It’s reasonable to feel anxious and even afraid of covid-19 as a health and overall wellness threat.
What we need to be mindful of is when our fear becomes a phobia that’s actually an ism. What’s that? As opposed to arachnophobia or claustrophobia, a phobia that has become an ism is one that is backed by institutional power and societal norms: like homophobia, Islamophobia and transphobia. While all phobias are real conditions, phobias that are really isms are anxiety disorders that are reinforced and fueled by explicit policy and implicit social permission.
Thus, it may be more accurate and helpful to talk about sexual orientation-ism, Islam-ism and gender-ism (across the gender spectrum), if we want to end these forms of systemic discrimination, brutality and oppression.
What does this have to do with covid-19? Well, I’ve been thinking about how individual fears about covid-19 have aggregated into a collective fear (although research indicates that you’re more likely, if you identify as a Democrat–and I’m going to go out on a limb here, to extend that to liberal or progressive–to see the coronavirus as “a real threat,” so this may pertain more to left-leaning communities), and how that collective fear has been manifesting in a way that strongly resemble isms in action.
Here, I want to focus on covid-19-ism enacted at a very local level, in human interactions among people who would probably tell you “there’s not a prejudiced bone in my body.” (And once again, I just need to affirm that they are correct. Because there is no “prejudice bone.”)
Let’s talk about physical distancing. First of all, way to go, people! We’re all learning a new skill and consciousness in real time. No swimming pool test before the open water exam, to put it in SCUBA terms.
Now, n my daily runs since the order to “stay at home” (which allows for daily exercise, maintaining 6′ between yourself and others), I’ve noticed that when a couple or group is walking together, they walk abreast of each other on opposite sides of the road or trail, often maintaining their positions regardless of who else may be coming up behind or heading toward them. This leaves the center of the road for those others, which may involve dodging a car coming around a blind curve, or, on a single or double track trail, physical contact for everyone because there isn’t enough space for three people to pass.
It occurred to me that some folks observing the 6′ distance are mindful for themselves and their own, but at the exclusion of anyone else. As if physical distancing is what we’re doing to avoid you. As if what happens to you isn’t our problem. (Who said you could be out here while we’re using this space, anyway?) As if we don’t even recognize you and your right to be safe, too. Sound like the attitude underlying an ism to you? For example, as enacted through the ban on transgender individuals serving in the military, all of the travel bans targeting Muslim-majority countries, and the ethnoracist redlining practices that persist in the US.
Right now you may be thinking that I’m reading a bit much into folks trying to physical distance. Possibly, yes, and I believe this is the hardest level of ism to address: the level that informs our everyday actions, that we justify and admonish others not to make such a big deal out of (just run in the middle of the road or into the bushes, Alison! no one means any harm), and that we therefore freely practice to the point where our ism skills are reflexive and well-honed for the next opportunity to cast ourselves against them.
Which brings me to the other, entangled perspective that seems to underlie how people are physical distancing. It’s not just self-care and concern: it’s self-care and concern assuming self-innocence. There’s a distinct feeling of maintaining distance for myself in case you’re infected. As if the problem is those infectious others. Now, obviously everyone has to catch it from someone else. Yet what that also means is that some of us have to be some of those elses.
Yet we’re practicing physical distancing as if we are good and healthy. As if it’s them who are germy, gross and potentially lethal. Again, sound like an ism, anyone? This presumption of self-purity is at heart of white nationalism, anti-Semitism and xenophobia (or maybe we should call it xenocism).
Which brings me to wondering whether we’re enhancing our own ism tolerance and capacity during this outbreak by practicing covid-19-ism:
- Thinking of us, over/against/instead of them because we’ve
- Decided (rationally or not) that they’re the danger we should protect our (untainted) selves from
It’s not that thinking of ourselves and our own is wrong. It’s human. It’s that we can do that and not dehumanize others. And it’s better not just for those others, but for us, too, to expand our community of we to encompass as many (human) beings as possible. If we want to get through this pandemic, we have to care about our collective health and well-being, including people we don’t know and may never meet.
We have to own our part in this outbreak. This is the advice coming from healthcare professionals everywhere: act as if you have the coronavirus. That’s right. Assume you’re the infected person. Then, discern how to interact with or among others. That means practicing physical distancing for us mutually (not just for me to keep my distance from you, you unfortunate obstacle to my safety, health and well-being).
Which brings me back to genderism, Islamism, sexual orientationism, ableism, ageism, anti-Semitism, classism, ethnoracism and white nationalism. If you’re opposed to any (or all) isms, try practicing anti-covid-19-ism with me. That is, engaging with others with your mutual well-being in mind, realizing that you’re a potential threat and resource, and that they are, too. All this in a diverse community, which is to say we’re not identical or equal. On my runs, I’m actively trying not to presume that everyone has the same physical abilities (including hearing and balance), trail-sharing experience or burdens (social and emotional) to carry during this time.
And, next level, see if your susceptibility to covid-19-ism provides any insight, compassion or even empathy for people who believe in and/or act to advance other isms.
What?! Empathize with white supremacists and homophobes? Or even the Millennials who started the “Boomer Remover” meme (who may not have been motivated by hate, but nonetheless are playing into ageism, which may yet actually impact access to treatment during this pandemic)?
Yes. Not to “forgive and forget.” But to acknowledge that any ism is a campaign that requires people to advance it. And that, therefore, we have to deal with people as people in order to halt and redirect the campaign. Because while it’s vital to go hard on issues of equity and inclusion, it’s generally not effective to be inhumane to people, whether you’re for an ism or against it. Recognizing my own capacity to ism (in this case, to advance covid-19-ism) can help me to shift my interaction with someone who is, knowingly or not, advancing ageism: from treating them as if they’re a problem for me to eradicate, to engaging them as someone who, like me, is motivated by concerns and fears; and, like me, sometimes acts unhelpfully and hurtfully to alleviate personal anxiety, especially when others seems to be moving in the same direction. Finding empathy doesn’t change my goal of stopping ageist behaviors and promoting a campaign of anti-ageism. It helps me to distinguish the issue from the person, which I too often sweep up altogether in the dragnet of my sense of justice. It reminds me that I’m not “better” than them, and this isn’t about me versus them. This is about us.
* Thank you to my colleague MM, for reframing “Islamophobia.”