2020. Worst year ever.
You've heard that, haven't you? Maybe even said it. I hear it from friends and on social media, from commentators on the news. It's the name of a podcast.
I heard the phrase a few days ago when I stopped by the strip mall where I often go for coffee. The doors of most of the stores — Pottery Barn, West Elm, Best Buy — were shattered, casualties of Chicago's overnight looting.
In the North Side parking lot that morning, people were sweeping up glass while workers fastened boards on what had been doors and windows. In the middle of the parking lot, Darnell Crittenden, a longtime security guard known around the mall as Officer D, stood surveying the scene. He'd had to take a $55 Uber to work from his home on the West Side because his regular bus was canceled in response to the chaos.
"One thing I know," he said, shaking his head, "is that out of the 54 years I've been in Chicago, this city ain't like it was. I try to go back in the Officer D time machine, and it was bad, but not as bad as it is now."
As we walked over to the nearby Binny's Beverage Depot, where the doors had been shattered and the liquor shelves ransacked, he added, "2020 has been the worst year ever, for everybody."
The past few days in Chicago have accentuated that feeling for a lot of people. But it's useful to remember that the 2020 doomsday mood didn't start last week, and it's hardly confined to Chicago, and that in the long rocky history of the world this is probably not the worst year ever.
When we talk about 2020 as the worst year ever we mean many entangled things: A pandemic. The death and economic destruction caused by the pandemic. The governmental mismanagement of the pandemic. The ways the pandemic has exposed the failures of our social system. The ways it has divorced us from routines we rely on and people we love and our delusion that the future is in our control.