How the U.S. Politicized COVID
A battle between freedom, science and misinformation
Election Day in Montana, Nov. 3, 2020, around five p.m. — this date and time will forever be cemented in my mind.
I was sitting on my navy blue-and-white checkered hand-me-down bedspread, with my bare feet planted on the wood floor. I felt run down, chilly and congested. Then my phone began buzzing in my right hand.
For the last hour, I’d been in an anxiety spiral. If my phone rang at five p.m., it meant the Covid test I’d taken 90 minutes earlier was positive. If it didn’t ring, it meant I didn’t have Covid, and my symptoms were due to pre-winter Montana temperatures and lack of sleep. I would feel ethically free to celebrate my dear friend and reporting partner’s birthday at Saketome Sushi that evening in downtown Missoula.
“Your test was positive,” the nurse told me after my heart sank at seeing Curry Health Center on the caller ID.
Fuck. This is bad. This is really bad.
“You’re young though,” she said, “You’ll be fine.”
She told me someone from Missoula County Health Department would be in touch. I needed to quarantine for 10 days. I had no way of knowing what a long road I actually had ahead — much longer than 10 days — and how much the geopolitics of my country would influence my ability to get the care I needed.
The U.S. politicization of the pandemic had wide-ranging consequences for the country that continue to reverberate today, but for me, they were also personal. The former president — and current GOP nominee — Donald Trump’s bombastic downplaying of the pandemic’s threat enabled the virus to become a political machete in local and state politics coast to coast. In the resulting frenzy of opinions and misinformation, like so many others, my own 2020 Covid infection and subsequent three-year battle with Long Covid were lost. My condition was dismissed by health care providers, and I had to overcome self-doubt, gaslighting, and ignorance simply to get my suffering acknowledged and access treatment.
First Reports of the Coronavirus
The first report of Covid-19 was on Dec. 31, 2019, when the World Health Organization (WHO) was informed of a “pneumonia of unknown cause” in Wuhan, China.
I went to the Little Smokies New Year’s Eve show at the Wilma Theater on Dec. 31, 2019. As the bluegrass band played “Decades’’ at midnight and confetti rained through the venue, my friend pulled my other friend and I into a tight hug. Little did we know what was awaiting us.
Less than two weeks later, China released the genetic sequence of the coronavirus, allowing scientists to develop testing and eventually work on a vaccine.
Meanwhile, Trump had banned all travelers from mainland China except U.S citizens or those married to U.S citizens, calling his proclamation “a strong wall” to prevent Covid-19 from entering the U.S. However, his system was flawed. Travelers from Hong Kong and Macau were exempt, and over 1,600 passengers, who were lost in the symptom screening system, had asymptomatic Covid-19.
The Dominoes Begin to Sway
The first confirmed Covid-19 case in the U.S. showed up in Seattle Jan. 21.
“We have it totally under control,” Trump told CNBC the next day. He said he wasn’t worried.
The first time I heard about Covid, I was in my conservation photojournalism class in February. Before every class, we discussed current events. One day, my friend Hazel brought up news emerging out of China about a virus. But it was in China — I didn’t see how it would affect me personally.
By Feb. 11, though, the U.S. had 12 known Covid-19 cases. And Trump was already using this number to downplay the virus. When he asked Congress for $42.5 billion in emergency funding to fight its spread, Congressional Democrats and some Republicans said it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t much later that White House Chief of Staff Mick Mulvaney encouraged Americans to ignore worries of the novel coronavirus: “The reason you’re seeing so much attention to it today is they think this is going to be what brings down the president,” he said. Trump called Covid the Democrats’ new hoax: “Now the Democrats are politicizing the coronavirus. One of my people came up to me and said, ‘Mr. President, they tried to beat you on Russia, Russia, Russia.’ That didn’t work out too well. They tried the impeachment hoax. And this is their new hoax.” Just days later, the first U.S. death from Covid-19 was reported.
