So, I’m considering moving to the southern MN area, and by that, I mean there’s a vast space between considering and the actual act of uprooting myself from my beloved Twin Cities, which has been my home for over 25 years. However, the pandemic is making many of us consider and reconsider everything that we’ve ever thought we believed for basically our whole lives, and I’m no exception. After a pleasant phone conversation with the owner of a cute li’l 2 br bungalow in Mankato that I found on Craigslist, I made an appointment to head down and check it out on Saturday. My sisters, of course, freaked out: “You’re going alone?! Give us the address—if you don’t call us in an hour, we’re sending the police!” Clearly, they haven’t gotten over my recent bunny-in-the-window-well escapade. I’ve been buying and selling stuff on Craigslist for years; every home I’ve lived in since Bob died (save for the current one, owned by my cousin) has been a Craigslist gem. I’m always very careful and cagey, I’ve never had even a remotely questionable experience with any transaction.

Saturday afternoon, I pull up to the address given, grab my mask (a lovely floral pattern with blue satin ribbon trim) and begin strapping it on my face as I walk toward the house. The yard is void of trees, my heart palpably sinks—who will I hug should I move here? A man emerges from a minivan parked in the driveway; I take careful note of his features, his van, his demeanor. We kind of wave at each other, shake hands with the air, laugh awkwardly. I say, “Hi, I’m Jennifer, I’m here to look at the house— are you the owner?” He smiles, confirms, then says, “Uh, you want me to put a mask on, too?”

I pause. “Well, we’re going inside, right? Yes, please.” He fishes one from his van, launching into an articulate commentary about everyone having different opinions on masks, and studies show nothing but inconclusive evidence, and even though a lot of people seem to be overreacting, he’s agreeable to whatever anyone wants. My gut tells me that I should just thank him for his time right now and head back to my Jeep, but my head says I’m being too quick to judge. Besides, I’m intrigued by his response. I’ve never actually had a face-to-face conversation with anyone who’s vocally opposed to masks; even on social media, I tend to not make it my business to head over to a willful ignorants’ page and tell them what’s what, masks or otherwise. Because well, social media. Anyhow, this person could be my future landlord—knowing a little more about him is to my benefit, I reason.

“Well, sure,” I say, “it doesn’t take much to find a study to support any variation on the topic. Based on scientists I respect, I err on the side of caution and wear a mask when appropriate—I mean, what’s the big deal, except a minor inconvenience?” He loops his mask over his ears, actually taking care to cover his nose, instead of letting it hang over the top edge like a tiny penis, which honestly surprised me. He shrugs and says, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” When we get inside, I begin asking questions about the house; he asks what I do for a living, why I’m considering moving down to the area. I give my explanation—the pandemic, now work-from-home, isolation getting to me, things ain’t changing any time soon, loved ones in the area, the whole bit. 

He nods and says, “Now, I’m just going to say, that I’m likely on the right side of you as far as politics go, but I also believe that even though people may have different opinions, we can have civil conversations and find out that we’re more alike than not.” Curious, that he would arrive at that conclusion by what little we’ve actually said at this point (I’m gonna go out on a limb and suspect the masks), or that he’d say such a thing to a potential tenant. In the six or so houses I’ve lived in over the past ten-ish years, I can truthfully say I have no idea what political affiliation any of my landlords were. I’m more interested in knowing what utilities the tenant is responsible for, is there a pet deposit? Laundry on site? Will he actually come and fix the leaky washer in a timely manner? I say, “Oh I agree, 100%. It takes all kinds to make the world go round.” 

This seems to give him the in he was looking for, to suddenly launch into a soliloquy about the liberal media blowing the pandemic out of proportion and scaring everyone, how damaging that kind of mentality is. I look around for outlets, cable connections, closets. I reply, “I hear you, it really is a strange time—I hate the masks, honestly, I hope they never become normal. It’s surreal, going into Target and seeing everyone, even little kiddos, all masked up.” He nods in agreement as I continue, “All this isolating isn’t good for our mental health, either—we have to keep being creative, working at staying connected with each other, while still staying healthy and safe, so we can help each other through this, hence my possible move.” 

He nods and says, “Yes, that’s IT!” a little too enthusiastically. “We can’t succumb to fear, we have to keep on living our lives freely. See?!” He stretches his hands palms up toward me. “Even though we come from different viewpoints, we can still agree on important things, right?” 

“Riiiight,” I say, eyeing him with guarded interest, not sure exactly what we just agreed on. “That’s what being a decent human is all about—be kind and respectful to one another.” He stands in the living room, arms crossed, appearing deep in thought. I open a door near the front entry. “Whoa! What a huge closet for an old house—how handy, right by the front door! Are all the closets so spacious?” It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. 

“There’s no conclusive evidence that masks do anything to curb the virus, y’know,” he says, his voice echoing in the empty room. I stop ogling the closet and turn to face him, choosing my words carefully before I speak.

