After the mask war, an uneasy peace – New York Daily News

During the Mask War, I marched with a righteous army. Nowadays I am a lonely hold-out, waving a tattered banner.

In COVID-19′s heyday, my comrades and I committed ourselves to communal responsibility. We united against the self-absorbed Red Coats and their egocentric mantra of freedom.

Our weapons were medical masks, KN95s, N95s, face shields, and my favorite, the KF94. In my Park Slope neighborhood, we masked and double-masked, inside and outdoors.

When it became clear that being outside was safe, I bore my naked face on the street. But after enduring sidelong glances from masked pedestrians, I covered up for my daily walks, lest I be ostracized by my tribe.

My fellow travelers and I heaped scorn on our enemies.

“Did you see those buffoons burning masks at the protest?” I asked to approving nods. “It would serve them right to get COVID.”

Behind the walls of our blue fortress, I chastised refuseniks. I stared down mask-adverse patrons in my local supermarket. On the subway, I reminded bare-faced straphangers that masking was the law.

“Mind your business,” they told me.

“This is my business,” I countered. “You could get the whole car sick.”

Soon after vaccines were available, I flew from Los Angeles to JFK. A flight attendant approached the man sitting behind me.

“Please put on your mask,” she said.

The passenger put his face-covering on, but soon took it off.

“I am writing you up,” the flight attendant said.

I simmered with anger. After landing, waiting for the doors to open, I addressed the scofflaw.

“I hope you didn’t get me sick,” I said.

“I have lots of antibodies,” he retorted.

“Vaccines will kill 3 million people,” shouted a man in front of me.

“I work in a hospital and watch people die from COVID every day,” yelled a woman across from me.

Soon several people were shouting over each other in a cacophony of outrage. I hustled towards the exit.

I considered this episode a warning shot. I might have expected such a scene on a flight between destinations where health restrictions were unpopular. But in New York and L.A., masking and vaccinations were supposedly the norm.

Less than two years later, “living with the virus” has replaced “do your part, stay six feet apart,” as my neighborhood’s rallying cry. My KF94 marks me as an outlier, a relic of a discredited era.

Abandoned by my one-time allies, I have lost my moral advantage. I no longer reprimand unmasked straphangers.

At a recent fundraiser, I was the only masked attendee. I quickly revealed my mouth and nose, loathe to be seen as the weirdo, the killjoy, the nag. I felt ashamed for capitulating.

Nonetheless, I am wary of exposing my face. I know people suffering from long COVID. Their descriptions of brain fog, fatigue and joint pain frighten me to my core.

According to the Centers for Disease Control, more than 400 Americans still die from COVID every day. Two million Americans contract the virus each month, and one out of five adults who tested positive have gotten long COVID. That is a lot of sick days, a lot of misery and mourning.

Despite this grim outlook, New Yorkers appear largely done with COVID precautions. Walking in my neighborhood, I observe barefaced patrons standing less than six inches apart inside packed restaurants and bars.

The speed at which we went from normalizing masks to normalizing illness is head-spinning. I am still adjusting to my diminished status, suddenly finding myself out of step with communal mores.

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With my neighbors desperately seeking normalcy, I worry that people looking at my covered nose and mouth regard me as shirking my civic duty, that I am seen as undermining the effort to return to our pre-pandemic self.

I realize masks can be uncomfortable. I twice took a 15-hour flight clothed in my KF94, and hope to never do it again. Teachers have reported that masks make it difficult to communicate with their students.

But masking for the morning commute, or buying groceries, or sitting in a movie theater, seems a small inconvenience to keep safe. It irks me that the bad guys won — that they had the resilience to see their cause through, and we did not. The immunocompromised among are especially at risk now.

I miss the sense of camaraderie I felt passing a masked pedestrian on the street. But I am glad to be rid of the vitriol I once felt towards the maskless. Uniting with others through anger is enticing, but it is not virtuous.

Nowadays when I encounter a masked New Yorker I see a free agent rather than a teammate. I imagine that like me they accept defeat, while trying to remain true to themselves — struggling with the pressure to conform.

In this post-pandemic era, wearing my KF94 is a more pure, less political act than ever. It is no longer us versus them. It is now me against the virus.

Krull is a writer.