3: Caring in the time of Trumpism and COVID-19
On living for others and battling moral fatigue in a country governed by self-interest
When I found out my first installment of our newsletter fell on the day after Election Day, I’ll admit that I was at a loss in terms of how to proceed. I was incredibly unsure of what approach to take in the midst of so much uncertainty and election anxiety—what tone and topics would be appropriate to bring into the world in these dark times. I considered reflecting on my own coping mechanisms and sharing (hopefully) useful suggestions on that front, but once I started writing toward this end, things felt off. For now, I want to try to look outward in this space, and I hope you’ll bear with me as I endeavor to synthesize some ideas that have been knocking around in my head as of late. In light of happenings in my own life and the overall state of the world, I’m attempting to put words to some of my concerns about our current societal outlook—one that seeks to minimize our own culpability in caring for our fellow citizens and, by extension, the collective good.
It’s on the ballot this election cycle: a commitment to caring for others, to empathy. While Joe Biden’s political platform is far from ideal, his policies serve to illuminate the vast rift growing between the left and the increasingly polarized and self-serving politics of the right. Supporting plans like increasing the minimum wage, safeguarding the delivery of quality public education, and enhancing the accessibility of the Affordable Care Act demonstrates a willingness to think beyond one’s individual experience and actively uplift those unable to access the benefits of living with privilege in American society due to a variety of interrelated systemic issues. In short, such a platform is a relative rejection of the “I’ve got mine and I want yours” mentality of the modern Republican party.
Given the accelerating rightward drift of the GOP under Trump from underhanded to barefaced efforts to deprive the most vulnerable Americans of their inborn rights, the stakes of this election are unquestionably high. It feels like we’re at a point of no return as a country. Time and time again, I return to Kayla Chadwick’s short yet incredibly poignant piece on HuffPost, “I Don’t Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People.” The title itself distills everything wrong with the present political moment so clearly, especially in conjunction with its subheading: “Our disagreement is not merely political, but a fundamental divide on what it means to live in a society.” Many of the things our political leaders are currently debating, like the unalienable rights of American citizens of color or the human rights of undocumented immigrants on American soil, are undebatable—or should be. Beyond being broadcasted on our television screens each night in increasingly sickening manifestations, this fundamental disconnect echoes in the fruitless conversations you may have engaged in with Trump-supporting relatives or acquaintances. In Chadwick’s words, “I can’t debate someone into caring about what happens to their fellow human beings. The fact that such detached cruelty is so normalized in a certain party’s discourse is at once infuriating and terrifying.”
While the widespread lack of care for others’ wellbeing associated with Trumpism is the most brazen and outwardly malicious, this nationwide crisis of empathy is compounded by our collective response to COVID-19. It’s no coincidence that America has the highest number of total COVID cases in the world—9,331,714 as of November 3rd, according to the Johns Hopkins Coronavirus Resource Center. Elizabeth Yuko put it simply in an article for Rolling Stone, writing, “As Americans, we’re not used to limiting our personal autonomy to help the greater good. This meant it was hard to convince people that even if they’re not in a high-risk group or worried about getting sick themselves, they should stay away from other people in order to not spread coronavirus to more vulnerable groups.”
Things looked promising during the first two months of statewide lockdowns across the US. We came together by staying apart: baking copious amounts of bread in our underutilized kitchens, redistributing our unemployment and COVID relief money to support Black lives, taking socially-distant walks each day to process the times we were living in and the claustrophobic-yet-considerate quarantine lifestyle. Then, moral fatigue set in. The daily assessment of every possible impact of once-harmless decisions on the lives of others quickly became overwhelming. The mixed messages from our local and federal governments as America reopened state by state clouded the importance of protecting vulnerable lives over stabilizing the economy, trading long-term solutions for short-term profits. Staying home and limiting your exposure to others, once a largely black-and-white solution, became a moral gray area. As we collectively navigated new normals in COVID times, many of the limitations we had placed on ourselves out of a sense of civic duty began to feel like unnecessary hindrances. We stopped thinking about the vulnerable populations we couldn’t see and focused more on comforting ourselves with familiarities like dining out and indoor gatherings—things we apparently couldn’t give up even while the stakes were still high. It suited us to pretend they weren’t, defining the stakes for ourselves on a case-by-case basis and weighing the potential impacts on our own lives instead of the lives of others.
