Clorox, Funerals, and Tortas: Lido, Who Is My Neighbor (Part 2)
“Yeah, it's hard,” says Lido when I ask her to tell me the story of life in her house in 2020 through to the present. “Yeah,” she says, “the pandemic; that is hard in…” She pauses and starts again. “I don't know. I'm taking my own rules in the house. Like clean—clean the handles, and I mop with something like Clorox. And I'm making my own sanitizer, ‘cause is hard to found. You remember?”“I remember,” I say nodding. “Yeah. It wasn't there.”“I'm making my own. I'll do like Clorox and salt. How many milliliters like Clorox in a gallon of water. And nothing happened anybody. Not my kids. My kids still good. Thanks God. Everybody's okay.” Lido’s everybody includes the three ‘boys’ (young men) who rent rooms in her house. They “wash their hands right away to the coming [in the house].”“No one got sick,” I say to confirm. Lido nods and continues her story. “My money is still in the bank. You know, they're [pension checks] coming in at the bank. And I don't have like hard times, you know? And the government give us a [stimulus] check. That helped. Yeah.”Because I don’t remember, I ask, “The boys renting rooms in the house, were they there before the pandemic?”“Yeah. Oh, yeah. They're have three years, at least, with me. And I try to control the guys because I say, ‘Don't make any noise. Don't make like a,’” she gestures a racket, “‘because this street is really quiet.’ And they're okay. I don't have a problem.” She tells me that one neighbor has asked the guys to talk on the phone in the house, instead of outside. “But that is okay,” Lido says philosophically. “You know what? She's like that. She no control of my life.”
Anything else in 2020
I have to smile as I shake my head, “Right. That's a good way to move forward. What about anything else in 2020?”For a moment she is disoriented. “In 2020? No, pardon? Not in 2020.” I assure her, “Yeah, yeah it started in March.” With a question in her voice she says, “March? 2020?”“Yeah,” I say. “March, everything was shut down. They call it COVID-19 because in 2019, it started somewhere else. That's why they named it 19. But it came here by 2020.” This is the first time I’ve said any of this out loud. New territory for me. “Oh, wow!” Lido whispers.”So a lot of time.” I agree, “It's a lot of time.” Lido says, “Jeezo-man! Is more than year?” I say, “It's more than a year now.” With a quick inhale, Lido says, “Oh my God!” “Yeah,” I agree. The distortion of time we’ve experienced remains surreal, putting it into words for a listener or even ourselves doesn't make it any more familiar or acceptable.
This very hard pandemic
“Did anything unusual happen in 2020?” I ask. “No anybody sick. Nothing happen in my work,” she tells me. I try a more specific query. “Did the flower shop close down ever?” Lido works part time at a local florist’s.“Yeah,” she says. “They're closed like two weeks on this very hard pandemic.” “Just two weeks,” I say. “That's not very long at all.”Lido agrees. “And then [my boss], she's called one company to spray the inside—inside the cooler, inside the flower shop, EVERYwhere,” she says with emphasis. “Give us sanitizer, a few bottles every week. And then [s]he's a spray like a termite kinda, but this company especially for COVID, and they come in like every month.”“Were you wearing a mask at work?” I ask. “Oh, yeah. Mask and a,” she slides her open hand before her face. “Shield?” I ask. “Yeah, plastic shield,” she confirms. She goes on, “Now nothing, but I use. I’m continue use the mask. Because my boss say, ‘If you want, use it; if no, is okay.’ She’s taken out the sign. Some people come in with mask. Some people come in without mask. But when I’m talking with customer, I use my mask.”
Covid-passed-away people
“Because you don’t know,” I add. “Exactly!” she exclaims. “They just come in from I don’t know, from what family. Maybe they have COVID. And then because there’s a lot of people coming for the Covid-passed-away people. The family coming to order the flowers.” The gravity of it hits me as I say, “To make funeral arrangements.”Lido nods, “Yeah. Is hard.”This is the second time Lido has mentioned COVID and her work. Before I asked her to share her neighbor stories, Lido told me that this calendar year she has seen an uptick in the number of orders for funerals. She attributes this to COVID deaths as well as the fact that families postponed memorial and funeral services during shutdown. Along with increased work, she must now also protect herself from clients who “...just come in from I don’t know.”“Yeah,” I say in commiseration. “You can’t ask people, ‘Are you sick?’ And you can’t ask people, ‘Are you vaccinated?’” Lido nods. She tells me she is taking care of herself. With big arm gestures she shows me how far apart she works from others. “One over here, and me over there. And the other one over there,” she says with a laugh. “That’s good,” I say.
Nothing unusual
I repeat my earlier question. “Nothing unusual in your year?” Lido shakes her head. No, not really. She tells me that her oldest brother passed away in the early days of the shutdown. In January, 2020, she visited him and the rest of her family in Mexico. The following March, a few days after his 85th birthday (or 86th, she isn't sure), he died of a heart attack. Lido sent money to the family, but did not travel to Mexico for the funeral.This is unusual. At any other time, Lido—who is very close to her family—would have traveled to be with them for the service.I pivot the conversation and ask her where she’s from in Mexico. Lido describes it as, “[a town] southwest of Mexico City.” “My daughter loves Mexico City!” I exclaim. Not surprised, Lido says, “Oh, yeah!” Then I admit that Justin has made the trip only once, so far. Lido tells me, “Mayra (her daughter) leave couple times a year for Mexico City. They love it!” Describing Mayra, Lido says, “Looks like me. Like Mexican. She’s born here, but she’s Mexican.”
