Manny's Mask
“Manny, come here.”
The little boy walked into the room.
“Stand right there,” the man said, pointing at a spot on the floor, tense with the knowledge that every day would be different for his son from this day forward.
The boy, who sensed in his dad’s voice that something was wrong, stood in the exact spot his dad had indicated. Manny said nothing. He just waited.
“Hold still, Manny.”
The mask wasn’t modern. Despite every technological advancement, it looked the same as Manny’s great-great grandfather had worn.
Manny knew the mask was coming. It had slowly become apparent all year. Every week or two, another kid would show up to first period with a brand new mask on their face. Always the day after their tenth birthday.
The masks were a pain. By some magic, they were both invisible and resulted in a strange sort of tunnel vision. Worn properly, they had the remarkable capacity to make a person docile. Make them follow directions. Everyone knew the masks were there, admitted it was annoying, sometimes excruciating, but acknowledged, silently in their head, that it was probably for the best.
In fact, most people, when they mentioned the masks, only did so for the purpose of blaming schools and teachers when their children suddenly lost the natural curiosity and enthusiasm for life that had characterized their younger years. This criticism was unfounded. At least to the extent they blamed only the schools.
Society had ways for dealing with people who tried to alter or even dispose of their masks. That’s what laws and norms and HR departments were for. Ask too many questions? Disrespect the wrong authority figure? Wear the wrong clothes? That’s when they ding you for Interference with Official Acts or excommunicate you or call in a person with a benevolent-sounding title, like “Vice President of Interpersonal Satisfaction” to say threatening things with a smile on their mask. Often, that resulted in a LETTER IN THE FILE. The masks made you scared of letters. And if the problems with the mask keep up? Well that’s when the Vice President of Interpersonal Satisfaction comes in and gives the speech: “We’re not sure you’re a great fit for our culture, and we really want you to be happy.” People who don’t like wearing masks are smart enough to know that those words really mean, “Stop causing trouble or update your resume.”
Some people are never able to wear a mask in a way that’s convincing at all. If they’re lucky, they become artists or entrepreneurs. Most, in one way or another (literally or figuratively), end up incarcerated.
A huge number of people get masks that don’t fit or that give them an allergic reaction. Many of those folks are very resourceful. They find that drugs, alcohol, sadness, rage, and even chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream can sooth the reaction.
Others, of course, though no one is really sure how many, have a mask that apparently fits them perfectly. They become managers who blame their peers and direct reports for masking issues, barely able to imagine the reality that some people are unable to wear the masks they were given. Bluejays, after all, refuse to believe that other animals lack the gift of flight.
So Manny wore his mask, fitfully at first and then dutifully. Only after a few decades did he begin to wear it resentfully. And by then it was too late.
—fin—