It wasn’t until March 7 when reality began to sink in for me. On my way home from my rock climbing class, my editor messaged me to say my cover story was being booted off the cover of the UMT student newspaper for a story about the pandemic instead. The design featured a student, sick with COVID, wearing a mask. By March 11, WHO declared COVID-19 a global pandemic.
The Dominoes Fall
A week later, in my Outdoor Adventure Storytelling, we discussed the strong possibility of not resuming in-person learning. The virus I had heard about from China was now affecting me. I left Missoula on March 15 for spring break. Just a few days later, I was climbing in Moab, Utah when a group of climbers approached my friends and I and said we were all being asked to leave Moab. Once we arrived in town, I received a text from my mother, “You need to call me when you get this.” It was time to come home to Oregon, she said. The world was shutting down.
The next day, Trump announced his task force’s “15 days to slow the spread” social distancing guidelines for all Americans. He also referred to COVID as the “Chinese Virus” in a blatantly xenophobic, racist tweet.
I left Moab for Oregon around the same time then-Gov. Democrat Kate Brown issued an executive order for individuals to stay home. The next day, the U.S. reported a startling 54,112 Covid-19 cases and 1,001 deaths. It was only mid-March.
I finished the semester in my high school bedroom, attending classes over Zoom and staring at the tree outside my window. Every day felt like a bad fever dream, and every evening at 4 p.m., my mother texted me a wine glass emoji.
At the time, we knew little to nothing about Covid-19. Can I get it walking past someone who had it? Could I get it standing in the aisle at the grocery store? Is it allergies or is it Covid?
The CDC announced in April that wearing face coverings slowed the spread of Covid. Yet Trump later contradicted the CDC and said he would not wear a mask. He viewed the high number of U.S. cases as a “badge of honor” and reflection of the country’s testing capacity. Days later, the U.S. hit 100,000 deaths. He announced that young people usually heal in a day from Covid — which was false. Trump would continue to contradict the CDC’s message with his own slew of confusing language as to how — dangerous or not dangerous — COVID really was to the American people. Soon, Trump’s politicization of the virus would trickle down, and by the end of April, armed protesters were storming the Michigan statehouse.
I was also getting tired of staying home. In late May, many of my friends were still in Montana. Then-Montana Gov. Democrat Steve Bullock announced May 19 that Montana would move into Phase Two of the Reopening Big Sky Plan and lift the 14-day-out-state travel quarantine. I went back to Montana in late May and turned 22 during the first pandemic summer.
Two months later, when Bullock issued a directive requiring face masks in certain indoor spaces, he said, “There’s no reason this needs to be political, because COVID-19 isn’t political.”
I wasn’t surprised by Bullock’s decision to re-open the state. Montana has a tendency to handle things differently, because it is such a large state with just over a million people spread out thinly. While it was scary, I felt since face masks were required, I would be okay. Looking back, perhaps returning there was a rushed decision. But also looking back, I see how Bullock was wrong. Like it or not, COVID had already become political.
Masks and Work
I got a new job in July, working at the front desk of the climbing gym after they opened their doors again. We had a mask mandate and ran at limited capacity. I felt safe knowing we required masks.
During the summer of 2020 and all throughout my time working during the pandemic, however, people routinely walked in and absolutely refused to wear a mask or expressed their annoyance with doing so. They constantly pulled their mask below their nose or wore their mask as a chin strap, declaring that Covid didn’t spread through your nose, or they stated that it was harder to breathe with a mask. I was constantly repeating, “Please wear your mask covering your nose and your mouth for the health and safety of the gym.” Sometimes this led to an exhausting and frustrating discussion over what I’ll call“Covid Politics” with folks who said it was their choice to not wear a mask — even though it was policy at the time. As I would walk back to the front desk, they would often pull their mask back down in defiance. Policing mask-wearing felt similar to teaching kindergarteners, except the kindergarteners were grown adults.
It’s a mask. I don’t understand why that’s such a big ask. It’s not that hard. Where are these folks getting their logic?
