diagonal lines

I’m working from home.  Still.  I appreciate the opportunity to work from a place where I can ensure everyone is either vaccinated or wearing a mask.  Or a cat.  But I miss being around people. 

Mostly. 

What I don’t miss is the anger, the ultra-self-centeredness, the indignation, the violence.  Not that I remember any of that happening in the office.  There, everyone got along.  Of course, at that time, there was no office-wide pandemic to bring out our worst.  As employees of the same customer-centric company, we all had the same agenda.    

The behavior I don’t miss is the type I have witnessed on the global reality show that plays nightly on the news.  On the flat-screen TV over my mantel, everyone has a different agenda.  Their own.  Life in the time of Covid has provided a stage on which too many actors have given their worst performances.  Disgusted with it all, I took down my flat screen and set it at the curb for pick-up.  When I remembered just how much I paid for the thing, I reclaimed the expensive set and, with even greater disgust, re-hung it over the mantel.  But I haven’t plugged it in.

So.  I’m relaxing in front of a blank screen when someone knocks on my porch door.  Through the French doors I see Tabby, my next door neighbors’ kid, tapping her foot impatiently on the other side of the screened door.  The eight-year-old girl with a curmudgeon’s attitude waits for me to let her in.

“Hey Tabby,” I greet her.  “How was your first day of third grade?” 

The attitude in her brows drops and she tells me, “I don’t know.”  When I look closer, I see her eyes are red and troubled.

“Oh, boy,” I grumble.  “You look like you need to sit down with a cat.”

“I sure do.”  No sooner does she sit down, than Toby, my accommodating therapy cat, hops into her lap.  At once, tears drop from the girl’s face, and Toby looks up at her as though to ask if he needs to find a dryer lap.

The kid removes her mask to wipe her eyes, and it practically falls apart in her hands. 

“Is that the same mask I gave you at the beginning of summer?”

She nods her head.

“Do your parents have any masks?”

She shakes her head ‘no’.   

“It looks like you’ve been wearing it.”

“Every day.”

“Maybe we can do something about that.  I’ve got several masks I haven’t even taken out of the plastic seal.  They’re supposed to look like the mouth and nose of animals.”  The excitement I hope to see in her, over the prospect of being something other than herself, doesn’t exactly manifest itself.

“People are animals,” she says.

“Yeah, but I don’t have a people mask.  You’ll have to settle for a duck or a bear.  You could be a cat.”

“No, the people at my school.  They’re the animals.”

“Bad first day?  Listen, if it’s reading or math, I got you.  I know, at first glance, math teachers and their crazy formulas can seem wild and vicious.”

“Not that.” 

I wait for her to get it out. 

“The people in front of the school.” 

Toby and I look at each other, waiting to hear if she is going to share more.

“What people in front of the school?”

“I don’t know.  The angry people.  They were holding signs and yelling the same thing at the same time.  Ya ya ya,” she samples for us.  “One of them was Brian’s mom.  We all know, because she kept coming to our classroom window and yelling his name.  Brian sat on the floor under the window so she couldn’t see him.  He looked like he was going to cry, so I gave him one of my Pop Tarts.”

Toby does what Toby does, and pulls the girl’s hands around him to help her re-center herself.

“That was nice of you.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”  I hold up one finger.  “We have one intrusive mother.  Who else?”

“Kimmy said she thinks they were parents, mostly.  Our teacher said there were looters from out of town hoping to get free school supplies.”  She holds onto Toby like a restraining bar on a wild school ride as she describes a classic scene of protest.  “And then,” she says excitedly, “…and then they wouldn’t go away.  So Principal Bobby had to go outside.”

“Principal Bobby.  I like that.”

“It’s his name!”  She practically glares.  “He warned the people to go home or else he was going to write them up.”

“Write them up for what?”

“I don’t know,” she cries.  “I’m not an adult.” 

It is true that writing-up is a uniquely adult action.  (Although, I have heard the girl threaten her parents Alice and Dan with similar consequences.)  School is a place of learning and growing-up for children and teens, but it is an institution run by adults in a world governed by adults.  By drawing a clear demarcation between her and the parties on both sides of the protest, Tabby underscores her reliance on—and vulnerability to—the actions of those adults. 

“And you don’t know what they were saying.”

