All illustrations in this post are by Junanna Chen unless otherwise noted.
Here’s a thought experiment.
Imagine you’re getting into your car, getting ready to drive to a party with your friends. Your mom is walking down the driveway, bringing you the phone charger you forgot, when she trips, falls, and hits her head on the sidewalk. She’s bleeding. If you don’t bring her to the hospital immediately, she might die, and she will definitely be in preventable pain.
What do you do?
Easy. You drive your mom to the hospital, and stay with her until you’re sure she’s okay. What about the party you were going to? It doesn’t matter, you say. Saving your mom’s life is worth missing a party. Obviously.
Does that answer change if it was your friend’s mom who tripped? Or your neighbor, or a stranger? Would you drive yourself to the party, and leave them bleeding on the sidewalk?
No, of course not. Could you enjoy the party with that person’s life on your conscience? Could you live with yourself afterward, if they died? More importantly, is it ethical for you to put your recreation ahead of a person’s life? No. Saving a life is always worth missing a party.
Saving a life is always worth missing a party.
You know this. We know this. It’s moral reasoning so fundamental, it’s embarrassing to have to say it.
Why, then, are we doing this?
I understand that it’s difficult not seeing your friends every day. I understand that it’s difficult to stay home and watch your teachers through a screen. I understand that it hurts to feel robbed of your senior year of high school, or your freshman year of college, or any year of your normal life. I understand, and I’m sorry. Your suffering is real, and so are your sacrifices.
But you’re not the only one who has suffered losses, or made sacrifices. Everyone is living in the same year here. Nobody wanted this. Nobody asked for this. There is no way to get out of this without all of us sacrificing. Our agency lies in choosing which sacrifices we will make. Will we give up parties, pictures and potlucks? Or will we give up parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings?
Because—make no mistake—that is the choice we are making. That is the choice you are making every time you have an unmasked indoors gathering with multiple people outside your household.
Unless each and every one of you has tested negative or self-isolated for two weeks prior, the chance that at least one of you has been exposed to COVID-19 is not insignificant. And if you’re indoors, unmasked, the chance of that person transmitting is dangerously high.
It doesn’t matter if you have no symptoms. You’re young. You probably wouldn’t. You don’t know for sure, and that’s the problem. You’re gambling. And the stakes are real human lives.
When you participate in an unmasked indoor party, you make yourself a nexus in a web of risk. An infection that might have been confined to one person’s ring of contacts can now spread to three, four, five new people, and their contacts.
This is how it happens. This is how it spreads. This is how people die. This is you driving away, leaving your mom bleeding on the sidewalk, letting her die so you can go to a party.
Your mental health is important. Your social connection is important. Your emotional well-being is important. But there are ways to take care of those things safely.
Virtual activities are ideal, but if you’re going to see people, there are easy, proven ways to minimize risk. Stay outdoors. Stay apart. Wear masks. Wear masks. Wear masks.
And if you don’t do those things, for heaven’s sake, don’t go see other people afterward. Every person you see is now linked through you to that web of risk. You might be comfortable accepting that risk for yourself, but what right do you have to make that choice for others, for their families, or for the classmates, teammates, or essential workers they come into contact with?
I’m not here to yell at you, I’m not here to shame you, and I’m not here to ask you to listen to reason. Don’t get me wrong—am I angry? Yes. Do I want you to feel ashamed? Yes. Do I want you to be rational? Yes.
But (a) I don’t want to pontificate from some high horse. I’m just like you. I’m stir crazy, I miss the old days, and I want to see my friends again. And sometimes I do, albeit trying my best to be safe (masked, outdoors, apart) and to isolate at home between interactions. But the fact remains that I have gone out, and I’m not perfect.
More importantly, though (b) we’ve been having this conversation for 9 months. If anger, shame and reason didn’t work then, I’m not sure they will now. So I’m not here to do any of that. I’m here to beg.
Please. Have compassion. For the widows, the widowers, the orphans; for the sons and daughters and sisters and brothers and parents and grandchildren standing by the bedside, watching their loved ones in pain.
Have compassion for the doctors, nurses, medical assistants, respiratory therapists and paramedics on the frontline. Have compassion for the scientists who have developed a safe vaccine with record speed. Have compassion for the essential workers who have kept us fed, safe and educated. Have compassion for the business owners who’ve had to close down because the reckless gatherings of young people have skyrocketed case counts in their counties.
We owe it to them to understand the consequences of our decision. To feel the pain we might be causing. And to ask ourselves: is it worth it?
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