It’s very hard to write a column about mental health in America when a bunch of Americans are busy ingesting horse paste as a substitute for a free, widely available, and safe Covid-19 vaccine.
Like, what could I possibly add to the conversation at this point? That pandemics are destabilizing and politicizing public health is bad? That disinformation is profitable? That I want off this ride?
In the absence of anything productive to say about it all — as snarky as I want to be, I have seen the effects of disinformation up close, and they are horrifying — I have been seeking solace in other aspects of American life. Everything is changed, transformed by our recent troubles, but that’s the thing about life in the first place. By definition, it cannot sit still.
Living in Washington D.C. means constantly participating in a kind of shared Americanness, and this includes protests and other turbulent incidents. The district is a diverse place, but there is also something overriding about the atmosphere here. Something very federal — it’s a power both removed and ever-present in Americans’ lives. It’s why a lot of people hate the district — and vehemently do not want it to become the 51st state — and it is also why life here is so rich and interesting. Sometimes, a little too interesting.
Every day, people in the district and the surrounding areas get up and go out to make sure that the United States is possible. Most of these people are too busy to complain about American decline on Twitter. They certainly would look at you a little weird if you suggested that this country is a “failed state” (I see so many online takes about this… do the authors know what a failed state is?).
When you don’t have time to freak out too much, life can be pretty simple. This is how, I’ve noticed, many of my fellow Americans are coping. We stay busy, both because we have to and because it settles our minds. Every week, for example, I try to take my son to one of the many free museums around town — both because it makes him happy and helps educate him and because, deep down inside, it forces me to see how the gears are still turning.
I look at the portraits — Patton, or Grant, or Mary Macleod Bethune — and remind myself that there have been much more fraught times in this country’s history. Everywhere, all around, people have despaired and people have rallied. That is how it works.
On the 20th anniversary of the September 11, 2001 attacks, a pillar of light shone from the Pentagon, you could see it virtually from everywhere. Trying to avoid stupid debates about the significance of the date on Twitter, I sat in the front yard and looked at it for a long time. It was a comfort and a reminder that while some of us argue, others turn the lights on. And everyone plays their part.
Staying grounded can be a real struggle these days — and I have the ultimate excuse here, which is the loss of my beloved father — but as I see many of my fellow Americans lose touch with reality, I am reminded of our national mythologies and how they are always evolving. I am reminded of the fact that we need our mythologies to get us through the tough times. The two political extremes, patriotic chest beating on one hand and virulent self-loathing on the other, have done us very few favors since the pandemic began.
We need to do better, and we need to start telling better stories about ourselves and to ourselves. The threads of those stories are everywhere you look. A lot of them can be found in the district and I wish that the people who come here — including those who are headed here for yet another right-wing rally soon — would take the time to look for them. We search so much for the meaning of being American, forgetting that it is right there, below our feet.
I hope it’s not too late for all of us to remember.
Image credits: Casey Horner and Viviana Rishe