In the process of doing so, we’ve played out the tragedy of the commons in real time. For those unfamiliar with the concept, it’s “a situation in a shared-resource system where individual users, acting independently according to their own self-interest, behave contrary to the common good of all users by depleting or spoiling the shared resource through their collective action.” Thanks, Wikipedia. The tragedy of the commons is often cited in global environmental politics, but I find that it applies here as well. The metaphor we used in my Intro to International Relations course (oops, I considered becoming a poli sci major) was that of sheep-grazing: the commons are shared grazing lands, and if too many people keep too many sheep, the commons are overgrazed and unusable. Thus, shepherding becomes unprofitable for everyone in the long-term. Yet, the potential profit that comes with owning one more sheep in the short-term is enticing to the shepherds. Essentially, people have to overcome their conflicting interests to protect the common good. America’s approach to containing COVID-19 can be seen as a failure in this regard. Since so many individual Americans have prioritized accessing their creature comforts in the middle of a global pandemic, thinking solely in self-centered terms of doing what they want to do now, the virus continues to plague our collective wellbeing as a country and make full participation in the lifestyles and relationships we miss less accessible for a longer (potentially indefinite) period of time. We’ve been unable to overcome our American individualism and self-interest, and as a result, we’ve harmed our long-term individual interests. But more importantly (and staggeringly), we have contributed to the unnecessary deaths of over 232,173 innocent Americans in the process.
In light of this mass demonstration of egocentrism, those who try to hold steadfast to empathetic living in these times can feel especially downtrodden and disheartened. A brief doomscroll through Twitter or Instagram will confront you with images of Kardashians throwing maskless parties on private islands while being waited on by masked servers, the non-socially-distant weddings of your newlywed acquaintances from high school (not a mask in sight), your old roommate with a suspicious amount of people inside a tiny downtown apartment. After being inundated by visuals of “normalcy,” it’s hard to ignore the impulse to ask yourself, “Am I overreacting?” Even if you have managed to avoid situations like the ones mentioned above (and convince yourself you are not, in fact, overreacting), attempting to navigate what it is to widen your social bubble in an ethical way is incredibly difficult and often guilt-inducing.
My four closest friends and I solely FaceTimed, met outside in a strictly socially-distant manner, and wore masks the few times we rode in the same car from April until September. Eventually, we had to discuss how we would manage to see each other in fall and winter, and given that we were all committed to keeping our social bubbles limited, we began seeing one another unmasked and indoors while maintaining a five-foot distance. As time has gone on, we no longer consistently wear masks while driving together and are less strict about keeping our distance indoors. Just making these gradual changes over time to settle into a new normal that is sustainable for us has felt scary, uncertain, and sometimes selfish. Yet, the imperfect sacrifices we’ve made to protect ourselves, each other, our families, and those we don’t know seem to pale in comparison to the mass quantities of people across the US proceeding with business as usual. Given that the bar is so low when it comes to socializing considerately during a pandemic, it’s easy to feel both overly validated by your own efforts and incredibly depressed by the lack of effort seen in others. Both feelings can be dangerous to lean into, potentially leading to behavioral backsliding if you let them take root. Even in writing this, I am reminding myself to think beyond what I can see—that there are others out there quietly making careful choices, and that I want to stay in their ranks instead of giving into the ease of carelessness.