Our new normal
As the summer ended, UMT announced classes would resume in-person or over Zoom based on student preference. I decided to attend classes in-person. Tape along the desks spaced out six feet distances, and each student had to wipe down their desk before and after class. Hand sanitizer was in every classroom, and masks were required in every building. I became accustomed to reading people through their eyes and forehead expressions.
Meanwhile, the politics of Covid and the virus itself would soon collide for me personally. In my capstone class, “Covering Elections,” we spent all semester prepping for Election Day. I am a photojournalist, and always have been fiery when it comes to politics and deeply invested in the election cycle. But when I am on assignment, I am a journalist first and foremost. My reporting partner and I were assigned to interview voters of Ravalli County in Hamilton, just south of Missoula. The people we spoke to chose to cast their ballots in person. The majority of voters were conservative, adamantly expressing their admiration for Trump. A select few stated their disgust, and how they desperately hoped their vote would help to remove him from office.
When I woke up that morning, I felt off, but I ignored my symptoms. I went into work mode. Covering the election was our substitute final exam, so I couldn’t miss it. I made a cup of coffee, grabbed my fully charged camera and texted my reporting partner that I was on my way.
I put on my maroon, UMT griz mask the moment I stepped in my car. I didn’t take it off until we had lunch at Bitterroot Brewing after speaking to voters, in case I was getting sick. By the time I got home that afternoon, I was exhausted and collapsed onto my bed. Something was wrong with me.
This is just a cold. There’s no way I have Covid. But what if I do?
I finally picked up the phone and called the health department for a test.
10 days of Covid in Missoula, Montana
After I tested positive, I broke down. I was terrified, feeling incredibly stupid and selfish for potentially exposing people. Somehow, my reporting partner did not get Covid.
I lived alone in a one-bedroom basement apartment I’d coined “the Hobbit Hole” because of its low ceilings and a shower head that sat just five foot eight inches off the ground. (I am nearly five foot ten.) There was one measly window in my bedroom that provided only a sliver of the outside world: my neighbors’ doorstep.
That night, I went to bed with my laptop next to me, a tab open to CNN with the awaiting election results so I could regularly refresh it.
The next morning, I noticed as I munched on Greek vanilla yogurt mixed with granola that I wasn’t greeted with the same yogurt aftertaste. In fact, I couldn’t taste anything. I stared at the open bottle of Ménage à Trois red wine from Albertsons. The cork had broken, allowing the wine to marinate with the dingy basement air. It was the perfect Covid test. I grabbed it, ran the opening of the bottle under my nostrils and deeply inhaled.
Nothing, absolutely nothing. I had been in denial, despite the test. But I smelled and tasted nothing. I really did have Covid.
While trying to read a handout for a paper I had to write, I couldn’t track the words, let alone read. It felt as if my brain had entered an altered state of consciousness. I emailed my professor asking for an extension.
In the hobbit hole, I had one narrow staircase. The walls were graffitied with pictures of my friends climbing, skiing and longboarding. They became my anchors as I fought to physically climb up the steps. I’d have to sit against the back of my front door, attempting to catch my breath just to use the bathroom. My entire body was a mix of cement and jello. Walking, cooking, showering felt like hiking at high altitude, leaving me breathless, exhausted and delirious. I was sleeping four to five hours a day just to get up the energy to watch a show or try to cook a meal. To say I felt sick was a grand understatement.
One evening, a friend who also had Covid invited me over for dinner after clearing it with a nurse at the student health center. I masked up, put on gloves and texted everyone in my building to let them know I was leaving my apartment.
The five-minute drive to my friend’s apartment was harrowing. When I arrived, I immediately melted into his futon, my body succumbing to rest. He said he would take care of everything.
Minutes later, he said our other mutual friend was coming over. Someone who did not have Covid. I was confused why this person wanted to hang out. He planned to stay outside apparently.
When he arrived, he opened the screen door and stepped into the room. He didn’t put on a mask. Out of concern for him and his roommate, I put on my maroon UMT mask. I was surprised that he had entered the room with two people who were Covid positive.
