Commentary: Despite thoughts of unity, we aren’t in this together.
Thoughts of unity during crisis are nice, but our life circumstances put us worlds apart
A friend said we should all get together when this is over. Sure. Of course. Looking forward to it. So, one asks, if only to himself, when is over? When do we see when?
Pandemic models are trotted out one after another, each with a different bottom line, until gradually the fog begins to clear. Over doesn’t really arrive until new infections slow to a trickle. Today’s pain is supposed to yield eventual gain — a day when this virus is mostly in the rear view mirror.
Then many of those leading the way said fuhgeddaboutit. Our day of redemption? How about the first of never?
Thinking has shifted from containing this new coronavirus to merely doing what we can to lessen the harm of coexisting with it. This means those of us in higher risk groups, including the far side of Social Security eligibility, now may live out the rest of our time in a world few of us could foresee just a few months ago — a world in which one careless moment, one poor decision, or just one big dollop of bad luck might find us splashing in the swamp of COVID-19. Gulp.
All the probabilities that say we’ll be OK, and all the vague references to “underlying conditions” attached to the summaries of its victims, somehow fail to offer much comfort these days, especially when those entrusted with high office seem eager to
ignore the sensible guidelines they once promised to obey. Welcome to bait-and-switch, COVID style.
So we sit. We wait. We wonder. Faith in science, if not some greater power, has fed us spoonfuls of hope that there will come a day when this is over. Common sense tells us that time is not now, no matter how much we want it to be, the risk being the virus surges again and we end up with Shutdown II, which, like most sequels, is bound to be worse.
Opinion polls suggest strong support for caution, but the red-state guvs and a number of the blue ones are willing to roll the dice anyway. It’s their job now to convince people there’s nothing to see here anymore. They talk about “safely” opening back up, perhaps praying that barflies can be trained to keep their distance and workout fiends to not breathe.
I think most of us would like to believe that’s possible because we’d like to have our lives back. But defining “safe” is a challenge that nobody is up to. The Supreme Court of Wisconsin decided we should not even try, robbing the state’s governor of all authority in the matter. The immediate result was packed bars and patrons partying like it was, well, six months ago.
The sad truth is we can’t know when — or if — safe will happen. Pundits speak of the “new normal.” Most of us, I suspect, were happy with the old one, but it’s gone, and with it all the assumptions we made about our lives and our future. Those assumptions underlay the bulk of our hopes and just about all of our plans. Now what?
With some ready to pull out the beer bong and others scared witless, it’s hardly surprising that anger swells. Some are angry at the political leadership, either for not being honest or not following through. Others are mad because they think the virus is a hoax, maybe not on the order of Pizzagate but still grossly exaggerated by the anti-Trump crowd. If a second wave does strike, knocking out a return to school come August, everybody is going to be mad — and half crazy.
One thing has become clear in recent days: the dubiousness of the notion that we’re all in this together. Being “together” implies shared experience and a common destiny. Millions of years ago, as a giant meteor was bearing down on Planet Earth, the dinosaurs were in it together. But when Titanic hit the iceberg, some floated away in lifeboats while others went down with the ship. Catastrophes both, differing fates.
Welcome to the SS Corona. Some of us have income and savings. Some are in food lines. Some live in crowded apartments and some in the spacious suburbs. Some are old or otherwise vulnerable, while many are young and, you know, bulletproof. Together? Kinda sorta. In some places maybe.
I suspect this very much colors our view of everything. Even the simplest of things, including face coverings. In stores and indoor spaces near the center of town — let’s call it Blue Houston — mask wearing is the norm. Not so much when I happened to be in a shop in The Woodlands the other day. Maybe it’s just a difference in the perception of risk. But it could just as easily be different politics.
Mask wearing is on its way to becoming a political statement, if it’s not already. Likewise the imperative to open back up. In other words, it’s about to get really ugly. A good number of the more comfortable, sensible or frightened — take your pick — are willing to stay the course because they know that no corner has been turned, that the virus is spreading even more than it was a month ago in some places, including parts of Texas. They can afford to face that brand of truth.
But some can’t, not with the rent due and the pantry sparse. And others won’t. The latter are being weaponized, literally and otherwise, to do some spreading of their own. They bear a replacement “Don’t Tread on Me” message not about civic duty but individual rights.
People complain on Nextdoor about those yelling at them for wearing a mask. One post later comes a shame-on-you message directed at a restaurant occupied well over the 25 percent limit. A few nuts have moved past words, inflicting violence on those unfortunates tasked with asking them to cover up. The upshot of that, sooner or later, will be no more such requests. Other customers may take it upon themselves to ask, and you can guess how that ends up.
We head forward, masked or not, into uncertain times, with anxiety lurking around every corner alongside a virus that we cannot control — and nincompoops who pretend it no longer exists. Perhaps it was a fantasy to believe we had the strength of will, or national character, to do what was necessary to minimize it. But that’s a different discussion for another day.
The shutdown is about over in most places, and we’ll be on our own again. Some will celebrate, with a few hoisting their Come and Take It flags in triumph. I feel no such urge, but will walk carefully, 6 feet ahead or behind, with one simple request: Don’t spread on me.