She looks weary beyond her eight years.  “No,” she says.  “But I drew what was on their signs.”  She hands me a piece of paper on which she has transcribed several circles framing a mask, a syringe, a transgender symbol, a dinosaur, and a soccer ball.  Each is stuck through with a diagonal line. 

“Huh.  Do you know what these mean?” I ask her.

“Of course, I do.”  She bends back the page in my hands to point.  “This one means to stop and put on your mask.  This one is stop for a shot.”  She hesitates over the transgender symbol before saying, “Stop and be nice to bunnies?”  She laughs, pushing through.  “That’s stop for dinosaurs and that one is to stop and play ball.”
Toby looks up at me and shakes his head.

“Have you shared these with your mother?”

“Alice is zooming for work with her door locked.”

Again, Toby shakes his head.

“I see.  Well, I like a positive spin on things, and your interpretation of each sign is certainly positive.  Unfortunately, they fail to capture some of the nuances of each idea.”

“What’s a nuance?”

“What is a nuance,” I muse out loud.  “Let’s start with the circle with the line through it.  As you suggested, it can mean to stop or prohibit.  But in this case, the diagonal line also means that whatever is inside the circle is bad or wrong.”

“The diagonal line does all that?” she asks.

Toby and I give our young student a moment to reverse course on all of her positive interpretations. 

“So, you have a picture of a shot, no doubt representing the vaccine.  Some people are worried about getting the vaccine.”

“I know.  I hate shots.”

“Me too.  But in this case, the diagonal line means shots are dangerous or unnecessary.  The person holding that sign could also be saying they have a right to choose whether to get the shot or not.”

The girl is uncharacteristically silent.

“Moving on.”  I turn the page of symbols around to face the student on the porch.  “The picture of a mask…is a picture of a mask.”

“The diagonal lines means masks are dangerous?”

“Maybe more like uncomfortable.  It could also mean that people have the right to not wear a mask.” 

“Do Kimmy and I have the right to make them wear a mask when they are around us?”

“That is the question of the day.  While America is definitely the land of big hearts, concern for one’s own personal rights is sometimes so great, we can lose sight of other people’s personal rights.”

“What are personal rights?”

“There are ten of them spelled out under something called the Bill of Rights.  Like the right to say what you want, the right to own property, to have a gun, the right to vote in elections.”

“I can have a gun and vote in elections?”

Toby shakes his head a little more vehemently this time.

“Not quite yet.  You can when you are an adult.”

“Gee Laweeze.  Are there any rights for kids?”

I google her question on my phone.  “Each child has the right to a safe and healthy home environment,” I read.

When the list stops after one, she asks, “That’s it?”

“Kids have other rights, but to exercise most of them, they need the help of an adult.  Like a mom or dad.”

“Are masks in the constitution?”

“Not specifically.  But right number nine says that just because a specific right didn’t make the top ten list doesn’t mean it isn’t a right.”

“It should be in the constitution,” she says decidedly.  “Everyone knows there is virus.  Why wouldn’t they want to be safe?”  She tries to work through this long-trending puzzle. 

“I think some people are less concerned about getting sick than forfeiting their right to get sick.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” she cries, causing the cat in her lap to lift his head.    

“This is just a screened-porch chat, not a political forum.  I’m not telling you what makes sense.  I’m telling you what the signs mean.”

She crosses her arms around Toby and all but squeezes the breath out of him.   “My friend Kimmy thinks her mask keeps other people from seeing she is chewing gum.  But I can tell.”

“I’ll bet you can.  Now, let’s look at the circle with the bunny ears.”  First, I make a quick sketch of the traditional male and female signs, so that we have a point of comparison.  “This circle here stands for a boy and this one is for a girl.  And as much as the symbol you copied looks like a bunny, it actually stands for boys and girls who are not just boys and girls.”

“Huh?”  She doesn’t get it, and I don’t know that I’m the person to tell her about the birds and the bees and the birds-to-be.

“Imagine a spoon.  You know what that looks like.”  Tabby closes her eyes and presumably conjures an image of a spoon.  “Now imagine a fork.  Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now imagine something in between.”

“A spork,” she says as her eyes spring open.  “I know because that’s what Alice packs in my lunch each day.”

“Very good.  Now, using your powers of empathy, let’s go a step further.  Imagine a spoon that looks like a spoon but, deep down inside, thinks like a fork.”

“Spoons can’t think.”

