Where Do We Go From Here?
I started by going to the bank
Anyone who has read my work or knows me in real life knows my politics. I’m an unapologetic liberal Democrat, so election night was a dark deja vu of the 2016 election, and I spent most of Wednesday toggling between ‘numb’ and ‘sobbing.’
As I said in one of my media posts, “It’s like finding out your cancer is no longer in remission.”
But life goes along, and today I had to go to the bank.
I was trying to start an Estate Account for a small amount of money that I received from unclaimed funds for my dad. This process of exploring and claiming funds has taken over a year and has been purgatorial. (Filings with courts, requesting death records, getting signoff from family, and many, many notorizations from this bank.) In the end, after endless hoops jumped and “T’s” crossed, I had the whopping sum of $65.87. Not only was it paltry, but I had to put it into an account so I could disperse the funds and then report back to the court. Sigh.
As I explained this all to the bank employee, she looked at the documentation and she looked at the amount on the check. She sympathized with my longsuffering journey, but she sat up and her posture became officious. The kind of energy people have when they have to tell you an official, “no.” I braced for some version of, “Unfortunately, we are unable…”
Sure enough, the amount was too small for them to go through the formal process of initiating an account. I asked her what else I could do. After checking with her manager, she reported that they could authorize cashing the check to be put into my personal account. This whole claiming process has been like trying to figure out Martian jurisprudence to me, so I checked with the people who had helped me find and claim the funds. We all agreed it was worth a go to get this money out of the claiming queue. So I did that — cashed it and put it into my personal account. I’ll use that one to “disperse” the funds.
I thanked her for her help.
While I was at it, I wanted to deposit some money in my account to cover the cost of the safety deposit box I have at that bank. It’s really the reason I have the account at all.
After I wrote the check for deposit, the bank lady pointed out that I had written the wrong date. I had put “October” instead of “November.” Up until this time she had been kind and polite, but extremely formal and professional. She was on her side of the desk, and I was on mine. When she pointed out my mistake, I crossed out the date and put in the right one. I heaved a great sigh and felt my shoulders drop in surrender.
I said, “I’m sorry. My brain doesn’t seem to have accompanied my body today. There is a fogginess and numbness that reminds me of 9/ll — I felt ‘unreal’ that day too, and it seemed like there was something big and dark at work and I was just a little pawn wandering around in it. I’m not sure if it’s the election, or the terrible accident I passed coming over here, or the deer that jumped in front of my car as I left my house. But for some reason, I can’t seem to make my gray matter join my current reality. It’s probably mostly the election. I’m trying to recover.”
Now, clearly, this is not how I usually talk to bank employees. It’s a testament to my unplugged state of mind. I knew it sounded crazy, or loopy, and I blathered it all at her anyway. When I mentioned the election, she stiffened visibly.
“Crap,” I thought, “She is a Trumper.”
A little embarrassed at how much I had said, I put my checkbook back into my purse. Time to leave.
She looked back and forth, checking to see if her colleagues were listening. She leaned forward and whispered, “I have a trans kid.”
The air between us loosened up and softened.
“I teach at the alternative middle school,” I said. “These are home-schooled kids with all sorts of backgrounds. Trans, special needs, learning problems, social anxiety.” I thought about the little band of characters that I taught writing to two days a week. Quirky and dear. Ranging from brilliant to struggling, all of them doing their earnest best.
“I’m worried for my students and my grandkids,” I said.
“I’m worried for my child, too. They are twenty-two and just moved out to another state.”
I asked her what her child’s name was, and she told me.
“Thoughts and prayers,” I smiled, meaning it.
She closed her eyes, inhaled and nodded.
There we were, just two women sitting together scared for our young ones.
I asked if I could give her a hug.
She hopped up and came around the desk. She hugged me like I was a lifelong friend she hadn’t seen in years. That hug said that we were on the same team and that we were in for some stuff.
I told her to take good care of herself. She wished me the same.
Something turned in my heart as I walked to the car. Something warm passed through my body and began to clear the fog.
We must continue to see each other. There is work for us to do. We must form an invisible web to protect the children and to shift the balance. The odds are long, but we have to try.
I stopped for ice cream on the way home from the bank.
We’re going to need our strength.
