Absence Makes the Heart Grow
The eye on the cover of what’s left of my tattered, brittle-paged, duct-taped copy of Albert Camus’s 1947 novel, The Plague, stares back at me. The facts are clear—speak up, the penetrating gaze demands. You’ve shared this book with high school and college philosophy students for thirty years! Do your part, however small.
The eye wins. Welcome to a community college seminar in Existentialism, the renegade branch of philosophy that investigates what it means to be human and how to aspire to the fullness of human potential. Since there’s no pre-packaged recipe for the good life, complete with instructions to follow, each of us must figure this out for ourselves. No answers in the back of the book, this is not a class for the faint of heart or mind.
Community college students represent a broad swath of this country. Among my students you would find homeless and wealthy, younger and older, those living with their parents as well as single parents. Most work, the majority as servers and bartenders. A few have health insurance, most do not. I’m confident I’ve not had a billionaire in class.
First, a brief summary of The Plague—then, please join our last class meeting before the order to shelter-in-place to “flatten the curve” on Covid-19 begins.
We study Camus toward the end of the semester when students and teacher count on their biweekly camaraderie. The fictional plot parallels today’s Covid-19 reality all-too-well. Out of seemingly nowhere and under a bright blue sky, an odd and terrifying illness appears in the town of Oran. Rats in the street and then citizens in their homes die. In the beginning, denial rules. The concierge of a hotel, knowing better, states, “There weren’t no rats here.” The Prefect and other “authorities” close an office door at the mere mention of the word “plague.” What if this possibility leaked out! Dr. Rieux, the doctor at the heart of the story with whom Camus identified, insists that they must act now. Now! Time is everything. As the death toll climbs, at last the Prefect hands Dr. Rieux this message: “Proclaim a state of plague. Close the town.” The town gates shut and lock. Trains stop running. The beach is off limits. No way out. Each person, whether citizen or visitor, must decide how to live in this reality.
Eerie parallels abound: The likeness between Drs. Rieux and Fauci, the Prefect and a president who was warned in January about Covid-19, Oran’s soccer fields transformed much like King County, Washington. We finish the book on this, our fifth night of discussion. These are the notes I’ve prepared for that class—our last class together. I can only imagine my students’ contributions. I invite you to take their places.
“Good evening.
Monday and Wednesday for 11 weeks we’ve applied the material we study to our lives. Our continuing goal, clear thinking supported by good conversation, will benefit us now. Covid-19 is here—it’s everywhere. What to do? How to set our personal bars high?
My suggestions:
* Let the past rest. For now. “Plague is here and we’ve got to make a stand, that’s obvious.” Right here in our town, the University of Virginia developed tests that are being used. Pump up the volume. Don’t look back.
* Get the facts. Lies kill. I rely on health care professionals. Here’s one example, signed on by 16 national health care leaders. I also listen to plain-speaking, responsibility-shouldering governors—Governors Cuomo of New York, Newsom of California, and DeWine of Ohio, especially.
* Limit your news intake. It’s exhausting and ultimately counter-productive. Make your sources varied and trustworthy. Then, wash your hands and clear your mind. Breathe. Listen to the birds. Look up at the starlit sky.
* Check out this local network for giving and getting help. It’s updated constantly. Use it and add ideas.
* Accept fear, anxiety, heartbreak, mood swings, and mind games as part of daily life. You are not alone. Nothing has proven more dramatically how interconnected we are—the planet and its inhabitants just one wool scarf, knitted together for warmth. All stitches must hold. Empathy cements those stitches.
* Keep and use your sense of humor. I’ve got a couple of questions. Imagine that you’re very selfish, a totally self-absorbed beacon of unpleasantness. Would it still be a good thing for you if other students and your teacher have access to toilet paper? Why? Explain fully. Would it serve you well for others to have access to hand sanitizer? Is this a new thought for you? Describe, in detail, what turns you on at the sight of those cases of toilet paper and hand sanitizer in your garage.
* One of you wrote in a paper that I ‘should be an Army Ranger sharpshooter given my ability to spot a stealthy hand going into the pocket where a cell phone lurks.’ Use every tool you have at those itchy fingertips to keep relationships strong. Call. Email. Text. Post. Tweet. Also, start a conversation out the window. Wave to the postal worker. Physical does not mean social distancing. It can’t.
* By staying home, you join the fight. There’s always something you can do, and that’s one. By taking care of yourself, you take care of others.
* Inspiration surrounds us. Let it move and guide you. In 72 hours, two 20-somethings in NYC assembled 1,300 volunteers to deliver groceries and other supplies to the most vulnerable. Painters, carpenters, and restaurateurs hustle masks and gloves to front-line medical personnel. Distilleries churn out hand sanitizer and donate it to clinics. (No, they don’t donate whiskey.) Musicians perform on social media. Fitness studios and the New York Met post workouts and operas online. Look, look, look at the testing results in the town of Vò, Italy and the country of Iceland. Retired nurses and doctors jump immediately back into the fray. Businesses physically close and deliver instead, food, books, and running shoes. Sewing machines hum, creating masks. Factories retrofit for ventilator production. Chef José Andrés’s closed restaurants now serve as community kitchens in DC and NYC. Food banks fill, deliveries of breakfast and lunch satisfy school children’s stomachs, elected officials hold virtual town halls to answer constituents’ questions. Certified nursing assistants give nursing home residents 100%.
* ‘Destruction is an easier, speedier process than reconstruction,’ we read as the plague subsided. Thinking about reconstruction, I find direction in this article written by the director of Virginia’s Legal Aid and Justice Center. Make future plans.
That’s all I’ve got. Sorry we don’t get to share our last class meetings devoted to the poetry of Mary Oliver and e. e. cummings. I’ll read one by each poet now, to say farewell till we meet again—Oliver’s ‘Wild Geese’ and cummings’s ‘i carry your heart, (i carry it in my heart’). (Reader!!!! Click on those two links for pure pleasure.)
You know we can’t hug.
No, we can’t kiss instead.