I haven’t been able to track down who wrote this, but the following image best expresses the emotional toll of bearing witness to such widespread disregard for the lives of others:
So, what do you do when you are continually confronted with such blatant demonstrations of lack of care for others? What can you do? I return to Kayla Chadwick’s article, her words now applicable to this situation: “I don’t know how to convince someone to experience the basic human emotion of empathy.” It is certainly easier to give in—to pretend away the reality of our situation, our interconnectedness. But the collective action of Americans who have acknowledged that living in a global pandemic requires a lifestyle change has undoubtedly made a difference, keeping our country’s unnecessarily high death toll somewhat lower than it already is. These invisible acts of care—nonactions, really—have positively impacted and saved more lives than can ever be known.
I find the outlook of Dr. Michael Baur, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Fordham University, on managing moral fatigue during COVID-19 especially helpful: “It’s a fiction to think that we’re not already deeply connected to one another—we always have been. It’s just that the consequences now have been ratcheted up in a different way. […] This is sort of a wake-up call for all of us. The added strain and effort, on the one hand, is unpleasant, and our lives are more complicated. But on the other hand, it’s potentially a very good thing, because the alternative is to live the usual oblivious life where we don’t recognize our interdependence.”
In 2020, our collective interdependence is at the forefront of this election and our day-to-day lives in the midst of a global pandemic, with COVID-19 laying bare the fact that we are truly in this together despite all our differences. Trumpism asks us to live the aforementioned “usual oblivious life” of perverted American individualism and self-interest on steroids. Even if you are far from a Trump supporter, it’s worth asking yourself if any semblance of this deeply American tendency to live for yourself before others has bled into your life under the stress of moral fatigue. Are your day-to-day actions ones that reflect your responsibility to care for others as a member of a society? Are you showing care for your fellow citizens in both the things you choose to do and not do? I’ll be continually asking myself the same questions. Each day is an opportunity to make changes in ourselves and in our behavior, positively impacting the lives of others in the short-term and contributing to the long-term betterment of our country. When so much feels out of our control in terms of this election and the state of our nation, living for others instead of yourself in the midst of COVID-19 can serve as a concrete way to make a difference doomsday after doomsday.
This tweet truly moved and comforted me in the wake of Trump’s election in 2016:
We’ve just got to wake up and keep trying to do good until we no longer have to explain to anyone why they should care about other people.
My beloved Mike Hadreas (aka Perfume Genius) serving as an ‘agony uncle’ for a Huck Magazine column. And, more specifically, his answer to this question:
Can you tell me I’m okay? – Seb
Yes, of course. But do you think you have to be all okay? Because you can be okay and not okay at the same time. You can be strong and weak at the same time. Or brave and scared. I think all of those things can exist parallel, and that’s comforting to me. So just let yourself be how you are. Let that be okay – whatever it is.
Clone High! I am now a big fan of the short-lived MTV animated sitcom about “secret government employees” who “dug up famous guys and ladies and made amusing genetic copies” that became “sexy teen” clones. Yes, I just quoted the earworm of a theme song to describe the show because they truly did it best themselves. Indeed, you watch the clones of Abraham Lincoln, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, JFK, and (controversially) Gandhi come of age in high school by “loving, learning, sharing, judging.” It is both insane and insanely funny. The original run only lasted one season (I’ll let you Google the Gandhi controversy yourself), so it’s easy to zip through the thirteen 20-some minute episodes if you are so inclined. Relatedly, I very much enjoy this Instagram account that perfectly replicates JFK’s voice, narrating memes by request. Here’s a favorite:
I’m obsessed with Power, a suite of three singles by IAN SWEET that are at turns empowering and emotionally vulnerable. Each song can stand alone, but they pair incredibly well together, balancing each other out topically and sonically. These three songs came to me at a time when I needed them, and they met me where I was at with their weird little cocktail of strength, softness, and yearning.
