Kind of the Opposite of the Reese's Motto, There Seems to Be a Wrong Way to Quarantine

Is it insensitive to bake at a time like this? I made peanut butter cookies today. While I ate one I watched a short news segment about a Chicago food bank having to turn hundreds of families away. My snack was perfectly chewy and warm. I ate the treat because I wanted the treat and not because I was particularly hungry. I set it down, opened my laptop, and started working on my new play. A few minutes later, admiring the little art hovel my bed had become, I posted a Huji-filtered photo of my baked good near my open script to Instagram. I think of how the most woke followers on my timeline will interpret the story, and then I think about the Holocaust.

A couple summers ago I toured a former concentration camp in Germany (Sachsenhausen). On the way from the train to the actual site our guide made a point of noting, "We are walking the exact path interned Jews walked. And these big houses were indeed all here. So people in their homes watched this happen, in no uncertain terms, right from their nice windows." That moment has stuck with me more than anything else I saw that day. (Although in close second place: watching a fellow American vape weed near the crematorium.) It feels impossible to leave such a horrific place and not silently vow, "If I had been here in that time, I would have done my part to fight this." But would I have? It's easy to assume most of the people in the pretty homes were anti-semitic and evil. But more likely did they simply think they were too insignificant to drum up change? Or perhaps they just got distracted. Honestly, what had I done to end genocide lately? Back at the hotel that night I signed up for a monthly donation to aid refugees fleeing Myanmar.

What is my responsibility in this terrible time? Most people (memes?) be like, "All you have to do to be a hero is stay inside and watch TV! LOL!" I'm on Day 25 of serious social-distancing. I've donated to six charities. Is that enough? I'm very aware I have a little savings egg in my bank account, putting me in a WILDLY better position than most people in the country. But also, I am unemployed in a competitive industry. It's entirely possible I snag a good job when this is over (July? December?) or entirely possible I truly (Norma Desmond voice) "never work in this town again!" No online shopping for this old girl. Postmates? Forget it. But should I donate five-thousand dollars to the previously mentioned food bank?

Or, at least, should I not post cutesy little photos on my social media while thousands of people are dying? But, question, was that not true before? This is the first year of my whole life I made more than 28K. I made triple. I feel like a sultan after the perpetual brokeness of my 20s. I took a fancy Hawaiian trip over Christmas, and I felt both limitless joy and intolerable guilt every day. In the airport, before my return flight, I posted a photo of me in an infinity pool, read an article about holidays in prison, and then deleted the picture. If there were any justice in this world, would any of us ever be happy in this unfair trash can known as America?

I've been on the other side of this mirth-policing before. I am on it now. I see friends of mine who grew up wealthy mindlessly tweeting about Animal Crossing and Tiger King. I want to crawl through the web and demand if they've also felt appropriately bad yet. I'm sure they have! And this is their way of promoting normalcy so they don't, I don't know, go insane or become suicidal, but I pull out my shrewd Nancy Drew cap anyway. In case.

On November 9th, 2016 I had improv class. I thought about not going, but what else would I do? Just keep crying into my pan of rice krispies? Our teacher stood in front of us, "Obviously, this isn't a normal class" he said. "What should we do? Talk it out? The regular lesson plan? Something really goofy to get us laughing?" Most people we quiet. Several girls had their hoodies up, mascara running down their faces. I said, "It feels wrong to try to be funny right now. Nothing is funny." This tall, super-smiley blonde 22-year old boy with a fat grin on his face rallied us like he was an extra in a GD production of Newsies, "I think we need to smile! Let's do something silly to list our spirits!" I shot daggers at this boy. Our teacher nodded, we all got up, and I sobbed through a game of Zip, Zap, Zop. After that class ended, the theatre cast me and that guy on a weekly show. I never trusted him.