Then I heard him say, “I think this whole thing is bullshit.”
Wait. I paused and looked up at him. He was standing in the doorway, casually, beer in hand. Was this a fucked up, weird Covid hallucination or was he seriously saying this? Does he not see how horribly sick I was, sprawled out on the futon less than six feet in front of him?
He slurped his beer and said he had been around me a few days earlier and didn’t get it.
I blink and notice he is still there, still sipping his beer. I wasn’t hallucinating. My throat is tight, my whole-body tense, I could feel my hands become fists, my fingernails cutting into the palms of my hands.
He described how the media was exaggerating Covid, and everyone was overly worried about how dangerous it was. He was completely unfazed by my debilitating suffering less than six feet from him. At the time, 51 people were dying from Covid-19 every hour.
Even after I had gotten home, I was still in shock from what he had said.
Two days later, I was falling asleep and noticed I was having difficulty breathing. My heart rate was 100 BPM and my blood oxygen level was normal. But I really couldn’t get a full breath. One of my friends said she wanted to drive me to the ER, just in case.
I double-masked and in less than fifteen minutes, I was in her car with all four windows rolled down, my head hanging out the window like a dog.
At the ER, a nurse came in a full body suit and checked my heart rate and blood oxygen levels again. They came back normal, but I insisted to her I couldn’t breathe fully. “Look,” she said, “Covid is like the flu. You are going to feel crappy for a little while. Go home and rest.” Then she left the room. The flu killed about 22,000 Americans during the 2019–2020 season. Nearly twice as many had already died of Covid, and the year wasn’t over. Covid is not like the flu.
I was sent back home. For the next few days; I worried I wouldn’t make it through the night. Each morning I woke up, I was genuinely surprised.
After twelve days nearly bedbound, sleeping 11 or 12 hours a day, my sense of smell and taste began to return. I still felt monumentally exhausted from even minor activity. But I had survived.
Something else stuck with me from the experience, though: Despite seeing the effects of COVID right in front of them, some people around me still refused to believe the virus was serious or even real. They responded angrily and dismissed the virus even with the scientific facts directly in front of them.
Meanwhile, I was living with those facts in a way that couldn’t be ignored. After my Covid infection, my energy levels were lower. I did not want to ever feel that sick again. When I began to hear news about a Covid-19 vaccine in Dec., I was over the moon.
The Covid Vaccine
A month and a half after my infection, the Trump administration announced Operation Warp Speed, the $5 billion initiative to develop a Covid vaccine. By invoking the Defense Protection Act, Operation Warp Speed allowed the Covid vaccine to be developed faster by “allocating materials” and prioritizing the vaccine. But Trump still referred to Covid as “the Chinese virus.” Even as he was taking some of the only steps he would take to fight the virus, he was downplaying its impact on the U.S. and “othering” those who had it.
I was raised by a nurse and a lawyer. My mother, the nurse, kept separate books with each kid’s vaccination history and often brought it to our doctor appointments. I have always been a strong supporter of vaccines. So it wasn’t until Covid that I began to see that some people adamantly oppose them.
The University of Montana announced March 5 that Covid-19 vaccines would become available. Three weeks later, on March 28, I sat in a plastic chair as a pharmacy student gave me my first dose of the Pfizer vaccine. Three weeks later, April 18, I went back for my second dose. For three days, I felt like I had the flu. But I could handle the side effects. Anything was better than getting Covid-19 again.
After the vaccine was released, I noticed that a few of my more conservative friends shared that they weren’t vaccinated. When we’d discuss the reasons why, they often gave a vague excuse. They said they didn’t understand the rush. They had read about side effects. They didn’t think Covid was very serious. Or they just preferred to get Covid and develop antibodies than get the vaccine. I did not understand their arguments — none of them seemed logical to me — but ultimately it was their decision.
It would take me a long time to empathize with this reasoning because so many Americans died from Covid-19. Personally, I felt getting vaccinated simply was the moral thing to do. I wanted to protect others from what I had experienced. I wanted to protect my folks.
