Balloon Sales are Through the Roof

By Jessica Pierotti

After the pandemic drove us indoors, the virus immediately wedged itself in-between the high risk and low. Family members, lovers, and friends, were forced to separate corners like warring siblings. At first it felt temporary. We remained optimistic, and planned for a better May, a safe June, a “normal” July. Within weeks it became clear we would need to start adapting - not just watching and waiting.  

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For most Americans, so much of our culture and social life has transitioned online - become mediated and digitized. ‘Community’ has been continually co-opted and watered down, now more associated with Facebook Groups than with the word’s radical Latin root ‘communitas’. Some raised concerns over our shifting social structures, others embraced them - while almost all of us overestimated the capacity for technology to substitute in-person communication and contact. Within isolation we quickly developed intense cravings for true eye contact, for sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, for casual hugs or holding a friend in need. Even as we expanded our use of video, audio, and text communication, we were constantly aware of what each medium was lacking. We moved inward, we lost track of time... Then came the first of the holidays. Calendar squares bound to traditions called for us to come together to celebrate. If your birthday was on March 25th, maybe you took a few phone calls and bought yourself a nice treat. This was temporary after all. Parties could be pushed back to “after”.

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We quickly grew impatient, and by April, began to adapt. Stubborn joy bubbled up in our neighborhoods, often families celebrating elder relatives. It had become too urgent to put off any longer. With an older family member one always celebrates with the looming thought that it may be the last _______. Now amid the COVID-19 pandemic our elders are at a much higher risk of severe illness or death, and are correspondingly more thoroughly isolated. This fear of missing out on one last celebration has been amplified. When all we may want is to sit close and hug them tightly, we now know that a hug could kill. 

The first caravan on my block was about 15 cars decked out with balloons, banners, and hand-made signs - kids hung out of windows and sunroofs, and a cacophony of honking horns was carried by a thumping background beat streaming from the lead car. This was love made physical. This was the fury and frustration and passion of a family that can’t hug. The honking horns screamed out to Grandma, that she was loved, that she was not forgotten. They screamed out to the neighborhood that love still existed, and it was furious about being contained. I watched from my window, tried to make a video, and cried. 

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This became a regular occurrence. For a few weeks it felt like we had a birthday every day on my block. They were moving demonstrations, but at the same time heartbreakingly inadequate. Graduations followed soon after. I thought of my 2016 graduation - walking across the stage, stumbling into a messy group hug with my cohort, trying to pick out my proud father from the crowd through blurry eyes. This rite of passage was taken away from our young people - the opportunity to connect one last time with classmates, to create a memory to book-end their experience. 

Homes that previously would have hosted raucous graduation parties turned their message outward. If families could not open their homes to celebrate, they were going to yell out their pride as loudly as possible. Balloon arches popped up, banners grew, congratulation messages were scrawled on car windows, and the car caravans continued. My city demanded that love still existed. 

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These celebrations had only been the dress rehearsal - the June uprisings being the final stage. Car caravans now circled the Cook County Jail, horns wailing at the horror of continuing to cage humans amid a Pandemic. Signs reading, “Feliz Cumpleanos Abuela”, transformed to “FREE THEM ALL”. Our young people quickly forgot what they had lost over the past months, and began marching for what Black people in this country never had - a right to life. The unity, the energy, and the practice of collectively proclaiming love was quickly transformed as the result of a more urgent need.

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Behind closed doors the work continues. Collective action manifesting in phone calls, petitions, emails, and boycotts. Educational resources are being built as quickly and distributed as widely  as possible to aid in the overhaul of our understanding of race. Throughout it all there is an emphasis in the conversation to recognize that this must be a never-ending process. When one has been surrounded by a culture woven from white supremicist and patriarchal values, it is not possible to simply throw off the veil. Similarly we have been inundated with a narrative of bootstrapping individualism. We have been taught to work against each other, not with each other.

As a younger person I took pride in being a “lone wolf,” but really I was just lonely. Stubbornly independent and fiercely competitive, I doubled down to prove that despite my femaleness, I was not “weak.” Stripping off this toxic understanding of myself and my relation to others has been years of work, and will be years more. But underneath I found connection, inspiration, and a new definition of strength. I found that true alchemy of collaboration - when ideas bounce between magnificent minds, fusing bits and pieces until it becomes an absurdity for any one person to claim authorship.

Isolation ignited something in us. Practically overnight it became clear that independence and competition no longer served us. Our instincts took over. The focus shifted to developing meaningful connections and providing care. We are now redefining our social groups and neighborhoods, and finding allies. We are building support networks to respond to the pressure coming from all sides. Pressure to accept unsafe workplaces, and a crumbling healthcare system, environment, and government. 

What an incredible time to be alive - to see our culture shifting so radically in front of our eyes. Yet we must remember that change is not an event, it is a process. Part of me will always be a “lone wolf” - under pressure I will default to fear and judgement, and so will you. Change is work, but the reward will be the unearthing of our true capacity. We are redefining community through radical imagination - through making our love physical for a world that does not (yet) exist.