I felt like a lab rat pawing the lever.
Click. Click. Click. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
It’s normal to want to know about a tragedy. You want to know the scale, the facts maybe how you can help. The old days necessitated forced introspection or processing with people around you while more facts were made available. Social media provides weird dehumanized interaction with people you don’t know spreading information that should not be confused with fact. It’s digital telephone, some stories becoming so unrecognizable it would be impossible to trace the origins of the rumor.
Modern technology can be an important part of the process, a much improved model over the old way of simply not knowing and having no way of finding out anything without leaving home.
I would have made it through the spring of COVID-19 fine, but it was much better with my teacher friends group chat and a few unofficial “staff meetings” on Zoom. That same group convenes to digest the monotonous and the monumental. As long as no one in the group has an Android phone, group chats are great for processing knowing the members are not likely to leak rumors into the public.
Facebook is a different beast. So as I tried to satisfy my morbid curiosity and found nothing of value online and the group chat silenced, I walked away from my phone.
I hadn’t posted anything. Did that mean I didn’t care? The event impacted the larger community bubble, but not my immediate bubble so would I just be grief poaching because my brain knows I can get little red notifications if I post? Is social media that insidious or am I overthinking it?
Shortly before bed I reengaged and saw that people offered unused supplies and food. Real, tangible things for those who were impacted. What a community, I thought.
The latest “I heard” statements and “Does…” and “Are…” questions on Facebook were even more outrageous so I disconnected again and told myself to talk to my wife.
What is the state of our emergency fund? Is it meaningful enough to support a tragedy? Have we prioritized stability over frivolous spending so in case of an emergency we wouldn’t be completely dependent on the goodwill of others? Because $500 is a pair of tires and an impulse dinner without drinks, appetizers or dessert, not an emergency fund.
What would happen if we lost our home? Where would we stay? We would likely be ruined financially, but what’s the difference between state-declared and federally-declared disaster areas and how does that impact aid? How much, if any, would insurance cover? We would still owe the bank our full loan amount, but would a disaster declaration allow a forbearance and give us a year to get things back together before payments resumed? Is there a loan modification option with our bank in the case of a disaster? Are relief accounts set up at banks better than GoFundMe?
How do we ensure that we are aware of potential threats or circumstances without living in a bath of anxiety and become emotional hypochondriacs?
Answers don’t provide much peace of mind because you can’t be ready or prepared for these things, but meaningful conversations with family and friends are always a good idea. The conversation then went to how incredible the Southeast community is. No one checks your voting record before offering assistance. (Right?)
Maybe it’s the reality of living here that brings out common values that trump individual beliefs in time of need..
If only we could hold onto that best version for longer.
• Jeff Lund is a freelance writer based in Ketchikan. His book, “A Miserable Paradise: Life in Southeast Alaska,” is available in local bookstores and at Amazon.com. “I Went to the Woods” appears twice per month in the Sports & Outdoors section of the Juneau Empire.
