emily St John Mandel.
Desperate joy... I was definitely pretty dang happy when I got my first vaccine dose.
This past June we took a much-needed vacation to Key West, felt as safe as we had in over a year. Went on a sunset cruise, and on the cruise back, tipsy on rum drinks, we watched the colors of the sky and the ocean around us and sang along to the Backstreet Boys on the sound system and felt happy and hopeful.
I would say the first time was when my first son was born and I was 35 (high risk), everything went fine and we had two more ankle biters after that. But the best time of desperate joy was this past Christmas, when we hadn't had a Christmas together since the pandemic started. All the boys came, without significant others (for various reasons), and they stayed much longer than normal. We fell into our early traditions, went for walks, made puzzles, ate great food (thanks to my husband who is the cook), had nary one argument or uncomfortable moment. It was almost like someone was giving us this time and saying here, enjoy, make the most, remember. It was perfect and I'll never forget it, nor expect it to be the same again. This moment in time was everything.
Desperate joy was volunteering at a vaccine clinic outside of Houston last March. That joy was paired with such strong hope - I will remember that day for a very long time. Other times I've felt desperate joy? When family or friends have achieved a dream that they've worked so hard for.
The first time (really, every time) I played Boomerang Hugs with my 20-month old son. This is a game where his father and I sit facing each other on the floor with our legs extended to make a diamond. Our son toddles back and forth between us falling into our arms for hugs.
Thank you! That was a wonderful interview with EStJM. So many good questions!
When my father Eusebio was dying nearly 12 years ago, his four children would drive home from the hospital and assess whether or not we had a good or bad day. An example of a good day would be when a bag of medicine would be removed from the plethora inserted into him. An example of a bad day would be when his team of doctors would call us for a meeting for another perplexing problem they found. On one particular bad day, my brother, the eldest of us four, began singing in the car, "How do you solve a problem like Eusebio?" to the tune of Sound of Music's "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" and it gave us the needed buoyancy during that dark season. It was a revelation to me how you can still have good days even during a terribly bad season.