Dear reader,

As of this writing, I am cautiously optimistic about the downward trend of COVID-19 infections and deaths paired with Governor Jay Inslee’s announcement ending the indoor mask mandate on March 21. So much can change between the time of the writing of this letter (February 20) and the magazine’s publication, that I was wary to introduce the subject. While I believe vigilance will remain important for some time, I can’t deny the feeling of weight lifting with the glimmer of potential and possibility. 

apologize, but since I am an “on one hand” type of person, I do hear echoing the words—paraphrased, it’s been years—of one of my EWU MFA professors, who was ostensibly trying to provide guidance in character development, but inevitably depressing the entire class: Hope is the most dangerous human emotion.  

o, I’m living dangerously. One of the possibilities my friends and I have been discussing is indoor skating, especially because Pattison’s North has notably upped their game in recent months with a live DJ during adult skate nights. The prospect of that energy and freedom feels akin to a modern siren song. Should I or shouldn’t I? Maybe more importantly, will I always feel this dread attached to this type of decision-making?

dult skate night is even more relevant because this month’s issue contains a deeply affecting feature about roller skating, combining the history of roller skating in Spokane—a city lucky enough to boast two indoor roller rinks as well as roller derby leagues—roller skating in general, which has an important linkage with Black culture and history, as well as its rise in popularity in the LGBTQIA+ community because of its inclusive spirit and empowering nature. I hope you give Rachel Baker’s story a read. As a born-and-raised Spokanite, she weaves memories and nostalgia with cultural history. The opportunity to explore joy within in our history ought to be savored.

’m about to present an additional “on the other hand”: the two-year anniversary of the pandemic’s start feels inescapable, and anniversaries have a way of not only bringing up granular details of “where I was” but also rushing emotions of our mindset and uncertainty, often intertwining the two. Like in dreams, this pairing has a way of presenting itself as painfully visceral.

his anniversary is why I believe there is an urgency in reading Adriana Janovich’s “Lessons from a Pandemic Kitchen”. Though the focus is recounting her time lived without grocery stores while turning to local produce with a fervor, her article contains lessons that extend far beyond the kitchen. And, of course, it’s beautifully penned, which lends this opening.

he feature is an excellent jumping-off point to reflect on what else we’ve learned. Lessons about how we work, what we buy. How much we need each other. Lessons about community and family, and how our fates and daily details are interlaced. 

he pandemic exposed ugly truths we might rather forget as we inch toward our new normal. I’m going to suggest that these lessons will prove most essential, that turning away or facing directly will determine our becoming. Because we are becoming, for better or worse. 

he specific date you mark the beginning varies from person to person. Learning the virus had entered—and subsequently decimated—Washington nursing homes might be yours. The first of the restrictions or the introduction of Dr. Fauci. 

he first time someone you knew tested positive. The first time someone you knew died. For me, it was the day I left the Spokesman-Review and never returned. I remember my editors telling that it was important I leave earlier because I’m high risk.  I remember thinking I would never again waltz into the office, flop down in the chair next to my favorite editor’s desk and proclaim, “Good morning, Jonathan Brunt!” and he would never again answer, “Good morning, Megan Rowe!” 

nd we wouldn’t begin the morning discussing whatever bizarre news item had come across the national wires that I would need to edit and upload to the paper’s website. It sounds simple, but this was how I marked the beginning of most work days, and it was good.

nly two other reporters were regularly present during that morning routine, and one will have left the Spokesman for a newspaper job elsewhere by the time this is published. So much change, and change is loss. He’s a great friend and journalist, this change will be deeply felt by many, myself included. The City of Spokane is poorer for the loss, and I don’t say that lightly.

remember thinking I would never come back to the paper, even though it was months later that I quit and began work with the magazine. I had a gut feeling, and my biggest loss with that departure after all things considered was the loss of my morning routine, which has never found a replacement.

terrible thing a friend once told me—again someone from EWU’s MFA creative writing program, what’s the deal there? Perhaps writers are depressives by nature, but I don’t think it needs to be that way—is that one day, your parent picks you up, puts you down, and never picks you up again. Oof. There was a day the pandemic signaled a change for you, and that bell will never be unrung. Now, it’s just up to us what we do with this new world, which could be full of possibility and potential, if we’re up to the challenge.  

Sincerely,

Megan Louise