“Not if the person imagining them lacks empathy and imagination.”

“Okay,” she says to humor me.  “Think like a fork.”

“Think like a spoon that thinks like a fork.”  After my gentle correction, her brows soften and lift with understanding. 

“Kimmy’s a spork,” she blurts out, surprised to find herself so close to the issues.  Then she frowns.  “Does that mean the people outside don’t want me to be her friend?”

“Despite what others want, one of your rights is to choose your own friends.”

“I wonder if Kimmy knows what the diagonal line means.”

“Maybe you should pack an extra Pop Tart tomorrow.”

She nods, in full agreement.

“Next on your list is a dinosaur.”

At this, Tabby giggles and rocks back in her seat.  “They don’t want dinosaurs in school.”

“Close.  They don’t think the school should teach evolution.  That’s what the dinosaur represents.”

“My brother and I watch a lot of David Attenborough.  He talks a lot about animals and bones.  Why don’t people want us to learn about evolution.”

“Some people don’t believe in evolution.  Do you know what that is?”

“I just said I watch a lot of David Attenborough,” she snaps at me.  “For people who don’t want to learn it, they could all be in put in their own classroom.”

“They could.  But that presents another problem.  If we don’t all get the same information, then we live in different worlds.  In one world there will be things everyone can see that are invisible in the other world.”

“What things?”

“Suppose one classroom is taught that the president of the United States only does what his dog tells him to do.”

“That’s stupid.”  Toby backs her up on this.

“It is.  But what if that is what you are taught?  What if you never attend a different class that teaches the president is able to run the country just fine without consulting his dog?  The students from your class and the students from the other class will have very different views about dogs in the White House.”

“He should have a cat,” she says after some prodding by a certain cat.

“No doubt.  Now, let’s look at the soccer ball.  That’s a tough one.  Who doesn’t like soccer?  I wonder if there is more to this symbol.”

“There were a bunch of hairs all over it, but I didn’t draw them because they were icky.”

“Okay, that helps.  Now that you and I have the same icky information, I believe your soccer ball is actually a virus particle.”

“They’re that big?” she asks incredulously.

“Tabby.  Are dinosaurs that small?  No.  This size just works best on a sign.” 

“They don’t want there to be a virus,” she says, trying to look ahead.

“I think we are all ready for the virus to leave.  But there are some people who don’t believe there is a virus.  Or they don’t believe a virus should control so much of what we do.  That’s kind of that rights thing again.”

She crosses her brows.  “If people watched more TV they would know there is a virus.”

“That could depend on what channel you’re watching.  What if you never saw anything on TV about the virus?”

“Then you’re watching the wrong shows.”

Toby and I can’t help but laugh.  “Remember, each person has a right to watch the shows they want, assuming mom and dad approve.  And each mom and dad have the right to put their kid in a school that teaches what they want their children to learn.”

“But then they have to live in a different world.”  She sticks out her fingers as though she is working through a math problem.  When she can’t make the numbers add up to her satisfaction, she concludes, “I think adults have too many rights.”

“You probably won’t feel that way in ten years.  Until then, keep plenty of Pop Tarts in your backpack and be the best third-grader you can be.”

“How?”

“Think of this time as a test we are all taking together.  Not everyone is going to have the same answers.”

“Duh! Then they would be cheating.”

“So, until the teacher calls time-up, keep giving the best answers you can and respect everyone.  Covid is also testing us on how we respond to each other.”

“It would be easier to respond if I had a mask.”  The look she gives me has absolutely no nuance.

“I have a whole zoo of animal masks.  I think one of them has your name on it.”

Toby hears his cue and races out of the porch. 

“I have the right to be something other than a duck,” the girl says with her usual larger-than-eight-year-old attitude.

The cat returns holding a plastic-sealed mask in his mouth.  Tabby takes the mask and holds it up for inspection.

“YES!” she roars, scaring the birds outside into the air.  She tears open the plastic and dons a mask with prehistoric snout and teeth.  “Do I look like T-Rex?” she asks hopefully.

“The spitting image.  Just be a respectful T-Rex and don’t eat the protesters.”  Now Toby and Tabby are shaking their heads at me.  “And remember, if you need to respond to a sign with a diagonal line across a duck, I’ve got a mask for that too.”

The evolution of masks to hide the gum one is chewing in school.