Gathering Signs and Mopping Up

 A while back, some of Paul’s students came by one night and stuck some political signs in our yard. TRUMP-PENCE. ART ROBINSON FOR CONGRESS.

Paul thought it was funny. And so do you, if you know him at all.

I saved the signs, thinking they might be useful someday.

I have friends and relatives in the medical field, and I get the feeling they’re not doing well. One of them sent me a disturbing message the other day:

“I'm home indefinitely.  We have over half the staff and half the residents full blown cases.  The staff is working  until they just are too sick and I am so prone to hospitalization I’m home for now, my boss said until the immunization is in our building. Sigh. So far the staff are not in the icu.  

We lost 3 so far. One resident died within 12 hours of first symptoms—no sign except she couldn't breathe.  Her only underlying condition was age and dementia with severe behaviors. 

I’m still struggling with anger at the pooh poohing of no mask, let us do what we wanna do attitudes. 

I’m sharing because I pray you are letting others shop and do the away from home things for you.  Please. This is so awful.”

I thought, I’ll bet she speaks for many in the medical field who are burning out. Poor things! I’m going to share this on Facebook.

I hesitated over including the line about anger over masks and attitudes, because I come out from under my rock enough to know that that subject is controversial. But I decided to include it. It’s part of her story. Anyone who’s out there watching people die is allowed to be angry at whatever they choose, I’d say. So I’ll let her say it.

I thought, Everyone will know it’s her talking out of where she’s at. 

I’m sure they will understand that this is her own conclusion.

They are smart enough to know that I didn’t write it myself, and that’s not how I would word my thoughts on the matter.

Wrong wrong wrong.

The comment section blew up, of course. Not about nurses, but about masks. Almost entirely about masks. Yay and nay, close up and far away, all day, all the way, wheat straw and alfalfa hay. 

Those of you with long experience in social media can predict the kinds of things people said. Passionate paragraphs with DOUBLE-BLIND STUDIES in all caps. Links to videos about forbidden but effective medicines. Personal attacks. An earnest entreaty from the guy who never comments except to drop down the chimney once a year like Santa to set me back on the strait and narrow. People who are clustered in the center, just trying to make it through these times.

First I deleted any comments the medical friend would find hurtful. Then I deleted a few that kind of agreed with her but were polarizing and off topic. Many of these were from friends I know and respect. Ouch.

Please, I begged wearily, this is about the nurses in your life. Make sure they’re ok.

I felt violated. But why, when I had obviously put it out there to be seen and read?

“It’s not fair. This is YOUR platform, and they’re using it to push THEIR agendas,” explained our daughter Emily.

That clicked. Yes. It felt like hundreds of people milling around our property, pounding political signs in the yard. It wasn’t funny like teens pulling a prank. It was scary.

Thankfully, a handful of nurses said, “At last I feel understood,” and another handful of people said, “I will pray for the nurses in my life.”

But I removed the post, along with a subsequent post that fared even worse. Some of this was me not communicating clearly. I take full responsibility for that. But some of it is the nature of social media.

These are the problems with Facebook:

1. The Facebook format encourages people to see any post as an invitation to argue. I see facebook as a handy way to chat, converse, keep up, tell stories, and share thoughts and information. Debates make me curl into a fetal position and freeze, for reasons I won’t go into here. My posts are not invitations to argue. This makes me look wimpy and overly sensitive, I’m told. So be it. There are better ways to change my mind or to show your support for me. Pounding signs in my yard is not one of them. 

2. There’s no way to monitor comments except to sit there with a fire extinguisher aimed at the computer screen all day. You can’t turn off comments for a few hours while you clean the house. I tried. 

3. If you have more than 100 friends, you apparently have a “platform.” It’s assumed you worked hard to build this platform, everything you post is pushing a specific agenda, and you are “somebody” in a way that someone with fewer followers is not. It is weird. Instead of simply saying hello and moving on, people feel compelled to push either with or against you.
I have never tried to build my numbers, and I don’t know how many followers I have. I am a storyteller. Sometimes I just want to share a story because I’m worried about nurses. I’m a mom. Sometimes I think people should think about how today’s actions might play out. 

I don’t know yet what that means for me and social media. I do know that I shouldn’t allow on my online pages what I wouldn’t allow in my front yard.

The signs that the kids put in our yard are sitting in the carport, upside down. Paul asked why I still have them. “The sticks will make great dahlia stakes,” I said. He examined them. “I think those screws will work to hold the loose boards on the hot tub.”

“And the signs are that nice foam stuff,” I said. “Maybe I can stack them up and cover them with fabric for a bulletin board in the sewing room.”

This is what I’m realizing: what you put on social media might be a sign stating your position but even more, it’s a big sign telling us who you are. You are holding it up high. “LOOK. This is who I am. SEE? Right here! Clear as day!”

I would like my sign to say, “I think your story matters, even if telling it gets me in trouble.” 

I wish every online comment came with a nice 4-foot wooden post, because I’m hoping to have a huge dahlia crop next year.

And I'm wondering how others navigate these waters.