When it comes to Asian-American grief, do Americans want to know?

Editor’s note: I wrote a version of on Tuesday (a rare day off!) to revise later and then…did not. Slightly revised and updated as of Sunday 28 at 3.30pm CT. There will be a regularly-scheduled missive tonight as usual. It will be more chill. Probabloy.

I have spent most of this pandemic furious. My default state is unimpressed; furious is an escalation.

Furious because so many people have died and so many more are grieving. Because we keep treating this generational trauma, this mass-casualty event, this unrelenting series of tragedies, as if it mere background. Background to the necessity of the endless meetings. Background to the urgency of the daily task list. Background to the “I don’t know if you saw my email but”. Background to the five seconds of deep breathing to make sure you show up smiling to the Zoom call. As if this is a distraction which does not merit our individual or collective attention and could we all shut up and stop complaining and just get back to work already. Furious because for some people all this death, all this suffering, is just an inconvenience, a blip, a slightly longer time between Caribbean vacations.

That if I have spent most of this pandemic furious is a true statement and an incomplete one. I have been furious for years.