“I’m not locked up in here with you,” said Rorschach. “You’re locked up in here with me.”
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Watchmen, the seminal 1980s graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. That statement, snarled across a prison canteen by a right-wing nutcase moments after he maims a fellow inmate, keeps coming to mind.
We’re all locked up somehow. Even those of us forced, in courageous duty, to leave the house are then expected to go home and close to door, in the interests of the greater good.
It’s hardly prison, of course. Even our most modest cells are like palaces compared to actual jails, mainly due to unfettered internet access. I can’t imagine the terror and misery of a pandemic without streaming services, video calls and deliveries of junk food.
And we can make light of it. My wife and I have been enjoying arguments so entertaining that one even made the Huffington Post as a news report (search their Canadian site for “milk bags” if you want to read about it). I feel closer to my family than I have for years.
Homeschooling is fun, because I’ve concocted a rewards system (that means Lego-based bribery) that’s keeping my 10-year-old so engaged I can force him to read my favourite poetry. I will always treasure this opportunity to inflict Shelley and Shakespeare on him. He’s bound to learn something eventually, even if it’s just that his dad is a pompous git.
But not everybody’s as lucky as I am. Whenever I feel tempted to complain about feeling cooped up, I remember I’m privileged. I’m employed, comfortable, safe and surrounded by people who care for me.
Many are struggling in lockdown. Many face dire circumstances: poverty, hunger, physical and mental health troubles and more. Many are trapped with an abuser.
If you need help, reach out to someone you trust. If you suspect someone is in trouble, get in touch. Ask yourself: who, or what, are they locked up with? It’s in us all to do the right thing, and there will never be a time of greater need than now.
