Why Are We Still Treating Masks Like a Political Statement?

I was selecting sourdough at Costco on a crowded Sunday afternoon when I heard a woman snicker behind me. “Oh, looks like masks are making a comeback,” she whisper-yelled to her partner beneath her cupped hand. I locked eyes with her as the end of her sentence left her mouth. I'm not sure what she saw in my eyes, but she quickly dropped her gaze and shuffled away.

I drove home with a rattly feeling in my body: I couldn't imagine why she felt the need to utter that loud enough for me to hear. The words I wished I'd said in response looped in my mind as I gripped the steering wheel — I wanted to see the shame wash over her after learning that my 1-year-old, Juliet, is undergoing cancer treatment. I wanted her to know the fear I feel every time someone coughs or sniffles and how the common cold could trigger a fever, which would snowball into a midnight ER visit, brutal port access, IV antibiotics, and a possible life flight to her treatment hospital.

I wondered why my mask stuck out so much to her, and the only conclusion that I could come to was that it must have seemed like a political statement. Perhaps, I was a living, breathing example of the viewpoints that threatened her own.

My mask is not a pledge to any party or an indicator of my political beliefs. The KN95 on my face is a symbol of my love and allegiance to my daughter, who is fighting the most valiant fight imaginable against a disease threatening her just-began life.

Most weeks, a hurried trip to the grocery store is my only outing outside of clinic visits for chemo and lab draw appointments to check blood counts. It's my time to pretend I'm part of the world that's carrying on without my little family while we stay cooped up in our home to avoid viruses. I fly down the aisles, tossing whatever I think my kiddo can stomach that week into the cart. I try to act like I'm a normal person who's simply shopping for a picky toddler, instead of someone stocking the fridge for someone whose stomach is reeling from their latest round of chemotherapy.

Oftentimes, I'm the only person in a store wearing a mask. It doesn't bother me because I know my reason for wearing one — and I know if my daughter's circumstances were different, I'd probably be mask-free, too. But the reasoning shouldn't even matter. Whether someone chooses to wear a mask or not is exactly that: a choice. What truly bothers me are comments and mumblings like the one I received that afternoon at Costco, the occasional eye-rolls thrown my way, and the people who deliberately cough in my direction after seeing the mask on my face.

My mask is not a pledge to any party or an indicator of my political beliefs. The KN95 on my face is a symbol of my love and allegiance to my daughter, who is fighting the most valiant fight imaginable against a disease threatening her just-began life.

At every doctor's appointment, her care team is equipped with tightly-fitting masks to protect her. I've seen the red marks behind some of their ears and noticed them taking mask breaks at their stations, massaging sore areas, and taking a quick sip of unfiltered hospital air. I have the utmost respect for them and their commitment to the safety of the kids they are treating. On one visit, our daughter's oncologist was recovering from a head cold. He was stuffy beyond belief, and appeared uncomfortable beneath the uber-snug N95 particulate respirator strapped to his face, but he answered our questions patiently and performed the exam without complaint.

I haven't asked, but I imagine Juliet's team is composed of people with varying political beliefs and voter registration statuses. And yet, every single one of them diligently dons a mask for the duration of their shift, because they know the protection they offer to their vulnerable pediatric patients outweighs the politics that have somehow become entangled with their use.

That said, I do see fellow mask-wearers on occasion outside of the hospital: they are often older, and some appear nervous in the crowds of the produce aisle. I make every effort to smile enough so my mask lifts a bit on my cheeks and sends a subtle nod in their direction when our paths cross. Because if there's one thing I know to be true, it's that behind every mask is a story that I will never know — and that, quite frankly, is none of my business.

Jada Welch Olson is an Oregon-based freelance writer who has been contributing to PS since 2019. She covers family, health wellness, and entertainment.