Quarantine Album

t all started with a very simple request: I asked my mom, when she had time, could she look through old photos to see if there were any of pint-size me decked out for Halloween—primo Instagram content for my show (a podcast about scary movies from people not typically depicted in scary movies). Then came the pandemic and the shutdowns and the shelter in place. Suddenly, live from the (self-) quarantine, my mother had nothing but time. She went through shoebox after shoebox of old photographs, sending me iPhone snaps of pics from every era of my life, literally FLOODING me with team. I wash my hands. I tell them it’s really hard watching scary movies right now. I can’t consume anything with tension. Roy is sending me a Marco Polo about where to store potatoes. I wash my hands. My mom texts me something that I’m ignoring because if I respond too soon she’ll send fifteen more texts in a row. I’m doing a Houseparty with Lauren. We like to play version of Pictionary because neither of us is particularly good at drawing. It launches us into giggle fits. It helps. It helps, but my body knows she’s not in front of me. I hate cooking. I suck at it. I wrote a whole book about it. I did a lot of research on it. I wash my hands. I have an interview on Instagram Live with a chef. He says, “You know so much about cooking but you can’t cook?” I say, “Yes.” It’s a Greek tragedy. I live. My director is about to send me her pass on my script. Without saying too much, the main character is named Tommy, and he’s from a reservation in Southern California, lives in Brooklyn, and is a poet. I have imagination. I read my mom’s text. She tells me how to scramble eggs. She tells me how to make tortillas. I want fuzzy comfort. I wash my hands. I ask her to look through old photos. The team wants a pic of me as a kid in a Halloween costume for Instagram promo. The thin membrane over my wobbly panic thins. My “furniture deals” group chat is talking about our enemies. I wash my hands. We talk about ain’t shit men. When lockdown started I told them, “I love y’all, but I’m not reading yr quarantine essays.” Writing this is hard. It’s the first thing I’ve written in seven weeks. It’s a quarantine essay. I convince producer Alex to do an hour’s worth of Tracy Anderson DVD workouts on YouTube with me every day. “Tracy time!” we text each other each afternoon. It helps. Mom texts me an old school-picture-day pic. I think it’s second grade. I have silver teeth and a rez mullet. My “UNSAFE SPACE” group chat is talking about BM’s. My “hailpaimon” group chat is talking about . Again. Mom texts me a picture of Papa in his Wild Bunch jacket. My Houseparty with Marcos and Tazbah, which we call “House Party Dolls,” is tectonic in laughter. Then it ends. I’m in my living room again. I turn off the lights. I lie in bed. I wash my hands. I wash my hands. I wash my hands. Ryan sends me a Marco Polo reminiscing on the universal gay demon pishposh about being young and loving a straight guy. He’s six foot a hundred. We used to have a flirty thing but now we have a friendly one. In my “Food 4 Thot” group chat the gaggle is all caps about the new Tracee Ellis Ross, about the middle-aged singer who wants to record some more bops. It helps. Oh Lord in heaven, does it help. Mom texts me a pic of preschool me on my old bed with all my stuffed animals at attention. I liked seeing their eyes at night. I felt less alone. I FaceTime with Niqui. She’s my favorite photographer. I wash my hands. She says it’s hard, making art. It’s Monday. It’s Saturday. It’s the fifth. It’s the fifteenth. We end the chat tipsy drunk, saying, “Let’s have another one.” I wipe down my groceries. I wash my masks in the tub. There’s the one for when I get the mail or take out the trash. There’s the one for my run. I go to the bathroom. I shut the door. I turn off the lights. I sing. The pounding slows down and I smile, like I full-on grin. I’m sweating off my tinted moisturizer again. Joe is a virologist. He says that we’ve been isolating long enough that we can start to open our social circles by one, as long as we trust they’ve done the same. It’s more than one, but “one” had a nice rhyme so I chose that word. I’m writing. It’s my dominion. Morgan is my plus-one. It takes me three Janet Jackson songs to walk to her house. Her dog barks a lot but likes me now. I want to cry. I’m in the same room as someone I love. Mom texts me a pic of her and Grandma at the table playing guitar. These aren’t what I asked for but I can’t ask for more. I think of little me after bedtime, sitting in my sleep shirt in the doorframe, listening to Mama and Grandma making music in the other room. I’d fall asleep like this, comforted, and Mama would lift me back to bed by herself. I wash my hands. I Zoom my therapist. I do cry. It helps. It helps. It helps.