This Chris Fleming video entitled “you all slept on klobuchar,” wherein Chris embodies an Edward Zinfandelhands-playing Amy Klobuchar being escorted out of Epcot by Disney World security. Like everything Chris Fleming does, it is equal parts hilarious and uncannily specific. Good bits: “My husband looks like one of those guys that wins something obscure at the Oscars. It is what it is.” “I’m a one issue voter: defund UCB.” “I’m the only person running for president that knew that Sheik was Zelda the whole time.” My favorite bit, transcribed for your (and my) enjoyment:
If elected president, I would have put the kibosh on French Bulldogs. One full year without ‘em. Shiba Inus, Basenjis, bring ‘em back. Even a Dalmatian. I was promised a future with way more Dalmatians than I’ve ever seen. Have you seen a Dalmatian post-Y2K? No, it’s just 20,000 French Bulldogs in every major city of America. If you’re an empath, God help you, because all you hear is every Frenchie begging to be struck by lightning because their respiratory system is the same as that of the Teletubby vacuum. It’s the fast fashion of dogs, folks. Just buy yourself a Forever 21 blouse. Oh, cool, John Mulaney and his creepy wife have one?
The most recent installment of Haley Nahman’s newsletter, Maybe Baby. Beyond Anna and I having a major writer/girl crush on Haley and loving everything she puts out, her newest post resonated with me in so many ways. From discussing the appearance of mysterious heartbeats in non-heart-adjacent parts of the body (have I mentioned that I have a mysterious heartlike pulsation in my abdomen that I have yet to get checked out?) to the terror of the invisible forces governing our lives right now, Haley candidly writes about the anxiety many of us are feeling at this moment in time. An illuminating quote that stayed with me:
The combination of the pandemic and the election and all their respective fallout have ratcheted up the stakes of being alive while asking us to remain calm and rational. This is an impossible task. A threat on top of a threat on top of a threat, all invisible, all demanding we change a future we cannot know by following rules set by people we don’t trust or can’t see.
This comic by Jaakko Pallasvuo (@avocado_ibuprofen), which somehow covers everything Anna and I have talked about one-on-one lately (content creation in dark times, the vulnerability of opening your thoughts up to critique online, lack of space for learning, how easy it is to bash Emily in Paris) in just ten panels.
Dear Anna,
As someone who happily grew up in a meat-and-potatoes household (both figuratively and literally), I didn’t think much about alternative diets or even the existence of things like tofu or Whole Foods Market until I met you. Just being around you as you made your transition to veganism led to a transition in how and what I ate as well, though I came from and ended at a different place. Watching someone I admired willingly give up whole food groups that were foundational to most meals of my life was initially mind-boggling, but it proved to be fertile ground for reflection on my own habits and for conversations with you about sustainability, ethics, and what guides individual choice.
Beyond expanding my palate under your influence, I began eating a poultry-based diet and attempting Meatless Mondays. While my commitment to milk and cheese was unwavering, this was a way for me to start consciously limiting my ecological footprint over time. By the time I was a junior in college, I was seldom eating meat, opting for eggs instead. Moving home has marked another shift in how and what I eat, with family dinners inviting red meat back into my life as a consistent dinner guest. I’ve altered my choices in turn, consistently going meatless until dinnertime. Even as I write this, though, I am conscious of the ways in which I could continue to grow: trading my beloved Kemps skim milk out for oat milk, opting for meat replacements, and buying products from local farms at every opportunity.
I’m just grateful for the alternative mindset you’ve encouraged me to consider when it comes to what we eat and why. You’ve always understood that food habits are a product of culture, impacted by race, tradition, economic status, and other innumerable factors—that we all begin at different starting places on our journeys to ethical consumption. I think that promoting flexibility over labels in the way that you are provides a more nuanced view of what it is to make sustainable choices, inviting people to work toward their own definition of living more ethically over time while acknowledging the valid factors that impact how and what they consume. I’m always inspired by your commitment to bettering yourself and the world in this area, and I’m excited to see how we both continue to grow over time. For now, though, I am committed to trying more intriguing vegan reproductions of meat with you (yes, I am referring to the vegan “ribs” where you could EAT THE “BONES”) and slipping you more of my McDonald’s French fries, should you ever be so inclined.