Even back when things were normal, wearing a mask in public was encouraged in East Asian culture. As an Asian born and raised in Canada, it is telling that this practice to me feels very unnatural.
Way back in January, my wife and I were lucky (and inconsiderate) enough to get ahold of some masks, and started wearing them on our daily commute on the subway. My wife had emigrated from Wuhan years before it’s current notoriety, so wearing a mask to her was common sense and made her feel protected and safe. I had recently emigrated from one part of Toronto to another, so wearing a mask in public was as foreign a concept as not apologizing for somebody else running into you.
Masks are uncomfortable. The added protection is powered by your lungs, so breathing is no longer a frictionless activity. Unlocking phones is marginally harder because FaceID can’t see through non-woven fabric. After fogging up my glasses, masks get caught in the arms when I try to take them off, like a clingy symbiote. And then there’s the way people look at you.
Physical discomforts are nagging but tangible; social and emotional discomforts are a little more subversive. Looks from strangers range in duration from a glance to a stare, and come in two varieties that are awkward in equal and opposite directions.
The first is from the non-mask wearer, a mix consisting of fear, disgust and resentment; a bitter and potent exclusionary cocktail. Remember that this was back in January; before we stopped physically going to work, before the virus had spread outside China, and before North Americans began reconsidering the effectiveness of mask-wearing for the general public. It’s understandable how seeing me as an Asian wearing a mask could prompt a series of emotional responses; fear that I could be infected, disgust that I even had a mask, let alone the disregard for the official guidance, and resentment for appearing to be part of a culture that was perceived to be the source of the problem. When I got that glare, I glared back with indignation. I wonder what I was saying to them.
The second kind is from the mask wearer, and all mask wearers at the time were exclusively Asian. Behind their brown and oft-bespectacled eyes was an understanding, an urgency, and solidarity. But also fear. Still a potent cocktail, but at least it was inclusive and it went down a little bit smoother than the other one. They saw in me a fellow countryman, who But also that I might be infected, so it would be better off to stand a few feet away.
The deep irony is that this is the exact opposite experience of what it was like growing up in Canada; an inverted microcosm of the Asian American experience. The “real” Asians, the ones rooted in the cultures where mask-wearing was second nature, were accepting me as one of their own. Meanwhile I felt rejection by the culture that I actually felt more connected to, from the country that prided itself on welcoming immigration. I have always been a visible minority – it took wearing a mask to finally make me feel like one.
On April 3, the CDC changed their guidelines on face masks. Cloth face coverings should now be worn in public settings, and while surgical masks are still not recommended for civilians it is admittedly due to supply constraints rather than their effectiveness. On this topic, North American health care is finally aligned with all the Asian countries that had previously experienced a similar pandemic; their citizens grinning smugly behind covered mouths. As an Asian who grew up in North America, the resolution of this one point of cultural dissonance will serve as a substitute for the many others that may never come.
I look forward to the day when this is almost over, when we feel just safe enough to ride the subway again in larger numbers. Together, we will all wear masks in the same confined space; people of all cultures no longer divided by belief or by background, but united instead by the same fear of the germs that our neighbours might be carrying.
ian is blogging 