Covid has scarred language

Remember back in quarantine, when we self-isolated except for a few socially distanced meetups — unless, of course, we were essential workers?

That sentence reads smoothly enough today, but back before March 2020, it would have been mostly undecipherable. The coronavirus has obviously changed the way we live and the way we work. It has also changed the way we talk.

Some called it the novel coronavirus at the start. Soon, it became merely the coronavirus — and mind the article, please, because this bug was nothing if not definite and defining. After that, came covid-19, our name for the disease.

When we talk about quarantine, we don’t really mean the 40 days of seclusion that gave rise to the term hundreds of years ago; we mean 14 or so days instead. We also don’t mean cooping up post-exposure to a pathogen to contain the threat.

We dreamed up another word besides quarantine to describe those initial six or so months of extra caution: self-isolation, during which few of us were entirely by ourselves or entirely isolated.

Many were with their families, or, another invention, their “pods.” And they saw people away from home too — doing something confusingly known as social distancing, though the distance was actually physical. The words we employed suggested we were limiting our fraternization; really, what it meant was we were still fraternizing but six or so feet apart (or on a screen).

Crises have fattened our dictionaries before. Snafu, you might have heard, comes from the World War II-era military acronym for “situation normal, all fouled up” — and the word “acronym” appeared in English at the same time. There’s comfort in being able to describe the utterly awful. We understand it better that way, or think we do, and we wrestle it under our control.

There’s comfort also in the human connection that comes with a shared lexicon. Amid all that quarantining and self-isolating, we’ve needed connection more than ever.

Maybe the dreary covid-19 glossary has been a way of giving ourselves permission to ache over a reality whose day-to-day toll ultimately was small for those lucky enough not to lose anyone or anything of consequence, but whose cumulative effects could still be ghastly.

Maybe by maximizing the problem rather than minimizing it, we registered a collective complaint that the situation was wholly unacceptable and miserable. The clinging, similarly, is a cry for acknowledgment: This happened to us, and that should count for something.

Words aren’t only words. They both describe society and shape it. We’ll probably conceive another vocabulary to cope with whatever’s coming next.

Yet some words from this era will stick with us even when we’ve discarded the behaviors they were supposed to capture, like little memorials. Or like scars.