“Well, I have to believe that anyone who watches the news at all, has come to the conclusion that the pandemic is a real, serious thing. It’s imperative that we all get on the same page and work together. This is like nothing we’ve ever been through before in modern times—of course we don’t know everything and we’re making mistakes—we’re learning as we go. Isn’t that kinda how life just happens, anyhow?” He appears to slowly nod in agreement, but who knows? He could be sticking his tongue out at me behind the mask for all I can see. “We also need leaders who act like leaders—wise enough to defer to experts rather than shooting off reckless opinions and rumors, or making dangerous, selfish decisions based on “the economy,” that ultimately only benefit a small segment of our population, rather than what’s going help all of us. Unfortunately, that guidance isn’t coming from our top officials, so everyone’s scrambling to do their own thing. That kind of chaos will bring our country down faster than wearing masks will.” I wander past him, through the arched doorway into the dining room.

He follows, nodding. “You’re right about our leadership,” he says, “it’s certainly been questionable. I’ll be honest, I didn’t vote in 2016 because we had such shit for choices.” I bristle inward, not at the cuss word—I’ve been known to use a few myself now and then—but his arrogant admission about voting. I let him continue uninterrupted. “I couldn’t vote for Trump then, but there’s no way in hell I would have voted for Hillary—”

Noticing a cute little built-in cabinet tucked into the corner of the room, I remember all the teapots I used to collect that I gave away after one of my moves, that would have looked adorable behind the cabinet’s paned glass doors. I interrupt, “Well, Hillary’s not on the ballot this time, and elections aren’t just about what’s best for a single person—I think that’s what got us into trouble in 2016. There are a helluva lot of people in our country who have very different realities from our own. They have the right to everything we have access to, but are being dangerously, openly targeted and excluded by the current administration.” I turn, we’re standing the length of the room apart, facing each other.

“Yeah, but we can’t have a socialist like Bernie Sanders,” the name comes out with a vocal sneer and an eye roll, “demanding that we pay off everyone’s student loans and give away healthcare—our country will literally collapse if the government is responsible for every single need of every single person. Especially those who are here illegally.” This is where masks challenge reading facial expressions—essential elements for effective communication; and they demand us to use other nonverbal cues to fill in the gaps, like the volume rising in his voice, the hands that slice the air with emotion, punctuate with a fist. I take notice of my breathing, which is getting more and more shallow. My gut is telling me, get the hell out, now, this place is not that cute, the energy is suffocating—there is no good reason to continue this conversation. But, I’m compelled to stay just a bit longer, I’m, desperate to understand—I honestly believe what got us into trouble in 2016 is refusing to listen to anyone with a drastically different point of view. I want to believe that we’re just two people on different ends of a spectrum, trying to close the gap of understanding. That I’m also considering renting his house is a really odd, almost inconsequential element now…I nod. I take deep, measured breaths. I chose words carefully. 

“I hear you—I used to be a card-carrying member of the Libertarian Party, believe it or not, before they got hijacked by some whacked-out influences. I agree, when the government gets too involved in too much of our shit, everything gets mucked up and winds up being a financial nightmare, at the expense of those the government is trying to help—”

“See?!” He jumps in excitedly, “when we can have these kind of civilized conversations, we find we agree more than we disagree—I wish more people would make this kind of effort—”

I continue, “Isn’t that the truth, but our current administration doesn’t seem interested in helping the average person or making an effort to help anyone who looks different, worships different, loves different, or anyone who speaks out about injustice. They’re failing miserably with the pandemic. Small businesses are collapsing left and right, people are losing jobs, the unemployment relief has ended—but damn, there seem to be more than enough money to take care of themselves, to keep huge businesses healthy and viable.…and now, the public execution of George Floyd, and the never-ending roll call of police violence victims—the president encouraging, lauding, rewarding the racial unrest and violence burning our country down…I don’t know, I can’t help but think our country is facing its day of reckoning…” 

“Oh, c’mon now, it’s not that bad. That’s the liberal media getting to you—“ 

Deep breath. “Maybe we have to let it all burn to the ground, start over…I’ll give Donal Trump credit—the racist, bigoted vein in our country runs deep and wide—despite the civil rights movement, it never went away, it just went under the radar, out of the white person’s sight for the past several decades. Thanks to Trump, he’s revealing the awful but necessary truth about a huge portion of our population—”

“FINALLY.” he throws his hands in the air in a strange display of victory. “A liberal who gives Trump some credit for doing something good. I’ve never heard a liberal give him credit for anything—“

“Wow, really? I didn’t say it was a good thing—it’s not like he’s doing it intentionally, to expose and eradicate the shit and make things better—he’s just emboldening, encouraging, and rewarding violent racist, bigoted people and their actions—”

Because we’re truly being civil, mostly, because this is the first time I’ve ever face-to-face spoken with a very conservative (this word sounds horribly inept here), anti-mask person about politics, it’s oddly compelling to stay, to witness how our conversation will unfold. I really want to believe we’re both making an effort to listen to each other and carefully consider new points of view, but I can’t help but sense that his tone is getting a little more agitated as we talk, a little more insistent, his gestures more animated, like he’s trying to bait me with ever sentence.

