Some Inoculations Against the Thought-Virus

I’ve been thinking a lot about viruses lately.  Such tiny things, simple clumps of DNA or RNA—nothing more or less than fragments of the same material that makes all of life on this planet possible.  The same four nucleotide building blocks that, in almost infinite permutations, build the twisted ladder of our basic human identities.  This is almost certainly an over-simplification, but one of the ways viruses are so effective at propagating is that they can insinuate themselves into our cells, convince them that it’s okay that they’re there, it’s perfectly natural, maybe even necessary, and thus turn US into THEM.

All this we learn in 9^th grade Biology class, but recently I’ve started to think about them differently:  viruses are like ideas—little fragments of a larger identity, perhaps, or a not-yet concluded chain of logic unchecked for validity by observation or time.  Ideas, like viruses, have a way of wriggling into our psyches, into our identities, co-opting parts of our thought-processes so that we become sure, over time, that the idea is our own, a part of us. 

I’m an observer by nature (or perhaps I’ve been convinced of that by some infectious idea in my past).  As I’ve watched this Covid-19 pandemic unfold over the past months, I’ve noticed how fearful people have become, even panicked—and understandably, please!  I have grief and hope to spare for those hardest hit, the vulnerable Elders on the reservations and in care centers and crowded homes.  Death and loss walk the streets of the world freely this year.  But I can’t help but notice how even the idea of the virus has changed people’s behavior in unexpected ways.  Social distancing just makes good sense, as do hand-washing and masks, but sometimes as I walk through a sparsely-stocked grocery store I see folks who seem afraid to say hello from behind a mask, or even make eye contact, as if Covid might be transmitted this way: through the most innocuous and benign forms of human contact.  

I notice this in myself too, as I avert my gaze or give lots of extra space—it’s amazing how easy it is to feel somehow tainted.  And I wonder what the long-term consequences of this infection might be on our identities when so much of what makes us is human is contact: a pat on the back, a handshake, a hug.

I have long seen notions like racism and sexism, political and religious bigotry as thought-viruses—strange little incomplete fragments of consciousness that can only reproduce in a viable host, that slip in and start muttering instructions with the sound of our own voice, casting feverish Thems and Usses, and centuries of culturally transmitted diseases ensue.  Especially when our defenses are down, when we’ve been wronged or hurt or scared, when we’re young and impressionable, old and intractable, just plain run-down or—perhaps most often—we inherit a thought-virus from a parent, we become more readily susceptible and sickness takes root.

Alas, I’m not remotely wise enough to offer a cure—either for racism or this new, covidious fear of infection by glance—though perhaps there are inoculations. 

A healthy dose of humility is good medicine, I think.  We’re not nearly as in control of our surroundings (or ourselves) as we like to believe and we’re almost never right.  About anything.  Not completely anyway.  Also, since so many thought-viruses reproduce by convincing us that they’re a part of us, part of our genetic identity even, a fit and trimmed down ego is a much less hospitable host. 

And finally love, or if you prefer, compassion (which I think of as the act of broadening your identity to include others).  Like garlic, it’s a good immune-booster and great for your heart.