Japan Sinks 2020: A Shenron’s Dad Review

Netflix

At the beginning of June, about two and half months into our Coronavirus lockdown, my wife and I started sleeping in shifts and living out of go-bags. Helicopters circled overhead, and we both kept our ears flexed for gunshots. We had heard some the last few nights. I stayed glued to live-streams, trying to figure out where stuff was going down, what reports were credible, and trying to decide if and when we would have to leave. We also tried to figure out our rights under curfew: since there were threats of White Supremacists in our neighborhood trying to burn things down as a reaction to the protests against the murder of George Floyd, we were unsure if fleeing a fire would be reason enough to be on the road, or if we’d be stopped by National Guard on the way to safety.

Compared to many, we had it relatively easy. We were not out on the streets, we were not close to the protests, where cops were shooting rubber bullets at press and unarmed protesters. The most we had to do at one point was to go to a friend’s house in North East in the hopes of getting some sleep, but we also had to devise an escape plan with her, just in case. It was a difficult and traumatic experience, to be afraid for your life in your home, and all of that in the midst of a global pandemic.

So I was in a pretty strange headspace a couple of months later, when I started…