Tuesday, July 28, 2020

The air outside is hot and soggy, even after dark. I feel like I’m sitting in a vat of chicken soup. That may be appropriate. I’m at a small party, just outside the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. I’m surrounded by a crowd of yiddische mamas, all chattering in Tagalog. It’s the birthday of my family’s caregiver at the House. The other caregivers there have cooked a vast and varied meal of Filipino food. It’s all laid out in disposable containers on plastic tables on the house’s sidewalk. They keep insisting that I eat and drink more, even as I insist that I’m full. I mostly stay toward the edge of the group. I’m a natural wallflower. I’m also quite aware that I’m the sole medical wildcard in the group. Everyone else at the party lives inside the house and is now tested for the virus once a week. I keep my mask on when I’m not eating, though they keep encouraging me to eat more. Most speak good English and Hebrew, though I hear one quiet voice come up to me from behind when my plate is almost empty and say what sounds like “Don’t shy. More eats.” There’s ice cream and a cake, with candles showing our family’s caregiver’s age. I had thought that she was younger, though when I do the math it makes sense. Besides having worked, if I recall, in childcare for a while back home, as well as for close to a decade in a factory in Taiwan, she has been here for a couple of years. She was supposed to have married her boyfriend, who lives in Canada, a few months ago. That’s been delayed until international travel starts up again. I’m pleased that she insisted that I come to the party. It’s been an enjoyable evening, spent with warm and welcoming people out in the hot night air.