Jenni Moody

“Pandemic Algorithms of Moss and String” 

Artwork by Etsy user @AshleeCraft  

Image description: A drawing of a smiling yellow snail with a pink shell. Text reads: I must create my own chosen home so no matter where I go I will always belong.  

All of the communities I’d hoped for and believed in before the pandemic have changed. When I received a job offer that would allow me to stay in Milwaukee, I felt extremely lucky. As an academic who wanted to stay in the academy long-term, I had steeled myself for having to move in order to find employment. Being able to stay in the city where I’d grown as a writer, where I’d developed friendships, seemed like the perfect choice. But as the pandemic wore on, my closest relationships fractured and frayed. My best friend recently offered the word “capacity” to describe why some people have dropped out of my life. As in, they didn’t have the capacity to include me in their lives.  

Profile page for TikTok user @Art_anywhere  

Image description: Six still frames from videos taken on a phone show a white man in a winter coat and small fairy houses made from twigs in the snow.  

#FairyHouse Friday 

I can’t bear to interact with people I know on social media. I never go on Instagram, rarely check FaceBook. It’s disconcerting, and often painful, to see people I know going about their daily lives. The cognitive dissonance of the world before, pressed against my small Covid bubble, pushed against their’s, is beyond my capacity. When I can’t go to sleep and the news is bad, I go to TikTok to find community among strangers. The algorithm put me in #cottagecore TikTok, in dog TikTok. My For You page is full of possums and artists, affirmations and mental health checks. Unclench your jaw. If you came across this page, this reading is for you. In my college research writing class, I teach my students to be wary of algorithms and the information they provide. But TikTok figured out who I was and what I needed.   

Photo by Jenni Moody 

Image description: A rectangle of pale blue paper with splotches of gold is bordered by a clump of moss, a yellow leaf, and a strip of wood-grained paper.  

When the 2020 C’s were cancelled, the organizers of the panel I’d been slated to present on reached out to see if anyone would be interested in collaborating on a project. We met over the summer on Zoom to discuss ideas, and then as the Fall semester approached all but four of us dropped out. We’re working on an edited collection together about how artmaking sustains us as writing teachers. During one of our meetings we each made an art piece and then shared it with each other. We described our making process, our materials, the outcome. It was  one of the few times in the pandemic that I felt present and calm and myself. We don’t meet often, but I’m grateful for this collaboration. It’s one of the strings holding me together.  

Photo by Jenni Moody 

Image description: Three planks of white wood, evenly spaced, on the back frame of a construction sign. Text reads: “Be here now” written in black sharpie on each plank.  

I’ve been teaching high-flex classes. Some of my students are in-person, some join us online. I was terrified at first of being around people. We are all in masks, still, even as we are getting vaccinated. Blue tape lines the floor where the desks should stay to remain 6-feet apart. I read somewhere on Twitter ages ago that when measuring, people often forget to consider that bodies have mass. That the point between each chair is not six feet, but smaller, based on how much of us there is. The strings on my mask dig into my ears. I know my students by only half of their faces.  

Art by Ben Hampton 

Image description: A small, old house with a large, sloped roof at the end of a dirt road. A large bush with white flowers is in the foreground.  

My Nana died suddenly in August, after the first week of class. I flew to Alabama wearing two masks and a face shield through a deserted airport with almost everything in the terminal closed. I came back with two composition notebooks she’d used as diaries. She’d written them for me, had asked me to use them in any way I want to tell her story. I keep trying to get started, but I can’t.  

Diorama by Jenni Moody 

Image description: A small blue rabbit looks up at a cloudy, star-filled sky.  

I’ve tried to make my bathroom a #cottagecore oasis, a place of calm. A snail soap dispenser that I saw on TikTok. A new shower curtain with pine trees under a starry sky. An embroidery of leaves. On one wall, there is a diorama I have been working very slowly on. It’s set within a three-tiered display for trinkets. I am filling it with moss and felt and fairy lights. I am finding ways to hide the string and tape that holds it all together. I am hoping the lights do not burn through the paper, through the wall and the wood, when I keep them on at night.  

*****

Jenni Moody was a PhD student at UWM from 2015-2020, and served as a First Year Composition mentor in 2018, and the Coordinator for College Research Writing in 2019. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alaska-Fairbanks and a PhD in Creative Writing with a specialization in Writing Pedagogy and Administration from UWM. She is currently an Assistant Professor at Mount Mary University.