For more information, visit the project homepage.
<strong> Thick plastic separates me from the taxi driver.</strong> He speaks with a strong accent, and the plastic muffles the sound so much that we can hardly understand each other.<strong> He's taking me home from the airport, where I've just returned from my mother's funeral. She died of COVID a month ago, and with everyone's vaccine schedules this was the earliest we could have a service.</strong> When the driver had politely opened the door for me and asked if my trip was for work or pleasure, I didn't even know what to say. I reminded myself that he's from a different culture and language, and it's just small talk after all. But once he was in the driver's seat, it took a lot of shouting and gesticulating through the plastic to get home. <strong> A masked funeral, COVID, losing my mom, delivering a eulogy, the awkward reunions with long-lost relatives, all of it is impossible to describe. But something about that plastic was almost as disturbing, and it was hard not to cry.</strong>
May 7, 2021