Bruce Curtis
I asked friends in the world of sociology to tell me about their Coronavirus stories.
Bruce: Jordan made it home:
Jordan King: PhD Candidate University of Auckland and until last week adjunct professor of sociology at Dawson College, Montreal. Like many, I have been in motion these past few weeks. I heeded the call of our PM for the more mobile members of the New Zealand diaspora to come home. I packed up my apartment in Montreal and returned to Auckland while commercial flights were still running. In quarantine, I have devoted time to Nintendo, overeating, and ennui rather than critical thinking. And that’s okay. I saw some Stakhanovite bragging about self-isolation leading to increased academic productivity on twitter. I deleted twitter. Look after yourselves.
The next few years will see our societies navigate the health, economic, and social impacts of COVID19. The prospect of remaking the social world into a fairer one exists. Even the Financial Times editorial writers agree (4 April): ‘Radical reforms – reversing the prevailing policy direction of the last four decades – will need to be put on the table. Government will have to accept a more active role in the economy. They must see public services as investments rather than liabilities, and look for ways to make labour markets less insecure. Redistribution will again be on the agenda’. A contest of ideas and interests is about to play out. What a shame it would be if sociologists kept their ideas and energy out of the public sphere and under the bushel of business-as-usual. Take care, rest up, then set forth.
Bruce: Thank god I only have cats:
Natalie Mathews (in Auckland, New Zealand): I’m writing on a Sunday, my husband off somewhere with our 2yrold, and I’m only mildly stressed because I'm working. Tomorrow he goes back to his “essential” job, our primary income, and my own hours become slotted in where I can find them. University has created a two-week reprieve before mid-semester break. Still, I dread what will happen when assignments and other commitments start rolling in again. Other people do this much, and more, I realise, but so far the increased workload that comes with the loss of childcare has been a steep learning curve that has left me frazzled, bitter, and guilty that my response has not been more pragmatic and graceful.
Instead, I am resentful that my best effort, in the best part of the day, is spent in activities that are invisible and irrelevant to colleagues and my employer. A loved-but-chaotic 2yrold also demands a continuous, exhausting, recalibration that makes a rude contrast to the controlled challenges of university. This is, of course, others’ everyday, and I try to reclaim grace by recasting the experience as a lesson on the privileges of academia. De Beauvoir’s discussion of transcendence and immanence seems uncomfortably salient. I comfort myself by planning to revisit her ideas when there’s more time for curiosity.
Bruce: What was that theme song to the ‘The Poseidon Adventure’ (the one where the ship turned upside-down). ‘The Morning After’? Is it ok to be hopeful?:
Donna Baines (in Canada): The Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives recently published five dimensions of citizen action during a pandemic: radical agency; utilising technology; radical openness; effectiveness in communications; and building social solidarity. These measures are aimed at sustaining the social fabric in a context of unprecedented privatization of social life to within the “bubble”, frightening increases in family violence, growing threats to mental health and a disturbing economic downturn. Pessimists point to looming deep recession, growth in looting in the absence of pedestrians and street traffic and the challenges that ammunition, and gun retailers face to keep stock on the shelves in the USA. Optimists point to massive government intervention in economic life and the collective rebuilding of the social safety net. I am writing from the only province in Canada with a New Democratic (labour) government. Our “lockdown” came early and is strict. Our social solidarity is impressive, at the level of the government and the public, communicating clearly, openly, effectively and frequently through social and traditional media. We stay home and we stand on our balconies every night and pound on our kitchen pans to show each other and the health care workers that we care (many of us cry immediately after). At the time of this writing, our curve is flattening from 12% to 5% and yesterday to 2%. Participating in the greatest mass act of social solidarity in our lifetime feels like holding back a tsunami with millions of tiny knitting needles, but perhaps it is also the reknitting of social relations and a new radical solidarity.
Bruce: Here is an edited email thread of some other replies – saying they are too stressed to write. These are my precarious friends:
ANON1: (in Auckland, New Zealand): My apologies - I thought I would have some time to write a response. However, I am currently working in 5 part-time (and precarious) positions, and have been flat out getting my teaching online - some to the US, which is a challenge with the time zones. One of my jobs is with [An University], so that has had particular problems due to upper-level 'leadership' omnishambles, thankfully now resolved, but now more work again. Best wishes to you all - hope you're all well. …I may not have any work next semester, as US international students are very unlikely to come here. Will have more time then to sit in my impoverished garret and write!
ANON2 (also in Auckland, New Zealand): Sorry to hear that ANON1. I'm in a similar situation: the little jobs I've been picking up here and there have all dried up. Exam supervision this semester has gone because there are no exams. It's lean and not in a good way.
ANON3 (in New Zealand): I too was going to get you something but didn't... I've largely left academia and moved into psychotherapy practice which I love (still editing PhD theses and picking up small research projects here and there). However, business is way down as all my social anxiety clients are currently free of social anxiety as they are happily self-isolating at home! So I'm using this time as a kind of sabbatical and chance to read all the theory books I've been ignoring…
Bruce: Meanwhile I got this from another friend in Oz:
ANON4 (in Australia): Fun and games getting my son and his family back from Denmark. They got as far as Oslo and then were put in a detention centre, with my son and older grandson in one centre, and daughter-in-law and younger grandson in another one. All have different citizenships, so they could not figure out what to do with them. Finally Hong Kong agreed to take them. They are currently in isolation there with tags on. Yesterday the embassy finally came through with travel papers so in a week or two they can fly home. To more detention. They have pretty much been in isolation since this all began. Thank goodness for the internet!
