My Neighbor in the Post Office // A.C.

My Neighbor in the Post Office // A.C.

First, I want to say upfront that I am writing about the wildfire disaster in Los Angeles, specifically about the Eaton fire. It is very important to me that any reader who needs to step away from this subject has the chance to do so. But my home is here—still here, thankfully—and I cannot bring myself to write about much else in this moment.

—-

“Excuse me,” the stranger in front of me in line said suddenly. “Can you tell me what color my shoes are?”

I was caught off guard, but felt obliged by the sense of urgency in her voice to give it a quick look. “Uhh…I would say those are black.” She replied almost before I finished my sentence. “That’s what my family keeps telling me!” She spoke rapidly, with excitement, but her eyes were distant. “I swore up and down these were navy blue when I bought them. Of course, that was before everything. Now I really can’t tell. I don’t know. I just grabbed them.” I glanced down again. The soles and lower parts of her black or navy blue shoes were caked with an inch of yellow-grey ash. Her leggings, overcoat, beanie and frayed gloves were streaked and dusted with the same. I met her darting eyes briefly, and understood. Before either of us could say anything, her phone rang and she shifted away to answer. “Hello? Yeah, I’m at the post office now. The line’s long. They’ve got a separate line handling mail pickup for everyone from Altadena outside. No, I’m just buying some stamps. All right. Love you, too. Bye.”

I considered, and instantly discarded, an instinct to ask “You doing okay?” I’ve come to dread that question in the weeks since the wildfires. Maybe that doesn’t reflect well on me. I know well enough that if someone asks that, it generally means they care about your well-being. They wish to know if something is wrong, and whether they can help. It’s a kindness. I’ve asked it and meant it as such, too. Why, then, has hearing and replying to it over and over again come to feel so heavy? I’ve thought that something must be broken in me, to receive such a fervent outpouring of care and offers of support, and then feel in response a terrible sadness, terrible resentment. It’s mixed in with gratitude, of course, and the people who care enough to ask if I’m okay are not to blame. The ugly feeling comes from the answer bitten down inside, which social cues tell me not to speak out loud: “Honestly, no. Maybe not.” I think most everyone standing behind me in that line, down the hall of postal lockers and to the sliding glass front doors, could understand that. Without turning to look, I could sense, like a radiance, their empathy and awareness as they listened in. Some, like me, held brightly wrapped packages—Christmas gifts that had already been late before they became impossible to send, until now. Their eyes were furtive, strained or blank, over N95 masks or clenched jaws. How many of them had lost their belongings? Their safety net? Their homes? The woman in front of me pocketed her phone and leaned over on the packaging table, rustling the scattered envelopes and mailers. After a moment, she said, “I have never, ever in my life seen such destruction.”

I didn’t ask her to elaborate. It seemed kinder not to, and there is no need. The images are everywhere. When it comes to disasters and the suffering of those impacted by it, there is a point at which critical coverage and the sharing of helpful information becomes relentless voyeurism and fuel for fear, rage or despair. That line is easy to cross without noticing. But it doesn’t matter how good our intentions are; we can still get sick from it, and make others sick. This double-edged quality of bearing witness has always existed, and continuous social media exposure makes it worse. I won’t contribute. What I will do is tell you some things I have read and felt since I returned home from evacuation.

Lately, reading the work of Wendell Berry has been a great comfort to me. He is an essayist and poet who lives on a farm in rural Kentucky, on land that has been in his family throughout a long and troubled history. He writes about the slow, difficult and rewarding work of farming, and what people and the earth can give each other. He also writes about what industrial and corporate greed has taken, twisted or destroyed from people and the earth’s dignity, in order to serve the idea of infinite growth, consumption and profit. But always, he returns to forests, footpaths, rivers, creatures and soil, and the potential for renewal that opens up when these things are cherished. Most of the essays that I read in this specific collection, The World-Ending Fire, were written between the 1960s and 1990s. Some were written for specific audiences with whom I may not have much in common. I didn’t agree with every word. But the things that did resonate cut straight to my heart. The words are patient, wise, angry, sorrowful and committed. It was exactly what I needed to read while sitting on the floor next to the air filter at the start of this difficult year. After deciding to construct a pond on his farm, Berry carves out part of the hillside, which collapses entirely during the next torrential rainy season. He writes:

“In general, I have used my farm carefully…my aim has been to go against its history and to repair the damage of other people. But now a part of this damage is my own…until that wound in the hillside, my place, is healed, there will be something impaired in my mind. My peace is damaged. I will not be able to forget it.”

I was thinking of those words as I stood there in the post office and listened to the person in front of me. She repeated, “Never seen anything like it in my life.”

“They say it’s the worst it’s ever been, here.” I said carefully.

She nodded, eyes wide. “And you know, I was around the last time there was a big one, some years back. But this one…” She trailed off. “It’s going to take a long time to get back from this. If we can even stick around.”

“Next in line!” the worker at the counter called out.

I didn’t know what else to say. We were strangers, and neighbors. “You take care.”

“Thank you.”

She bought stamps, and I sent my packages and went home, grateful and unsettled. Are we okay? At a time like this, it’s the kind of question that’s easy to answer on one level, much harder to answer on another. And it brings up more like it.

How do I take care, give care?

How do I live through this violence? How do I go on without adding to it?

What needs to change, and how can I make it better?

What can I do, who can I reach, with my own hands, my own words?

Who’s next in line?

What color are my shoes?

I look down at the ground to check, and think about where I stand.

___

Text and photos by: A.C. Esguerra

Where to find A.C. : instagram @blueludebar

Read other stories by A.C. : Here

 

 

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