Good food
“That’s a good food,” she says. I didn’t see this coming, but I love food, so I lean in with a smile. Lido goes on, “My daughter told me, ‘Mom, I need something like torta, but is really good.’” Ah! I see:
Mexico City + Mayra = good Mexican food
Lido explains, “Torta’s like a sandwich, but there’s Mexican bread like this,” she forms the shape with her hands. “Oval,” I say. Lido nods and goes on to describe it. "Oh, is so good,” her eyes dance. “They’re like cut in half, put in a grill or whatever and then put beans, put carne, put whatever meat: beaf, pork or ham. Is like a grilled steak.”Her evident delight makes me laugh. She goes on, “I Love it! I love the ….Johnny’s? You know Johnny’s, by Home Depot?” I do and say, “Johnny’s Burgers.” Lido smiles. “Hot steak sandwich and zucchini. Oh, my gosh! And the other sandwich that I love is SubStation. By UCR. You know SubStation?” I have to shake my head no on this.Lido describes Mr. Mando who has worked there for over thirty years and who greets her by name—‘Hello, Mrs. Mundo!’ The similarity in their names makes her chuckle. She laughs as she says, "Hello Mr. Mando! 'Hello Mrs. Mundo!'" More laughter. She says, “I can’t remember the phone number, but is SubStation. Go taste sandwiches. Oh, my God! So good!”
I'm a vegetarian
“You know I’m a vegetarian, right?” I say. Lido takes this in, “Oh, yeah! Man!” I’ve knocked the wind out of her poetic sail. Her expression and posture change so abruptly that my whole body shakes with laughter. With the next breath she recovers and rhapsodizes once more; her gusto for the amazing sandwiches undiminished.If joy and enthusiasm could convince me to eat meat, I would have googled SubStation on the spot. Then Lido admits that her sandwich gastro-adventures only happen once in a while. She is specific about the effect the rich meat has on her digestion.“You’re talking about all this food,” I say. “Have you eaten supper?” With a dash of drama she replies, ”No.” I echo her—“No. That’s maybe why…” The sentence is lost as our laughter bubbles up and blends. As the merriment subsides, I think she may be ready to head home for a meal. But her eyes hold mine. I continue.
Rooster & hens
“When things shut down because of the pandemic, were you able to find enough food? Remember how things were weird in the shops?” I ask.“Yeah! Nothing!” she says, briskly slapping one hand against the other, up and down. Lido says it again, “Nothing!” She goes on. “Then I say, ‘Mija, eggs...’ because I have two chickens.” In excitement I exclaim, “I can hear them in the morning!” For a frenzied moment I attribute the early salute of the sun to female poultry. Did she catch that? Lido looks at me with amusement. “Yeah,” she replies, eyebrows slightly raised.“Cluck, cluck!” I say in an effort to recover credibility. “You hear?” she asks with a grin. “Yeah,” I nod. First I mis-gender animal noises and now I claim that I can hear hens clucking two houses away. Chagrined, I say, “You don’t have a rooster?”Lido smiles, “Yeah, I have.” Happy news! In a rush I say, “You have a rooster. That’s what I hear.” Lido tilts her head back, “Coo-ka-coo!”
“Is beautiful,” she says with pride. “Is like big, with the tail and very bright.” I smile with relief as I say, “Fancy!” “Red and dark,” she says. “He’s like nice. Very nice. I love it!” Sensing her pleasure in this stunning strutter I have to laugh. Later, she sends his picture to me.
Eggs and happiness
“So you were eating eggs from your chickens,” my words half statement, half question.“Yeah, from my chickens. Is two hens. One make like blue eggs—turquoise, green. And the other one is like little brown, sometimes little red.” I grin. What could be lovelier than the shape of an egg? That shape in surprising colors! Aloud, I say, “Oh, those are pretty!”“So,” Lido says, “I eat. I’m happy! I’m stuck in my house—I’m happy. And go in my little patio there and eat something, or drink something—water, or one beer, or one glass of wine. I’m alone by myself.”“You’re happy there,” I say. “Yeah,” says Lido, “I’m happy.”
This summer I saw a map in the Library of Congress that was made in 1507. The Waldseemüller Map of the World is unique for several reasons. One reason is that the mapmaker based the charting of coastlines and continents on the written accounts of sailors. The mapmaker never saw the places described, but paid close attention to the stories and records of those who did.In many ways, Who Is My Neighbor? is a mapping project—not of my neighborhood, or even the literal layout of my street (but it was fun to make one). This tender and provocative cartography attempts to record the geography of the heart in a time of shared uncertainty, when society as a collective seems to have lost its way. Through their personal and unique stories my neighbors reveal small segments of the terrain that is their lived experience.I hope these entries provide an outline of our shared humanity, and remind us that, as Mother Teresa said, "We belong to each other."Thank you for reading these stories and supporting me as an artist.I'm grateful for you,