We cover it all: 

Abortion (him: so what’s your stance on abortion? Me: 1. none of your business. ever. 2. tell me what you think about universal health care, accessible birth control, affordable housing, fair living wages, public education, job training, the hunger crisis in our country—because it can never be just about abortion. If you’re not supportive of all of those things, which are inextricably tied to abortion, then you’re not pro-life. Him: but what about late term abortion—me: what about it? It’s the tiniest percentage of all abortions, and overwhelmingly when the mother’s and/or baby’s life is in grave danger Him: but at that point, it should be the medical team, not the mother, who decides Me: no, no, NO. What if it were your daughter? You’d be cool with her doctors saying they’re going to let her die? Him: whew…didn’t think of it like that Me: bottom line, it’s a hard, hard, complicated decision that is ONLY the mother’s decision—you don’t want to wear a fucking mask because it’s “too much government control, and yet—?”

*BLM (him: my best friend in HS was black, came from a really hard background, worked his way out of poverty and makes more money than anyone I know—there’s no excuse for anyone to not do what he did…me: How about if you step away from Fox news and start reading some actual history books—read about the very real, lasting impact of slavery, of generational trauma, the intent behind the 13th Amendment. Read MLK Jr, Malcom X, Angela Davis, WEB—their words are horribly, accurately applicable today as they were 30, 40, 50 years ago…him: but the riots, so destructive, so many innocent people’s livelihood affected, what did they accomplish…me: I know, it’s awful, no one thinks that’s a good thing, no one. But again, history…you need to know it…

Indigenous issues (him: well, what are we supposed to do? Give the land back? Me: that would be a good start…)

*immigrants and children separated from their parents and caged (him: all you liberals believe there shouldn’t be any laws regarding immigration and refugees Me: that’s not true—him: yes it is, AOC says it herself. I’ve worked hard my whole life to get where I am—I’ll be damned if I’m going to give that up to anyone who just thinks they can slide by w/o working for anything! You know who started putting kids in cages—Obama, that’s who! And what exactly do you mean by “cages” anyhow? dog kennels? What? What??!! Me: No one with a functioning brain believes the borders should be completely open, not even AOC—like our dismantling the police, she’s saying the current sytems are horribly dysfunctional and need to be replaced. At any point, when you justify children separating from their parents and treating people who are immigrants or refugees seeking assylum or a better life—just like your grandparents did, as you said—you are no longer pro-life. Given the choice, I will always chose a bleeding heart over no heart.)

I’m surprised the police didn’t show up looking for me, well over an hour had passed (shows you how much my sisters actually care about me…) Our conversation covered everything under the sun, except anything about the house I thought I was interested in renting, but now think I can’t run away from fast enough. Either this man has a serious axe to grind and I’m the unwitting victim (I’m now thinking literal, not figurative axe), or the impact of severely isolation has worn him down and I’m his inadvertent talk therapist. Neither scenario is appealing.

How surreal it is, to stand in the empty dining room of that old house that started out as adorable and feel in slow motion, it smear into a bizarre psycho-suspence thriller, our conversation slowly twisting into a more aggressive version of itself with every passing minute as his civility slowly disintegrated into something more menacing. I’ll never understand why, at any point, I didn’t just excuse myself and walk out the door. I’ll never understand why I thought this would end any way other except how it did.

I am standing in place, taking slow, deep breaths, watching his eyes glower wild over the edge of his mask, his hands don’t stop flailing, he paces back and forth. I can’t help but think he no longer cares about being civil, only about being right and he’s furious at me, for not being swayed by his civility or submitting to the building rage. I can’t help but wonder where my voice is coming from—I have never confronted anyone like this before, it’s terrifyingly powerful, it feels like an other worldly entity has infused my body and that, not my own bones and muscles, is holding me upright. I no longer hear full sentences but I hear him mention his wife, who is a teacher, and that is my breaking point.

“Please, tell me you’re not also a teacher,” this voice that is not mine says. He stops pacing mid-rant and stares at me. “No, why?” he spits the words toward me that instead get snared in fabric. I wonder if he can see the imprint of my heart battering against the front of my ribcage as I say, “Because if you are, your students and our world are so screwed.”

His hands fly up, clenching air in big fists, “THAT’S IT. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT, NOW.” For a split second, I see his whole body go rigid, I think he is going to bound across the room toward me. I take a last deep breath and look him in the eye. The voice that comes from my throat that does not belong to the body that feels as though it might collapse on the bare hardwood floor that holds me upright, says clearly and loudly, “Gladly. I’m so grateful I learned all of this before I signed a lease.” I turn and walk out the front door, I hear a sneering laugh, keys jumbling behind me. When I get to my Jeep, I collapse against the steering wheel. I look up to see a blurry figure slam the door behind him, storm across the treeless yard—of course, the treeless yard, how could I dismiss that so easily—dive into the minivan. Angry red tail lights flash, tires rip into gravel, the van peels out down the alley, a billowing cloud of dust in its wake.