To be Frank, or at least share her ideals

Meeting a heroine, as if for the first time.

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Ty Ty assisting Ben

 Corona fatigue.  Almost eight months of quarantining with no end in sight, and we’re all feeling it, from my parents in their 80’s to my 4-year old son.  The novelty of daily life with COVID has worn off, even in a new state. I’m out of ideas to motivate my daughters for virtual learning, despite their amazing teachers.
 
Mentally, we know we're totally fine (barring anyone who has the disease or has lost their job, of course), and yet, emotionally, we’re tired of quarantining.  
 
I find unexpected inspiration in my daughter Lillie Grace and her fourth grade “passion project”. She is designing a comparative study of living through COVID 19 vs. what my grandparents lived through (WWI, Spanish influenza, the Great Depression, WWII – (Grandpa fought in the European Theater), Korean & Vietnam Wars).  My daughter’s keeping it historical, not even getting personal, as Nana was raised in an orphanage after her Polish immigrant mother died in childbirth with her fourth child, when Nana was 2.
 
Lil's project shows it’s pretty much an open book test for this, our generation’s time of testing: wear your mask, don’t gather in large groups, socialize virtually. We can still find solace in Netflix, zoom meetings, the internet, shopping, great books, family games, long walks outside… Yet COVID cases are skyrocketing again. Why the epic fail?
 
Lillie’s exploration into WWII reminds me of how I was Anne Frank’s age when I visited the hidden annex where Anne and seven other people lived for 761 days.  At the time, what I most recall thinking is that, aside from her actual demise, the setup was actually kind of cool: this bookcase hiding stairs to a secret apartment, wherein she no longer had the pressure of school breathing down her neck. Now, I’m thinking, “WTF, teenage self: you thought that was kinda COOL? How bad did you make the pressure of school??? Talk about missing the forest for the trees!”  (sounds like somebody needs a hug....)
 
It shows me how hard it is to really empathize with someone until you’ve experienced even a drop of what they’re going through. 
 
Now that I have the slightest inkling of Anne's predicament, my thoughts drift to that awful moment when the Nazis finally took her away. Did she feel a secret moment of delight in breathing fresh air for the first time in over two years (??!?!?!), or was she too terrified to register that?  Could I ever, even at my best self, while trapped inside with the same people fearing for our lives, write: “It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”? 

I struggle with her optimism during Trump’s presidency, where almost half our country thinks his leadership of hate, greed and deceit is not only acceptable, but worth continuing. So when I'm honest with myself, my fatigue is not just about our quarantine, it's helplessness about the blatant selfishness our leader promotes, and the minions who think that is what makes our country great.  How on earth did Anne maintain her faith in humanity during Hitler’s genocide? "WTF Anne?", I can hear my teenage self ask.
 
Wishing I could share her belief in the goodness of people but fearing more fraud in our upcoming presidential election, I distract myself by trying to get the new house together. In our case, that means hiring a mask-wearing handy man. My husband, gifted at a myriad of things like marketing, marriage, raising children, and cooking, lacks the handyman...knack. Give him a Chinese-made desk to assemble, and, many hours and curses later, things appear as clear as a Trump tweet.  For sanity, there are some risks that must be taken in these dangerous times.
 
Enter Handyman Ben*: a kind retiree in his 70s, a father to four boys, grandfather to seven. While building the aforementioned Chinese desk, mounting the TV, and repairing our armoire, I learn that he is also unexpectedly becoming a father to two more boys this week.
 
You read that right. Now, in the age of Trump and Harvey Weinstein, it sounds kinda sordid, so read on:
 
Ben and his wife fostered a boy named Isaac about five years ago. Isaac moved on in the system, and then got into trouble with the law. When asked what social workers should do with him, Isaac replied, “Take me home, back to Ben and Irene’s.” So Isaac, now 11, returned to Ben and Irene’s, who by this time had stopped fostering, but cared deeply about him. This time, Isaac’s 12-year old brother Paul visited him, and decided he wanted to live with them too. Ben and Irene agreed to foster the brothers until their case came up.  They still envisioned a quiet and peaceful retirement, visiting their children and grandchildren. However, at the case meeting, they learned the boys’ father is still in prison, their mother still on drugs, and no one else in the boys’ extended family wants them. 
 
Ben said it broke his heart to think of Isaac and Paul being unwanted.  He looked at Irene and they knew.  Their adoption is finalized today. 
 
So only weeks before our unchartered election, Ben (two decades younger than Anne Frank) breathes new life into her words, and I marvel once again at the beauty in our broken world: 
“It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”  

Yes, I keep my ideals because in spite of everything, I do still believe that people are really good at heart....certainly not all people, not even many people, but just enough to keep me going.

*I changed the names ​