Don't Fucking Dance

Last week’s district court ruling ending the federal transportation mask mandate has some folks tweeting celebrations and confetti emojis for their new-found facial freedom. But as we continue to hurtle uncontrollably towards “normalcy”, the only things I can think about are my mom’s first chemotherapy appointment on Tuesday, my extremely at-risk brother, and wondering to myself why we take such joy from the “normalcy” of making the vulnerable less safe?

The removal of public health measures due to unpopularity shouldn’t be celebrated but rather mourned as the moral failures that they are. Our societal inability to adhere to a simple and effective way to protect ourselves and our neighbors should be a generational stain on our reputation, a Mark of Cain perpetually reminding us of our collective folly. We should be collectively ashamed of the uncaring intransigence of few ruining things for everyone else — and ashamed of ourselves for continually equivocating their discomfort with the vastly-greater pain prevented by universal masking.

The fight over masks is all but over, as much as it pains me (save for hospitals and other healthcare settings). Congratulations, you did it: you may now peruse Whole Foods with unfogged glasses and fly economy (mouth unshackled) to Daytona Beach . But as you rip off your mask in glee while I do my mother’s grocery shopping and drive her to chemotherapy for the next six months, do me a favor and don’t fucking dance.