Plexiglass

In what seems a lifetime ago, I served nearly two decades as a trustee on the tiny board of education serving the rural area east of Sault Ste. Marie. At some point midway through that time, the board received a proposal – or maybe it was a provincial directive – to implement a program designed to make our students “street smart”. (I’m not sure that was the terminology then, but you get the gist.) It stressed, above all, the need for youngsters to be wary of uninvited attention from strangers. You know—the old “don’t take candy” warning.

The board members were easily convinced. Of coursewe wanted the children in our communities to be safe. Of course they should not take candy from strangers. 

I tended, among that group of mostly older, mostly male representatives of the small communities scattered along the north shore of Lake Huron, to push feebly against the conventional. I rarely won. And anyway, how could anyone be against keeping children safe?

Of course, I wasn’t. I had young children of my own at that time. I feared for their safety on many fronts. But I pushed back a bit at a program that seemed designed to make them suspicious of anyone they didn’t know. In fact we knew, even then, that the greatest threat to children are the people they do know. And so, I spoke up as usual, suggesting that we shouldn’t encourage our children to fear every friendly wave or smile from a stranger. The curriculum was readily approved.

I’ve been thinking about that moment recently. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now, where to draw those lines. There are predators who set out to harm children. Not many, but some. If we want to maintain a society based on mutual trust, there will always be some risk. We all choose a level we can live with. Enter the helicopter parent, I guess. But that’s another post. This one is about plexiglass.

A little less than a year ago, when the pandemic was just beginning to turn our world upside down, I had a chat with my son—the father of three young children—about the impact the shut-down was having on the kids. At that point, last May, we speculated it might last months. I expressed concern about the school disruption (though it may be that disruption is exactly what the system needs), and all the screen time. I worried about a long stretch without normal peer interactions. I wondered about the weirdness of living in a masked world.

“They’ll go back to school eventually, and they’ll play with their friends again. And we’ll all take off our masks,” said my son. “But you know those plexiglass barriers? They won’t be going anywhere.” 

I hadn’t thought of that then. But now, for me, that plexiglass has come to symbolize what I see as a potentially long-term consequence of this past year, and probably the year to come: a suspicion of normal human interaction. 

The physical barriers and masks are making public spaces and workplaces safer for thousands of people. If I were a bank teller, a grocery store clerk, a doctor’s receptionist, I’d be grateful for that wall of protection.

I’ve learned over many years that casual interactions with familiar strangers makes day-to-day activities richer, more enjoyable. And in a small town, they contribute to a sense of community. Yesterday I smiled behind my mask and chatted with the lady at the post office just as I always have. I discovered that the vet’s assistant is the mother of my grandson’s girlfriend. (We were both masked, so may not recognize each other the next time we meet.)

For me, the pandemic is a blip, and that plexiglass, as long as it lasts, will always remind me of these months of isolation and how it came to be there. But about my six-year-old granddaughter, who danced around me last spring with her arms spread wide, singing “two meters, grandma, two meters”—when all I wanted was a hug? I imagine all this is already “normal” for her. People you don’t know are dangerous. They might make you sick. It’s a lot more subtle than “don’t take candy from a stranger.” There’s no malicious intent here. But the message is similar: Beware the stranger.

In ten years, when the pandemic is the stuff of childhood memories, will my grandchildren continue to interact with the “familiar strangers” in their lives across a plexiglass barrier? More important, will they gradually begin to feel uncomfortable, at risk—from what they’re no longer sure—without such protection? 

The plexiglass has probably saved lives. It has certainly lessened anxiety, including my own. But now that we can begin to see the end of the pandemic, I’d love believe it will come down when we take our masks off. It would have been wrong not to use every means at our disposal to protect ourselves from a known threat. But it will also be wrong, I think, if we ignore the unspoken messages these protective barriers will continue to send when they’re no longer needed.