My eight-year-old has been crying for days. Any mention of the coronavirus sets her off. She scared she’s going to infect the teachers at school, even though she’s not sick. She’s terrified of things she cannot articulate. Her stomach is nauseous, her face pale.
Because anxiety is more catching than any coronavirus, I leave the house each morning before dawn and cycle through the cool March air, up and down the hills to the Brisbane River. I bike through the dark before my daughter wakes.
This morning there is fresh graffiti in the tunnel on the bike path: ‘No Income Still Pay Rent’. And it hits me like a punch in the gut: I still have a job, an income. I’m lucky. My university cancelled classes on campus, but we’ve all gone online and even though we moan about Zooming and discussion boards, at least we have a job to complain about.
The graffiti must’ve been sprayed last night after our federal government closed bars, restaurants and cafes yesterday at noon putting tens of thousands of people out of work in an instant. Luckily, the café on the bike path bridge in Brisbane is still open, though they’ve had to take the stools away. I ask the young men behind the counter how they’re coping. Their hours have all been reduced and they’re scared that the café could shut at any moment. They look stressed.
I meet up with the same women I always meet up with on the bridge and we stand at a social distance and talk about what everyone talks about these days: COVID-19. And then I tell them about the graffiti and we agree how lucky we are to still have jobs. Our conversation shifts from fear and disgust at social media to compassion as we brainstorm what we can do to try to keep the economy afloat at a safe social distance. We say our goodbyes and I bike home, where my daughter’s awake in bed in a foetal position, crying.
I hug her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say and I want to tell her everything’s OK, but I don’t want to lie. And so I tell her a story about the café, about how when I left I tipped the baristas forty dollars because I’m still working and they don’t know how long they’ll have a job. I tell her how lucky we are, that we can use the money we have to support our local café in Toowong. They’re still doing take-away.
'We’ll get through today. And then we’ll get through tomorrow. And perhaps this is all we can do in a time of crisis: get through the day, be kind, and in turn feel better ourselves.'
She looks at me, sits up and reaches for her wallet. She takes out the $15. ‘I can spend this money,’ she says and almost smiles.
‘That’s right — we can buy smoothies at the café and this will help them.’ And there’s the gappy smile. She slowly gets dressed and goes to school, where the desks are set apart, where they’ll watch another video on how to wash hands, where all sport is cancelled. But she loves school — loves being around other kids and caring teachers.
We’ll get through today. And then we’ll get through tomorrow. And perhaps this is all we can do in a time of crisis: get through the day, be kind, and in turn feel better ourselves.
So how can you be kinder to your suburb? Lend your car to someone who used to wait tables at your local restaurant or cafe and is now delivering food. Purchase gift cards for your local bookshop or boutique. If these stores survive, you can cash them in later, but right now they need money to pay rent.
If you can afford it, get takeaway, or use money that would’ve gone on swim lessons or sport for your kids and spend it at your favourite local shop. And I know this isn’t the Australian way, but in times like this, tipping an extra $10 or $20 may mean dinner for someone and their family.
In my experience, you never regret giving. And, selfishly, by giving we may just keep our favourite bookstores and cafes open for business when all this passes. It will pass.
Sarah Klenbort is a writer and sesional academic at Queensland University, where she teaches creative writing. She also teaches memoir at the Queensland Writers Centre. Sarah's work has appeared in Eureka Street, The Guardian, Best Australian Stories, Overland and other publications here and overseas.
Main image: Grafitti on the wall, 'No income, still pay rent'. (Sarah Klenbort)