Bruce: While Jordan King was racing to get back to NZ, ANON5 was heading out. More precarity?:
ANON5 (fled to Australia):
16th March 2020: Canada and France announce they are closing their borders to international travellers in an attempt to staunch the rapid increase of newly presenting Coronavirus cases in each country.
17th March: I send an email to my manager back in Melbourne, expressing concern that Australia and New Zealand might follow suit. I am a Kiwi who has set up a second home in Melbourne; the city in which now resides my place of employment, most of my friends and – importantly – my cat. I have lived here for three years but at the time of France and Canada’s announcement, I am in New Zealand visiting family. Despite my time (and taxes!) spent in Australia, I have earnt neither permanent residency nor citizenship. I had not considered this to be an issue until the very real threat that if I do not move fast, I may not be able to return to my job, my friends and – importantly – my cat. Cue: mild panic.
18th March: My manager phones me. The conversation is brief but to the point: get back to Melbourne. And quick.
10 mins later: I find myself frantically searching online for flights departing Auckland for Melbourne. Slim pickings. Many airlines have already cut international flights in response to the global pandemic. The browser is slow to update; the site is overloaded. Clearly I am not alone in my predicament.
10pm: I secure the last seat on the last Air NZ flight leaving for Melbourne this week. Relief passes through me almost as quickly as the rest of my savings pass through my bank account. The flight isn’t exactly cheap.
10.05pm: Relief is quickly replaced with anxiety as I realise that I have a month’s worth of stuff to somehow fit into one suitcase, and 12 hours until I board the flight. I think I have re-defined panic packing.
19th March, sometime in the morning: I farewell my Dad with a hug and a lump in my throat. Am I doing the right thing? While most Kiwis are running back to New Zealand, I am leaving both my home country and my family during a worldwide pandemic that is bringing countries to their knees. I try not to think about it as I haul my overweight suitcase into the car and pull out of the driveway.
8am: We arrive at the airport with plenty of time. While the Coronavirus is causing chaos in the air, it is clearing Auckland’s heavily congested roads. I felt like I was travelling to my grandparent’s place on Christmas day.
9am: I have checked in and cleared security. My suitcase was within 0.1kg of the luggage allowance. It’s a miracle. The international departure lounge is eerily empty. Half of the food outlets are closed and there is only one bar open. People are wearing protective masks. I order a drink and watch as planes depart from the runway at slow 30-minute intervals.
10am: I have boarded the flight. About half the passengers are wearing masks and the air hostesses have blue plastic gloves on. They look like uniformed soldiers going into surgery. Or is it battle? There are multiple announcements from the cockpit about new on-flight health and safety regulations. I feel less like I have boarded a plane and more like I have entered a hospital ward. It is strange. Very strange.
2pm (Melbourne time): The plane has landed. As we disembark from the plane we are handed comprehensive information sheets about the importance of self-quarantine. The airport itself is filled with Coronavirus memorabilia. I wonder how much of this will be seen in history curricula, maybe museums, in years to come.
9pm: I stand in-line nervously awaiting Australian customs and then the inevitable border security. How will we be screened? I hope I don’t have a temperature. If I have to self-quarantine, I want to spend those two weeks with my beloved cat, not stuck in some hotel room all alone. In front of me are a couple kitted out from head to toe in protective clothing; plastic body suits, hair nets, gloves and face masks that leave only room for the eyes. I wonder if border security will let them through on account of conscientiousness. I instantly regret not buying the overpriced pair of protective gloves from the supermarket yesterday.
9.15pm: I tense as I pass through customs and approach border security. Or at least where I expect to see border security. There are no thermometers. There Is no interrogation. There aren’t even any border security staff. There is just green carpet stretching towards the international arrivals gate. I’m surprised. Shocked even. Selfishly my initial feeling is relief, but soon this is replaced by confusion and (later) concern. There is a complete absence of screening measures for incoming international travellers. This contrasts the scenes of Chinese, North American or European airports.
Again, I question my decision to return to Melbourne. Suddenly my hasty departure feels premature. Silly. Unnecessary, even. As I push my trolley through the departure gate and embrace my awaiting friend, someone from the small crowd of people to the left yells “SOCIAL DISTANCING!”. We pull apart immediately, turning pink. The inconsistency and uncertainty surrounding this pandemic starts to become clear to me. No-one really knows how to think, feel, behave anymore. No one really knows what is right or wrong. As we leave the airport, I find this realisation somewhat comforting.
20th March, 8am local time: Prime Minister Scott Morrison announces that today, Australia will close its borders.
Bruce: Solidarity anyone?
William Wood (by a beach in Australia): We are not quite on lockdown, but we are definitely in exile from our normal lives. I was talking to a friend this weekend and tried to put a good spin on this by noting that we are hardly the first generation to go through turbulent times, and gave my grandparents as examples. Both my grandfathers were in the war, my grandmothers went to work in the war effort, and they all grew up during the Great Depression. My friend, who is older, noted that this was true, but pointed out that while COVID-19 might not be worse, it is different in that we are all supposed to do our part by being fundamentally apart from each other. “Anomie, by definition,” I replied back, and she agreed. So I have a sense of significant privilege on the one hand in that I have a job, a house, and healthy family. And as a sociologist I see all the clear lines of social marginalisation playing out in particularly virulent ways – especially in the US where I am from, but even in Australia and New Zealand in terms of social class, gender, and ethnicity. I also have, like many other people, an acute sense of anomie in that I am disconnected from the external and normative structures that pattern my life, and none of us currently have any sense of how long this will go on, or how we are “supposed” to adjust to living in constant uncertainty.
Hei konā mai,
Bruce