Coffee Cup Immunity

By Marie Johnson

For months now, since this grocery store had initiated early morning shopping hours for seniors, I had not encountered a maskless shopper. So it was more his self-satisfied, flat-lipped smirk than a content smile that shocked me.

The man’s face was exposed. His chin hammocked in a disposable powder blue mask. He was dressed in crisp pressed khakis and a fleece-lined jacket, holding a commercial chain-designed coffee cup in one hand. The other he used to push a nearly empty shopping cart. His bare face caused me to involuntarily shudder. My shoulders pulled back from the surprise, then set in anger as he closely strolled passed me at the meat display. About my age, mid 60’s, he seemed quite satisfied to roam the aisles smirking. Never saw him sip from his cup when we occasionally passed in other aisles. Another woman, possibly his wife, passed me a few times also, grinning with her hammocked chin and similar coffee cup, pushing her own nearly empty cart. This couple seemed quite happy to show they did need to be masked. Their coffee cups gave them immunity.

Avoiding the virus I have been diligently cautious. No more than four people in my house at one time. Distant limited sitting as far as my living room allows. No food or drink offered. Masks on. No hugs to greet the rare guest, limit contact. Only small group gatherings, outside. Thanksgiving was potluck in my backyard with 10 people, less than half of my preferred gathering. Separate tables for each family unit. Winter coats and scarfs were encouraged and worn. Because once the fall sun drops behind the mountains my few propane patio heaters and several borrowed electrical units would not keep the lingering freezing cold from stumbling into the yard after three o’clock. No hugs good-bye. Just drive safe and tears as everyone leaves. Anyone could be a carrier, possibly fatal.

Today’s bare faces let me know asking them to mask up would only result in the same responses I receive from others in my rural Nevada community. Why? They start with then explain masks are ineffective. Moving onto herd immunity. It’s simply the flu. Letters to the editor in our local small town paper use the word sheeple to describe mask wearers. Freedom is at stake here. Fight against this government overreach they write. This couple needs to drink their coffee, here, now. Not wearing a mask in this pandemic is a patriotic political statement.

I understand freedom. I vote. Fly an American flag on our ranch’s 30 foot flagpole. I believe in the U.S. Constitution. Took each of my two sons to register to vote the same day they sent in their selective service cards. Believe all people are created equal. No exceptions. In a mask, gloves, wide brimmed hat, and with my sign of, Another Rancher Saying Black Lives Matter, I attended a Black Lives Matter rally in town last summer. Watched as our permitted event turned loud and riotous when all the God, Guns, and Douglas County signs showed up. Assault-weapon carrying, camouflage wearing counter demonstrators had signs taped to ax handles and baseball bats expressing support for our Sheriff. A man who had weeks before wished our public library ‘good luck’ calling 911 if they published a mission statement supporting Black Lives Matter. The ugly action in town grabbed national attention. We were highlighted in the nightly news, The Washington Post, The New Yorker. Exposed us as a sundowner town, old timers here claimed we never were. I was embarrassed, incredulous at the number of counter demonstrators, maskless, in MAGA caps and flags wrapped around them like capes, angrily calling me racist while they loudly chanted ‘All Lives Matter’ blasting their air horns.

For weeks after that event I was troubled not understanding the message of the maskless. And this couple in the store today. Can’t they see masks as an act of caring? A symbol of solidarity, support for each other, a bringing together of community, an expression of unity in difficult times. Yet, even in my local bike shop customers elbowed each other, nodding at me when I walked in wearing a mask to collect my tuned up mountain bike. Maskless, the mechanic handed me my bike.

This regular interaction at stores is humiliating. Asking strangers, sometimes even family, to put on a mask means I have to open up, vocalize, please care about me. And receive an immediate obvious response. Some would, some would not. Should I share how I live alone now? Need to do things. Get things done. I may be older, and any job I do may not seem essential, but please, please try to protect me. That request seems too risky. Admitting I need help to navigate this virus makes me feel too vulnerable, makes me feel frail. Which I do not like at all. I have been a cattle rancher for decades. I am capable, strong, face my fears. I speak up; feel it is my right, duty to question people, to write letters to individuals in power, question authority. Feeling frail distresses me. Being an older woman I am familiar with the feeling of dismissal. But this virus has magnified, highlighted that particular humiliating sensation.

This morning my low-grade fear and frustration are not enough to ask the ambling coffee cup holders to mask up. Not for me, nor for anyone else in the store. Their smirk is a message: this virus has disenfranchised me. Momentarily, and only for the barest of unwanted glimpses, do I truly see and feel what it is like to be absolutely powerless to protect myself. No control over my safety through no fault of my own. Loss, like a wave, passes through me, washing away any sense of security. My brain clicks. Oh God, is this how the homeless, the unseen poor, the socially humbled, the repressed, anyone too timid to ask for human decency, feel like for hours of a day, days of a year, years of a life? How soul destroying to feel this diminished, even for a moment, to lose your sense of human worth. Even in my poorest days in college, between jobs, I never felt this worthless. That smirk showed me I had lost value. My humanness did not matter. These coffee drinkers were exercising rights they believed outweighed all others. This is a confusing place I have never been before.

Walk out. Complain. Resist. Hold on. These were my first thoughts as I held tight to my little red plastic shopping basket. Then comes the thought: This too shall pass.

And dozens of other daily affirmations I now find myself thinking as I walk around in this new environment. Wanting more than survival as time passes, waiting for science to develop vaccines, and for coming warmer weather to allow larger gatherings outside, I spend a moment with that smirk and translate its message into awareness, to do better.

Marie Johnson lives in the middle of a cattle ranch in Douglas County, Nevada. Semi-retired, she now spends her time biking, hiking, swimming, skiing, rock climbing, and traveling. Born in Minnesota, raised in rural communities, she received her B.S. from the University of Minnesota in Agricultural Economics. She met her husband while scuba diving and moved to his family ranch off the West Fork of the Carson River in 1986. Not born into ranching life, she wrote a monthly column, Fencelines, for the local paper for 20 years about her experiences there. She had a lot to learn. However, she took Willy Nelson’s advice, and so one of her sons practices law and the other medicine.

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Kathleen KuoApril 12, 2021GComment