Stories from our Congregation - Empathy by Lindy Vega

Lindy Vega is a writer, reader and researcher living in Sayulita, Nayarit, Mexico with her husband Javier and their son Kobe. They also own and operate Alquimista Restaurant at the corner of Avenida Revolución and Calle Libertad (a conceptual duo that they channel into their life, work and general ethos as well).

Lindy and Javi recently reconnected with Forefront remotely through the livestream services and have loved getting to know this community.

I met my husband in the kitchen of a barbeque restaurant in Times Square. I carried fresh cartons of milk up from the walk-in to stock the lowboys in the coffee station before the shift started, but when I got to the top of the stairs, I just stood there for a second, not moving, four gallons of milk in my hands. My husband asked me what I was thinking about. I shook my head, said it was nothing, just lost in thought. He said, “You thinking about me?”

Eight years later, we moved to Mexico, and I married him in his hometown with a volcano blowing smoke into the air beyond us.

When the coronavirus started ravaging New York City in the early days of this pandemic, people from all different parts of our life reached out to ask about our friends and family still living there. “Are they okay?” they asked. A few paused, dropping their voices before asking, “Has anyone you know died?” All of these people asked with genuine concern and care, but most weren’t prepared to hear the answer.

The answer is yes. Eighteen of our friends or extended family have died from COVID-19. Many, many more were sick and hospitalized. Depending on who you are, this number might sound high. It might seem shocking. But the reality for my husband and I is that much of our community is made up of those most vulnerable and least resourced in this crisis: the undocumented and uninsured, artists, restaurant and service industry workers who couldn’t afford to quit working when the first warnings came, and were also least likely to seek medical care when they developed symptoms for fear of costs they couldn’t pay or revealing their immigration status.

We have watched the 45th president malign and despise our community from the very first day he announced his candidacy (someday my son will be old enough to google that clip and watch his president call his dad a criminal and a rapist). We have watched him craft and enforce a zero tolerance policy to separate children from their parents at the United States/Mexico border (545 of which have still not been reunited). And now, we have watched our friends and family die as the president goes on national television and tells the world that this virus affects virtually nobody.

Last week, my husband was on the phone with his mom. As they talked, the body of one of the men of their town that had been shipped home from New York after his death, was being carried down the street past her door en route to his family’s home.

Valeria Luiselli wrote that “the stories of deepest horror are perhaps those for which there are no numbers, no maps, no possible accountability, no words ever written or spoken.” Not one of the eighteen people in our life that have lost their lives to COVID-19 had legal status to vote. My husband doesn’t have that right either. My son is too young. When I filled out my ballot this year, I did it with my husband, my son, and those eighteen deaths in my mind. I held our reality close and I leaned into it with every choice.

But, acknowledging this reality – looking it in the eye – is about more than just a vote in this election. It’s about an orientation toward the political landscape and toward systems of oppression that understands that when we protect, defend and empower our most vulnerable – when we orient ourselves, our votes, our infrastructure and our systems of support toward their needs – it ensures we will all be protected, defended and empowered.

Maybe that sounds like a nice idea – beautiful, but vague. So, here’s what we’re talking about: if we make healthcare policies focused on the needs of the uninsured and the homeless, education policies centering under-resourced students without access to home wifi, and immigration policies that prioritize just and humane treatment at our borders, the result will be that we all have access to preventative and curative healthcare, all of our children will be educated, and everyone who comes to our borders can find refuge and a clear path to belonging. If instead, we make our policies centered on those with the most privilege, then everyone outside of that circle is left vulnerable and exposed

Two days before the election, in our town on the Pacific coast of Mexico, we celebrated Día de los Muertos with paths of dried, crushed marigolds and painted skulls made of meringue powder and sugar. We decorated our doorstep with paper flowers and candles and photos of all those we have lost. We wrote their names and invited them to come home, to step into the light and be remembered. This year, there were so many more names to write.

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