I went to the grocery store yesterday, only this time I wore a face covering.  Minutes before leaving the house, I caught a short segment on CNN in which Dr. Fauci, the new GOAT of GOATs, explained that researchers now understand that the virus can be transmitted between short distances simply by breathing.  While balancing on that razor’s edge of diplomacy so as not to incur the mad-king’s insane anger, Dr. Fauci endorsed the idea of everyone wearing something over their nose and mouth when in a closed space, like a grocery store.  First I tried a wool scarf, but quickly concluded that I couldn’t figure out how to get it to stay in place.  Besides, even here in Seattle, it is getting a bit warm for a scarf.  Next, I tried a bandana, black with white paisleys.  It stayed in place, but I looked like I was pretending to be Steve Martin pretending to be a bandit.  I didn’t think I could pull it off.  Out of options, I suddenly remembered my buff, a many-Christmases-ago gift from one of the kids, an ironic way of telling me I was a cool dad.

A buff is the twenty-first century’s answer to the bandana.  For those of you who ski, it’s a lighter weight version of a neck warmer.  The great thing about a buff is its versatility.  Like a scarf, it can be tied into multiple shapes and worn around the neck, on the head, or pulled up over the nose and mouth.  I wore mine this last way, looking like a cross between a bald bandit and a tree-hugging, Seattle grunge throwback.  Whatever, I never was one to care too much about making a fashion statement.  At the store, I noticed several people also wearing face coverings, including masks, scarves and bandanas.  I was among my people.  And, to be honest, it felt a little empowering to walk around the produce section feeling like a little kid covering his face and pretending no one could see me: the avocado outlaw.  

As you probably know, Seattle holds the infamous distinction of having the first case of Covid 19 in the United States, as well as the first death from Covid 19.  Our state was the first to institute stay-at-home orders.  Reading now about what is happening across the rest of the country, it feels as if we are a few weeks ahead of others, both in implementing stringent social distancing policies and, praise God, in seeing some easing of the infection rate – a bit of light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel.  It also feels like we are a few weeks ahead of the rest of the country in the emotional response to the virus.  We’ve been through the disbelief, the “this can’t possibly be as bad as they say” stage, moved through the gut-punched, toilet paper purchasing panic, the pissed off reversion to our ten-year-old selves throwing a tantrum in public, and arrived at a precariously balanced state of acceptance.  We have toilet paper on the shelves most days.  We don’t panic (too much) when the one item we need at the store is temporarily out of stock, or we have to wait in line to get into the store, standing on an “X” taped to the sidewalk, and we are beginning to laugh more than scream at social distancing.  I would say we are at that “it sucks; deal with it” stage. 

At the store, I wheeled my cart down an aisle and almost bumped into an older woman who was even shorter than my mom.  In other words, I could barely see her full face over her shopping cart.  She was staring at the top shelf with a look of exasperation and despair on her face.  When she saw me, the avocado outlaw, bearing down on her in my National Geographic- themed hipster buff, she didn’t even bat an eye.  Instead, she asked me to reach a box of Grape Nuts off the top shelf as if she thought my devilishly handsome costume was just one more ridiculous outfit those young people were wearing.  I don’t know if I was more surprised by her lack of reaction to me or the fact that she was buying Grape Nuts, or for that matter, that the store still carried Grape Nuts.  We had a polite exchange while I retrieved the cereal and handed it to her, maintaining my social distance.  She was not wearing a mask.

  I felt awkward and discourteous interacting with this delightful woman while wearing a mask and obviously trying to stay as far away from her as possible.  I understand that for most of us, this is a public health issue, not a personal health issue.  Our cherished, deeply held, personal rights only exist so long as we acknowledge and protect those same rights in others.  Still, wearing a mask or crossing the street when out for a walk so as not to get too close to another person cuts uncomfortably against the grain of my social norms.  

Later that day, I saw a segment on the PBS News Hour about all the people making homemade masks to supplement the shortages among our front-line heroes in the medical profession. (Shout out to Margaret McClatchey who is one of these mask-makers.) It was a touching story of American ingenuity and grit, but nothing that should have brought mist to my eyes.  I think the interaction with my Grape Nuts grandmother, mixed with the heartwarming story of people putting their own serious problems to the side to help others, shifted my perspective.  Wearing a mask, whether a scarf, buff, or homemade covering, is, at this time, the perfect way to say “Namaste,” to say “I see you, and honor your right to be.” It is a gentle, selfless expression of love. You matter to me.  

This pandemic will teach us new ways of seeing each other, new ways of expressing affection.  It will help us let go of the form of our rituals and practices and remember the substance beyond them.  It might even loosen our stranglehold on those ultimately empty markers of our identity, like red or blue, and help us remember that different customs and beliefs do not have to lead to conflict, anger or fear.  The underlying substance of this pandemic is that we are all connected and interdependent.  My life depends on you, and your life depends on me.

From Seattle, the avocado outlaw sends his love. Namaste.