Care is one of those rare words we didn’t get from the Romans or the Greeks. It has that Anglo-Saxon bluntness—like chop. Clutch. From its Germanic origin, we get the Old English caru, meaning sorrow, anxiety, or grief; the Old High German chara and charon, meaning grief or lament; and the Old Norse kǫr, meaning sickbed. All dovetail into the modern English care. Yes, I’m starting this letter with an etymology.
The original meaning of care—as verb, as noun—was, as its roots suggest, more sad and more serious—a kind of concern troubled by anxiety and worry, weighted with responsibility, even grief. It’s only been in the last few centuries that the word has taken on the meaning more familiar to modern English-speakers, as a kind of focused and concerned attention.
In use today, care has many meanings. To care is to worry, yes, and to fret, but one also cares for a rose garden. One cares for a family member, a lover, a friend. Care can be work—like teaching, nursing, cooking, and cleaning. To do something with care is to do it attentively and deliberately, with best interests at heart.
One thing the word hasn’t lost in our time is its weight. Care implies a responsibility, and yes, maybe an anxiety that thrums underneath that responsibility. It implies compassion, but it also implies action—nurturing, supporting.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot, at home, as the news continues to come in and I continue to stay, more or less, indoors. I’m still writing, which I’m so lucky to get to do, and which has always meant so much to me, but means more to me even now. I hang out with my roommates and do yoga together. I miss my partner. I worry about my little brother and my aging parents, who live alone across the country. And I walk the balance beam of trying to figure out how much to do for people who aren’t me, and what to do, and where to put my energy. That is, I feel that care, and sometimes, in order to function, I try to ignore its weight.
But a care does weight. It’s okay for it to weight.
What I’m trying to say is that it’s okay to feel that anxiety, that worry, that sorrow. It’s okay to veer back and forth between all these emotions. That they are all wrapped up in care, in its etymology, in its practice, and that to feel something is to remember that you do care, that you are able to care, that you are a person with compassion. These aren’t negative emotions, necessarily—they’re a sign that your heart is open. You don’t have to ignore them.
We’re all in this together. There are ways to take your care and put it into the world. There are places to ask for help if you need it. If there aren’t ways, we will find them. We will make them.
This pandemic of ours has required us to distance ourselves from each other, to stay in for the health of others, to curtail our behaviors in the hopes of protecting someone who we don’t know. Now, if we’re able, is also the time to materially support the people we do and don’t know.
I’m writing this especially for the people who are working from home right now, who are still collecting a paycheck, who still have health insurance or, frankly, even had the option of health insurance to begin with. You’re in an incredible position to support others right now. Will you take some of those funds—funds which you would have spent going out, or paying to see a movie, or eating at a restaurant, or taking a car home from the club—and direct them back into those economies and communities, knowing that you won’t see it, knowing that you’re investing in someone else? Will you allow yourself to feel the weight of that care, really feel it?
Below the break is a list of some mutual aid funds and other resources that have been put together by various communities, in no particular order. I’ll continue to update it at the permalink on Substack. I’d also recommend checking your neighborhood spot’s Instagram page or other social media for ways to directly support workers. If you’ve been feeling antsy and want to do something, here is an opportunity. If you’ve been feeling like you need support, these relief funds are meant for you—they are also a place to start.
xo
LP
Emergency COVID Relief for Sex Workers in New York
Artist Relief Tree
Creative Capital List of Arts Resources
Restaurant Workers Community Foundation Emergency Relief Fund
USBG Bartender Emergency Assistance Program
Eater’s List of Relief Funds for Restaurants, Bars, and Food Service Workers
Win Son’s Fund for Undocumented Restaurant Workers (@win-son on Venmo)
Donate or Volunteer for Food Bank NYC
Mutual Aid Fund for LGBTQI+ BIPOC Folks
General Coronavirus Resource Kit (includes more fundraising initiatives)
And, while we’re here, some of my favorite books I’ve read or revisited in the last few weeks:
Department of Speculation, Jenny Offill
A Manual For Cleaning Women, Lucia Berlin
Screen Tests, Kate Zambreno
Optic Nerve, Maria Ganza
The Lonely City, Olivia Laing
The header and icon for this newsletter was designed by Chris Rypkema.
Hi, you’re reading intimacies, a relaunch of the original, occasional diary letter I sent out from 2016-2018. You’re getting this email because you were previously subscribed to its first iteration, and you got those emails because you were probably subscribed to Cum Shots, my previous letter at Nerve. If you liked this letter, please click the heart. Thank you for reading. I really appreciate you.