Seeking Joy and Pleasure in Moments of Upheaval
Photos/Constancio R. Arnaldo, Jr.
By Constancio R. Arnaldo, Jr.
March 2020 seems so far away. I still remember when it was announced that the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV), would finish the semester teaching remotely, and I was unsure how much COVID-19 would affect my everyday life. I’d been following news about the virus since early February and to be honest, I never thought it would actually reach the Las Vegas Valley and force the state and the rest of the nation to lock down. And yet, here I am. It’s early October, and I’ve been thinking about how the virus has affected me. I feel uneasy and a little selfish. Given that the virus has disproportionately affected poor and working class people of color, I feel self-centered as I sit from the confines of my home knowing that I am in such a privileged position to write about my experiences.
The early months of COVID-19 and subsequent lockdown left me wondering about how bystanders would react to me with my mask on as I shopped inside a grocery store. I’d been reading the news and watching YouTube videos about anti-Asian/American attacks—from someone throwing acid on an Asian woman, being verbally assaulted, or spat on. These attacks left me sick to my stomach. As a self-identifying Filipino American, I was worried if someone might look at me and tell me to “go back” to where I came from, or worse, physically assault me. For many Asian Americans, the mask symbolizes what the president calls the “Kung Flu” virus, conflating Asian bodies with COVID-19, as disease-ridden carriers who are always and already foreign. Yet, as someone who teaches Asian American Studies courses, I know that this contemporary manifestation of anti-Asian sentiment does not happen in a vacuum. It dates back to the late nineteenth century when Chinese were first seen as the “alien other” and incapable of assimilating into American society. So when I see a rise in anti-Asian violence in 2020, it frightens me and reminds me of how sentiments about Asian/Americans have persisted over centuries. This, coupled with the fact that we are living in precarious times, leaves me restless.
I consider myself a homebody. But even I started to feel unsettled. I needed to change up the habitual routine of my everyday life. I’ve heard “I feel like it’s Groundhog Day” one too many times from my friends and family. Yes, it does feel like Groundhog Day. I needed an outlet, something to do other than what I did for a living: read, write, teach, and professional service obligations. Of course, seeing the civil unrest in the aftermath of the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade, among others, angered me, frustrated me, and left me feeling powerless. And staying home all day didn’t help. Knowing I couldn’t leave the house other than for life necessities was a dramatic adjustment and living under uncertainty felt overwhelming. There’s a limit to how many text conversations, Zoom meetups, and failed sourdough bread-making experiments one can have. The empty time forced me to reflect on what my ancestors did when cataclysmic or traumatic events altered their lives. What did they do and how did they cope?
When I was a child, I’d visit my late maternal grandmother at my aunt and uncle’s house. When she knew I was coming, she’d proudly show me her carefully manicured rock garden landscapes. She’d create rock gardens with whatever rocks, pieces of wood, or shells she’d find in the backyard or at the beach. Although she had all of her teeth removed, she wore a full set of dentures. After I’d tell her how beautiful her rock garden looked, she’d smile, and her pearly white, and straight teeth would light up the backyard. I remember how she was so proud of what she created. This is one of the many fond memories I have of her.
Acknowledging the Paiute tribe, the original inhabitants and caretakers of this land, in mid-March, I channeled my late grandmother’s spirit and started a rock garden to quell my anxiety and to break up the routine. Every early evening, from March until about mid-June, I’d venture to my backyard and sort the various colored river rocks scattered throughout: grayish-blue, burgundy, orange, white, and off white. I’d pick up rocks and place them in buckets and piles according to their color. Then, I’d imagine how the rock garden would look. I used the gray-ish blue rocks as a “river stream” with the burgundy rocks surrounding them. This would provide the contrast I needed to accentuate the stream. Being outside enabled me to also take in nature's offerings. I’d pause for brief moments to hear birds chirp, watch lizards dart back and forth across rocks and boulders, and marvel at the humming birds hovering above our trees to feed off flowers. Creating a rock garden was my solitude and a space of refuge. It helped clear my head and temporarily served as a reprieve from the world surrounding me. It also inspired me to plant new flowers and vegetables. During one of our neighborhood walks with our companion dog, my partner and I came across a cactus paddle that was left on the ground. I picked it up and when we got home, I replanted it. Within two to three months, the cactus paddle rooted and eventually started growing cacti ears. I was in awe of the cactus’ resilience. I can’t help but think about how we’re witnessing unprecedented fires in California and Oregon and what’s at stake if we continue to brutalize planet earth. I’m not sure if we can count on planet earth’s resilience at the rate we’re going.
I managed to complete the rock garden in June, right when the sun’s scorching rays descended upon the Las Vegas Valley. It felt simultaneously gratifying and comforting to connect with my late grandmother’s spirit by embracing her creativity through seemingly inanimate objects like rocks. I would have never guessed that sifting through nature’s debris would open my imagination and more importantly, enable me to find joy and pleasure in the midst of a global pandemic and a toxic environmental and political climate.
I was recently talking to a friend and colleague, and we were discussing how the constant news cycle of COVID-19 deaths, anti-Black racism, police brutality, and the overall state of the country was an assault on our spirits. We affirmed to each other how we were feeling. It was hard not to be angry, frustrated, or lose hope in this moment. Yet, we both agreed that it’s also not healthy to constantly be angry. This is not to minimize our shared rage, but to figure out ways to carve out something for ourselves, to find moments of joy and pleasure, and to channel our creativity in its broadest sense. For me, it was being resourceful and creating something out of what was available to me. In this sense, I have always been inspired by my late grandmother’s creativity and how she connected with the land. I realize now that this is what replenished me and nourished my spirit.
Constancio R. Arnaldo Jr. is an assistant professor in the Department of Interdisciplinary, Gender, and Ethnic Studies at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. He loves 90s hip-hop, cooking, watching and playing sports, and making sense of seemingly mundane cultural processes and objects.
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