(I know you’re thinking I’ve multiple personalities–last week Kelly Clarkson and this week Hester Prynne. Don’t we all?)
Many of us read The Scarlet Letter in high school. Hester Prynne, an unwed mother in the Puritan Massachusetts Colony is subjected to not only public humiliation, but to prison for refusing to identify her child’s father. She is forced to wear a scarlet A for the rest of her life. And though the author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, never defines the significance of A, most agree it meant adulteress.
Though my children are legitimate, this week I became a marked woman, despite the fact my state welcomes folk:
I’m forced to wear the red letter. Arizona is the new coronavirus epicenter! If I decide to fly to Hawaii, New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut, I must be quarantined for two weeks in these states. Not that I’m contemplating an airplane ride, but I never thought I’d experience lockup upon arrival. Next week, all Americans will not be permitted to travel to Europe.
I refuse to blame anyone in particular, except us. Many of us ignored precautionary measures. Many of us flocked to the beaches, bars, and night clubs when restrictions eased. Many of us acted like the dragon was slain. In retrospect, we are responsible for the spikes in cases in Texas, Florida, California, and Arizona.
Fortunately, one of my alma maters has a logo, which I can easily have branded on my forehead:
I’ll get the tattoo guy to change to maroon to scarlet red. Then, everyone will know Arizona Sue has arrived in Newark, NJ.
And today Arizona hospitals are requesting crisis care–triaging to decide who gets a COVID bed and who gets hospice. I get the:
Call me ASH.