Five years ago I baked my very first vegan chocolate cake. I had time to experiment in the kitchen while sheltering in place. After the debacle of revelers crowding bars for St. Patrick’s Day, elected officials sternly shut down Chicago and Illinois.

COVID-19 cases climbed in March 2020, but we thought the lockdown would be short, a brief respite. One month tops. And so people celebrated birthdays on Zoom, found a new wardrobe of sweatpants, completed puzzles, poured extra glasses of wine and discovered sourdough starters. Schools switched to remote learning. Nonessential workers stayed home.

Then panic crept in.

Hoarding toilet paper. Searching for masks. Disinfectant wipes became as rare as a four-leaf clover.

"Think of your friends and your neighbors. There is enough food to go around, but we need people to not be selfish," said Gov. JB Pritzker during one of his daily news conferences on COVID-19 five years ago.

Then tragedy set in.

Patricia Frieson, a retired nurse and lover of gospel music who sang with her sisters, was the first COVID-19 death in the state. Her sister Wanda Bailey died of the same respiratory disease nine days later. Both Black women died in mid- to late-March 2020.

Their race is important because COVID-19 ravaged Black and Brown neighborhoods. By early April 2020, 70% of Chicago’s COVID-19 deaths were Black residents. Racial segregation increased the chances of death. The Black 60649 ZIP code had the highest COVID-19 death rate in the city. The mostly Latino 60623 ZIP code had the highest rate of infections and number of deaths. Meanwhile, on the mostly white North Side, 60611 and 60610 had the lowest rates of deaths.

The people who cooked our food, drove buses, stocked grocery shelves and delivered our items couldn’t telework, and they tended to be Black or Latino. The racial wealth gap was not just economic, but also a public health crisis.

Collective care, then crankiness

Reflecting on the first year of the pandemic conjures up cruel memories. But as the virus and fear spread, humanity stepped up. Neighbors checked in with each other. Donations poured in for people in need. A shared sense of struggle and understanding bonded us during quarantine.

Economic calamity inspired local community organizations to create mutual aid. Regular Chicagoans opened crisis food pantries, connected people with child care workers, helped with pets and raised money for folks suddenly without a job. Philanthropy doled out emergency response funds. The government — federal, state and local — provided stimulus money, back rent and an increased child tax credit.

Collective care was on full display.

The pandemic demonstrated that societal change is possible — and the money was there. Paid emergency leave, free health care and guaranteed income no longer seemed outside the mainstream. Breaking down structural barriers could eliminate racial disparities. Working families could build back better. What had been missing was political will. Now it showed up.

Over and over again in 2020, I heard experts say we could not go back to business as usual. Envisioning a new future including rethinking public transportation and city design.

That didn’t happen. We blew it.

Now anger and punishment trump shared humanity.

In 2025, elected (and non-elected) federal officials are slashing government money with the vengeance of Freddie Krueger. Forget mutual aid; Social Security is at risk. Individualism is OK — unless it’s your federal job that got cut.

Little did we know five years ago that we were on the precipice of a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic that would upend our lives permanently. For many of us, time is now divided into the "before times" and "post-COVID." But really, COVID-19 never went away. The collective anguish cast a permanent pall. The pandemic aged us faster. Schools, work, socialization and public health are still faltering.

We didn’t seize the opportunity for betterment.

Instead we’re living in a bizarro world.

Natalie Y. Moore is a senior lecturer at Northwestern University.

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