Faceless
Identity: /ˌīˈden(t)ədē/ noun: 1. The fact of being who or what a person is. 2. The condition of being oneself, and not another
I hate my mask.
It doesn’t interfere with my breathing. It doesn’t hurt my ears. It isn’t really all that uncomfortable. I now have enough of them that I can keep a clean supply in my purse and car. I have figured out how to keep my glasses from fogging up and I am teaching myself not to touch it too much. I don’t feel my rights are infringed upon by wearing one. I am totally convinced by the science that tells us that we need them and fully expect everyone around me to wear one. None of that is why I hate it.
I am a people watcher. I have always seen meeting new people as a chance to study our species. I like to make eye contact. I say hello to strangers. I make small talk with the person behind the counter at a convenience store. I crack jokes in full elevators…yes, I am that person. It’s not that my mask actually stops me from doing any of those things. We can still chat from six feet apart, our voices muffled by fabric, but somehow, it just doesn’t feel the same.
Walking around in my mask, I find it hard to connect. I am not as sure of myself in my interactions when I cannot read a stranger’s face. We hug the corners of elevators; we skirt the edges of grocery aisles to give each other proper distance. I place myself between my child and a person who has let his mask drift down below his chin. Our masks are a constant reminder that we are a danger to each other. The virus is the invisible invader; its human hosts — the vectors that must be avoided.
I suppose, I could aim for the glass-half-full view of our infection control measures. We can all embrace a shared sense of responsibility toward others made evident by our commitment to masks and distance. We will develop a new etiquette. Soon, we will see Emily Post articles about the proper way to host a distanced dinner party, complete with formal maskwear and individualized hand sanitizer dispensers. In the naïveté of the early pandemic days, I had this sense of a harmonic convergence of humankind, all around the world, joined together in a common cause against a common adversary. But I am finding it harder and harder to see that rosy image of our shared plight.
Instead, my mask reminds me that each of you is “the other.” This view of the world has long been a basis for hateful behavior and unequal treatment. Societies have divided themselves by color and creed, by origin and status, and these divisions have been codified into nations rife with social injustice and unconscious bias. Perhaps, this is what lies at the heart of those who feel unduly burdened by the requirement of a mask — the fear of being shunned or targeted. What if the mask signifies some further division that has sprung up even among the most cohesive of communities? We distrust our teachers with our children unless they wear a mask. We hide our faces from our neighbors. We hold back from embracing family members without proper protective equipment.
Or perhaps, it is the fear that each of us may become faceless behind our masks. What if we lose our identities to a sameness, like other seemingly interchangeable creatures who tread a pinstripe path to an awaiting anthill, or swarm around a hive deferring to a queen? We humans have held up our uniqueness as a badge of superiority, and now a tiny microbe proves powerful enough to threaten that singularity.
I find the paradox of my mask, both a symbol our unified struggle and an emblem of the risk we each present to the other, makes it sit more heavily on my face. I see you there, your eyes drifting past mine, above your mask. We wear our masks together, in order to stay apart. I hope you trust me. I hope I can trust you.
I still hate my mask.
Originally published at http://rebeccafullerdotblog.wordpress.com on July 25, 2020.