“Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity….When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”
~Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
This quote is from one of the most memorable TED Talks I’ve heard, entitled, “The Danger of a Single Story.” These are my 2 take-aways:
It is indeed true that we contain multitudes⭐️💫.
If you only look at a single part of a thing, it is incomplete. That, too, is the danger of a single story.
The truth is as I sit here quarantined from my husband in our lovely but small apartment(It’s California, y’all; they’re all small.), I am scared. We are unsure if either of us has COVID-19 or not; only today, almost 2 weeks after we first suspected that one of us might have some symptoms, have we both finally been able to be tested.
In which I leave my house for the first time in 4 weeks to take the novel coronavirus test. Dressed as a slightly cold, futuristic alien-woman.
Prior to this, and still while we await results and instructions, we have been exercising an abundance of caution. With my advanced pulmonary fibrosis, I am in the high risk category. Contrary to the constellation of conflicting information that the federal government is disseminating, this is not just about your “grandaddy, your pop pop and your nana,” Mr. Surgeon General. It is confusing to people when you say this, sir, because there are more stories contained here than those of our elders. Many lives, if they survive, will remember this as a new defining moment by which they mark time—Before the Virus. After the Virus. In a matter this urgent, consistent, accurate repetition are essential.
I remember being in a huge district-wide orientation before the first days of school almost 20 years ago during my first year as a teacher. The superintendent got up to speak to us and said that in our role as educators there was one critical thing we must do: “Repeat the important things.” Then he repeated himself, we all laughed, and—non-ironically— I never forgot that moment. It has been an invaluable principle in both my pedagogy and my life. So, I say again: in a matter of urgency, consistency and repetition are essential. Every time our officials speak in a time of public panic, it is essential that they speak with clarity, focus, and accuracy thereby consistently and repeatedly giving people the whole story, not a single story. And there is a difference.
The whole story in the case of the Novel Coronavirus includes the grim acceptance that there is still an immeasurable amount of uncertainty ahead. We do not like uncertainty. As my therapist tells me, the brain likes to have an answer. It would be easier and neater to be able to put our understanding of the COVID-19 in a box—only the elderly/only that race/only the other. Any box will do, as long as we eliminate the uncertainty and its cousins: anxiety, overwhelm, and fear. But in a rush to do that—to steady the “markets” and to quell people’s trepidations— misinformation has prevailed. There are people facing this global pandemic choosing for themselves whatever box creates the least amount of uncertainty, regardless of the veracity or completeness contained therein. We have been warned that that these boxes do not and cannot contain the whole story. The first thousands of victims and their physicians have told us. The scientists, epidemiologists, and immunologists have told us. Our neighbors in the Eastern hemisphere who suffered first have told us. To look at all of it is to acknowledge that there are many, many stories present and that any kind of thriving through this, surviving through this means also accepting the inherent, cosmic recklessness of uncertainty.
I think this also means the following:
In addition to our grandparents, there are dozens of children and young people with asthma who, if they get sick, will suffer greatly. I hope that there is room in the hospitals for them; I hope they are not turned away if they are brown, poor or homeless. All we can know now is that there is not one “type” of potentially sick person. Some are more likely to get this, due to age and illness, yet not all elderly people look their age, nor do all sick people look sick. Doctors and scientists keep reminding us that there is still so much we do not yet know.
There are chronically ill people like me who are right now reassessing what their End will look like; we are a resilient lot having to deal with endless doctors, pills, appointments, pain, and our mortality on a regular basis. But this is new. Even for us. We are the asthma sufferers, people with heart and lung diseases, and we are also that other group that is often forgotten: those with rare diseases, like mine. Many of these diseases you have never heard of. (You can start advocating with us each year on Rare Disease Day! 😃) Our diseases are often called invisible because “we don’t look sick”—whatever that means. 😑 It takes unimaginable effort to keep living in a chronically ill body—to choose stay here, to be present and be visible. So invisible illness? We get the concept. But, nope. They are not invisible. Not to us or to our caretakers. And the countless stories of the people with rare illnesses who are walking through this pandemic are not invisible either. They are as varied and as complex as the illnesses that our bodies bear.
There are individuals who have been quarantined—like me—for weeks. We have not had any physical touch in days. Even Simon the Girl Cat has had to stay away from me. She doesn’t understand why I won’t open the bedroom door. She keeps pawing at it asking to come sleep on my feet like she usually does. But for now, Cat Dad/AKA my husband gets to keep her with him in order to keep all the germs in one place. It’s wearing on me. If you’re quarantined from your people—furry and otherwise— it’s probably wearing on you, too.
For my husband and me, we are staying in separate rooms in our 1 bedroom apartment at all times, until we are certain about our results. The anxiety is palpable. We both know what it means if I get the virus. We both wonder if we’ll both live to see the other side of this. Will there be enough ventilators if I do get sick? Will my very weakened immune system be able to fight this? Will my compromised lungs have the strength to pull through? We were asking similar questions one year ago about my (possible) lung transplant, which is still an option and the only chance to "save” my life from failing lungs should they suddenly get worse from a bad infection or worsening disease; I don’t have a lot of reserve left. These were scary questions then when we were somewhat sure of the state of the world. Now? They are indescribably stark. The stories that Justin and I tell ourselves as we keep going each day, as we filter what news we take in, as we handle our mental health, and do our best to care for each other 30 feet apart and via FaceTime are vastly different from each other. You know, because subjective reality. I suspect this duality of experience is happening that way in most marriages and relationships globally. We are all kind of narrating ourselves through this; I think if we could read some of the observations from the people closest to us, what we’d find among the pages would be astounding. Profound. Heartbreaking. Insightful. Surprising.
In the year A.V., After the Virus, I suspect that there will be a reckoning of all the stories that are now being written subconsciously and otherwise. I hope so. I envision a collective of people raising their hands saying, “Yes, I have something to say, too. Someone else will need to hear this so they will know they aren’t alone. Or crazy. Or unworthy. Or failing.” And isn’t that what stories have always been able to do?
Rejecting the single story means rejecting a deception, a lie. Like Chimimanda says, seeing the multitudes offers something greater: “a kind of paradise.” I don’t know what and who will populate that paradise in the year A.V., but I do know that to get there, to experience it, you’ve got to be willing to read the whole book, not just the convenient parts.