Reopening makes me feel like a lab rat

Even before Juneteenth was finally made a national holiday, I knew I was going out. I didn’t know where, but I knew I had to do something. After all, I’d gotten my second Moderna shot in midMay and still hadn’t properly left the house. California was lifting all COVID restrictions (save for letting unvaccinated folks go maskfree), and San Francisco — my birthplace and home of 40 years — was predicted to reach herd immunity soon.

The least an S.F.born Black man could do was celebrate in his hometown; especially since there are so few Black people left here.

It was wonderfully sunny as I walked through The Mission. Valencia’s blockedoff “slow street” was full of artwork and pedestrians. I walked along eating a veggie “steak” sandwich, eventually making my way through the Haight to Golden Gate Park, where I saw the “Monumental Reckoning” exhibit by former KPIX anchor Dana King.

One of the things I love about being an arts critic is discovering work that can say a lot with just a little. That’s difficult to do when you’re trapped inside for months on end.

As the day wore on, I got to the DNA Lounge, where I had a Juneteenth Hubba Hubba Revue ticket waiting. I hadn’t been inside the Lounge since January 2020. I devoured slices from DNA Pizza and went inside for a bawdy, raunchy show of allBlack talent.

I kept my mask on the whole time. Well, not the whole time. I wore two cotton masks on the day, taking the first off only to eat my sandwich. I wore the other at the Lounge. I also had a Ziploc full of surgical masks, another full of surgical gloves and antibacterial wipes all in my bag. Plus, I had my vaccination card in a sealed plastic lanyard around my neck under shirt in case I was asked for proof of vaccination.

I wasn’t.

Honestly, I wish I had been. No matter how safe my city appears to be on paper, I’d happily go through a TSAstyle verification of that safety. I don’t trust gambling with public health with the legal equivalent of “cross my heart and hope to die” (which sounds all the more grim midpandemic).

Even if S.F. is kicking pandemic ass, said pandemic is not over.

And I get it: after a yearandahalf of isolation and eyebleeding Zoom fatigue, why shouldn’t we get out ’n’ about? Despite being vaccinated since May, I’d only done two indoor public activities this year, both in my capacity as a critic.

Meanwhile, friends who’ve been fully vaccinated for months have shared photos of unmasked restaurant dinners and maskfree crowded parties. Hell, one filmed herself performing a “Coyote Ugly” dance in a Texas bar – despite Texas’ lax masking standards and its, as of this writing, 1,300plus new daily COVID infections.

I know that it feels like we’ve earned it this time. But that’s the very sort of thinking that lead to tighter restrictions before. The last time I’d really “socialized” was in June of 2020. S.F.’s infection rates had lowered enough for a soft reopening. I went to a bar I loved for maskfree courtyard drinks with smiling strangers. Had I known that would be the last time I’d drink there, I’d have stayed longer.

My Juneteenth outing was equally jarring as it was entertaining. As I waited in the queue outside DNA Lounge, I asked the unmasked guy behind me to back up 6 feet. When I got inside, the staff wore masks, but the packed auditorium had maybe 30% masked patrons. I kept mine on the whole show, slipping straws underneath for drinks.

I’m all too happy to support local Black artists and one of the few indie venues left in the city (did they ever get the recovery funds promised them?), but I’ll be damned if I ignore the pandemic when the Delta variant threatening the Olympics has already crashlanded in Marin County. (Yes, the risk is extremely low for vaccinated people. I don’t care.)

When you’ve lived through the AIDS crisis, you know the danger of complacency. As such, I’ll continue to wear a mask, even if it isn’t required.

As the oldtimers say: “A shot o’ penicillin ain’t no excuse to stop wearin’ rubbers.”

That reopening happened so close to Juneteenth just strengthened my resolve. My parents attend church near Bayview, so they’ve been firsthand witnesses to the city and state’s tugofwar with houses of worship. (Their church still limits capacity and requires masks.) I have a niece and nephew in S.F. public schools, so they’re caught up in the quagmire of when and how schools should reopen.

Call it “bureaucratic micromanaging” if you like (at least it’s not a Dutertestyle arrest of the unvaxxed), but Black folks have too much danger hanging over us to ignore the pandemic; especially when headlines have already forgotten dead Black folks and daily attacks on our Asian American and Pacific Islanders friends.

As we move toward Fourth of July, the U.S. is still falling short of its 70% vaccinated goal. I’ve vetted art jobs and daily invitations to friend gatherings based on whether or not everyone’s vaccination could be confirmed. The success of S.F. means little to me when the rest of the world has yet to follow suit.

Still, I’ll continue to wear a mask for the same reason I check The Chronicle’s California fire map several times a day: because I want to stay safe and I want everyone else to stay safe, too. If S.F. is truly leading the COVID fight, then let our example be to show how much fun you can still have while keeping safety a priority.

Charles Lewis III is a San Franciscoborn journalist, theatre artist, and arts critic. You can find dodg y evidence of this at The Thinking Man’s Idiot.