Masks are my love language
After the mass shooting at Club Q in Colorado Springs I wanted to support the community but large, crowded indoor events are too risky. Here's how I did it safely.
Sometimes it’s just about showing up. Even when cuffs of your jeans, stepping out of the Uber and onto the corner of Walnut and 35th, are dragging in slush.
For me, showing up to the interfaith vigil to honor the victims of the fatal Club Q shooting in Colorado Springs, two nights after the shooting took place meant entering a crowd after going out of my way to avoid crowds for almost three years.
Security check’s entry ramp was spilling out onto the sidewalk and Colorado’s Parasol Patrol, the volunteer activist group dedicated to protecting free and safe expression at LGBTQ rallies, pride events and protests, was there, also.
Directing traffic and serving in an ambassadorial capacity —some dressed in drag others in button down lumberjack shirts— Parasol Patrol patrol members twirled rainbow umbrellas when they weren’t wrestling wind gusts.
Trying to absorb that this line girding Reelworks, the large indoor venue where the vigil was about to take place, disappeared behind a corner and then, we were being told, stretched out onto the block behind it, turned a corner and then spilled out onto the block behind that.
“Scuse me?” My brown tweed LL Bean blazer disappearing into the late-autumnal, 7:00 p.m. darkness. “Can I. um?” The wind plus the synthetic whatever-that-material-use-to-make-N95s-with-is making these attempts mostly inaudible.
But now a parasol patroller, a busy bearded guy in a moto jacket who could’ve blended into a sturgis rally, had it been his wish, is leaning in to find out what’s going on. I’m revealing the white cardboard box in my purse and flashing the red 3M logo for clarity before continuing, “these are twenty unused, individually packaged Aura N95s” I’m qualifying “Gold standard PPE.”
“I don’t need one but thank you” he said. I could sense the confusion mixed with consideration and uncertainty. ”I’m immunocompromised,” I’m elaborating, and a crowded indoor vigil is too risky for me so I’m here to gift these masks to people in line.
Not everyone likes masks, I get that. I’m not looking to try and gift masks to people who don’t like masks. Just the COVID-cautious members of the community and anyone else here whose going inside with COVID safety concerns. So I just need some guidance on how to distribute these gifts. Is that okay?”
“Oh, oh. oh. Sure, yah that’s really nice,” responded the busy bearded parasol patrol guy in the sturgis passing jacket.
Before Ubering home with an empty box of 3M N95s at the end of my night I would find busy bearded parasol guy again and thank him.
“Hey parasol patrol I’m the aerosol patrol,” I would joke and he would laugh at my awkwardly synchronic pun. I would also ask how he was feeing and he would confide that he hasn’t gotten past the anger yet.
With another wave of people breaking, busy parasol guy urged me to “head to the the back of the line and work your way to the front telling people what you told me about the masks” and I followed his suggestion.
“So many amazing speeches and just the right combo righteous and indignant rage alongside hope, light, and love. I felt like it met such a significant emotional need for everyone present,” said my pal Rick Brody, sharing his impression of the vigil by text message the following day. Rick’s professional title is “Rabbi” and his function, along with the other Rabbi who invited me, Rabbi Caryn Aviv of Judaism Your Way, was a designated one.
I didn’t end up seeing or listening to any of those “amazing speeches.” The collective catharsis Rick described was part of the indoor vigil I wasn’t able to attend but I was glad spotted him while heading to the back of the line. As a Rabbi from one of the participating organizations he was recognized and greeted with shouts of “Hey Rabbi Rick,” between icy sidewalk turns.
We had a sliver of catch-up time before members of the interfaith clergy were summoned inside and I commenced the self-appointed task of finding the COVID-cautious individuals in that line who hadn’t already come with masks.
The end result was that most people turned them down because they didn’t need them. Either they had brought masks of their own or didn’t intend to wear them. Because of the massive turnout, however, I was able to provide people who had shown up without a mask and then decided they needed one after assessing the crowd, with a high quality N95 to use.
I was able to do this a relatively short amount of time and to warm and grateful recipients before leaving with an empty box and no regrets other than wishing I’d brought a second box with me.
“It’s a security line to get into a Vigil for victims of the Colorado Springs shooting” I explained to Yussif, the Uber driver, on the way home.
We talked about the spike in hate crimes the connection between the perpetrator of this particular one, extremism and the January 6th insurgency.
Yussif told me about his life as a journalist in the Darfur region of Sudan working as a broadcaster for Blue Nile TV in the early aughts before being imprisoned by the Janjaweed.
He had left Africa, moved to the United States and initially settled in Philadelphia but decided to move to Denver, instead. It felt safer to him. I told Yussif I hoped he’d share his Darfur story one day since I would like to read it.
“We want to thank you so much. It's more than, just showing up.” Pasha of the Parasol Patrol would later email. “You did a huge service by sharing masks” she continued “.It's so important folks have access to masks and I think in situations of grief and high emotion that people can be forget important things like masks.”
Framing this as “educational and a reminder that it's not just about us” made it easier to own this small role my own actions had played. “We care about our community we need to care about those most vulnerable to viruses and other pathogens.” Pasha concluded. In the end, sometimes just showing up is about more than just showing up.