After Joe Biden was elected, a near flip-flop occurred in how Covid was handled. But Covid had been irrevocably politicized. The new president was dealing with a new normal, one in which huge swaths of the country didn’t believe Covid was real, or didn’t think it was serious, or didn’t believe there was a reason for them to get the vaccine. What I had seen with a handful of my own friends was happening all across the country.
On Nov. 4, 2021- the Biden Administration said they would require everyone with 100 or more employees to be fully vaccinated by the new year. Those who refused had to undergo weekly testing. There were other mandates too, some with no testing options. All workers at health care facilities with Medicare or Medicaid had to be fully vaccinated.
In the U.S., people were split, largely due to politics, about whether or not to get vaccinated. Pew Research found that Republicans and Trump supporters were 35% more likely to reject the vaccine. Some expressed concern that their personal medical choices would be controlled by the government, that we would be forced to get vaccinated by a rushed vaccine and carry proof of vaccination.
These concerns over the vaccine do not stem from nothing. The Covid vaccine was an mRNA vaccine that had been developed quickly. These vaccines work by directing cells to create copies of the spike protein that sits on the outer surface of the coronavirus. However, the vaccine’s development had been based on knowledge of other coronaviruses and could be developed so quickly because of all the resources poured into its production.
There is a very small — 1/100,000 chance — of someone having a serious reaction to a vaccine. With the J&J vaccine, a rare side effect, a blood clotting disorder called thrombosis with thrombocytpenia syndrome, was reported, “an updated safety analysis showed that out of more than 18 million people who got J&J, 60 cases of TTS were reported and nine people died.” Today, the J&J vaccine is no longer available. In addition, some rare side effects were confirmed from Pfizer and Moderna vaccines, such as myocarditis, an inflammation in the heart. Covid itself could also cause myocarditis, but it was reasonable for people to feel anxious about developing it from the vaccine. Some people reported seizures, or changes in their period. In addition, many folks I know with Long Covid said the vaccine made their symptoms worse while others didn’t have that experience.
History and science have shown that the flu, polio, measles and other vaccines are still the best way to protect yourself and others from infectious diseases. Campaigns in the 1950s urged the American public to get vaccinated, and now similar campaigns were underway. But Americans were more likely to back science in the 1950s.
Now Americans had several ways to combat the virus. We had masks, vaccines and Paxlovid, for example. And with these tools, state governors had to choose how they would use them for their constituents. “Covid Politics” had fully emerged and matured. The U.S. has remained deeply polarized. Our deep rooted political ideology has yet to unsnag.
It’s been over four years since the pandemic and still nearly 30% of people who are registered as Republicans have not received a Covid vaccine. There’s even a partisan gap in Covid-related deaths: More Republicans die of Covid than Democrats. As of March 11 this year nearly seven million deaths have been reported from Covid worldwide.
There’s also a partisan gap in how people who get Covid, and therefore how people living with long Covid, are treated. In the beginning, Covid didn’t affect me, or so I thought. Then I got the virus myself and struggled to be taken seriously. Later, it wasn’t until I saw doctors in a blue state that they acknowledged my fatigue was related to Covid. The politicization of the virus that started at the top, with President Trump downplaying it, trickled down to the states, then the cities, then Americans themselves. And we’re still living with the consequences.
The dominoes are down
Covid-19 is still around. Today most people have had at least one or two Covid infections, and many of us maybe didn’t get as sick as we predicted. In turn, the stigma around Covid has dropped. But Covid is still killing more people annually than the flu.
I do understand, as a human and a woman, being frustrated by the government, politicians and doctors using policy to control individuals’ private health care choices. But also as a human, I ask, where do we draw the line between preserving American freedom and protecting individuals’ health and safety? They can co-exist.
Six months from now, Americans will have a choice to make again about who will lead this country. One candidate politicized a virus during the worst public health crisis in over a century. The other tried to repair that damage, with varying success. Biden or Trump — only time will tell what Americans will choose.
