The times have changed. And so have we.
The nightly bedtime ritual has changed under quarantine. Not necessarily for the better. Nor for the worse, perhaps. Youtube science videos have taken the place of bedtime stories. Hey, it’s quarantine. Don’t judge. The other night, my seven-year old and I heard Sir David Attenborough narrate the process by which a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. The voice of nature itself described in awe-struck and awe-inspiring detail the process by which a happy “walking stomach” surrounded by endless lush food and beverage, sealed itself off from both. Into self-imposed confinement. Darkness, isolation and doubt inside. Naked to predators and the elements outside. The caterpillar functionally cuts itself from the world, entombs and trusts.
Attenborough pauses. Deep breath. “Metamorphosis!” He says it with that enthusiastic British accent. It sounds funny when he says it but you know what it is and what he means. He means magic is about to happen. And surely it does. What emerges from the chrysalis is nothing short of breathtaking. It appears to be an entirely different species of creature. What once crawled, wingless and gluttonous, now dances on the wind and makes the most beautiful flower even more comely. It happened quietly but deliberately. The emergence of pure beauty, elegance and grace.
This week New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo stood in front of a wall of handmade masks that had served as an inspiration to him and countless others on the front lines of this battle. “This is America. This is who we are. This is the best of America,” he said as he pointed to the masks.
Many of the masks made by the Stitchers’ Corps of Central Pennsylvania were and continue to be sent to Manhattan and the greater New York City area. I have to imagine some of those masks pinned to that massive display next to Mr. Cuomo originated from makeshift sewing rooms throughout central Pennsylvania. Dining rooms, bedrooms and basements repurposed to that end. People who had lives and careers and obligations suddenly heeded a call. They listened. The went into their homes as one thing. Did something completely different and unexpected and what emerged was something entirely new and beautiful. Hours of diligent, lonely and difficult work to help protect complete and total strangers. Often the mask maker doesn’t know where the masks going. They certainly don’t know who will end up wearing them. Will it be an elderly patient in a nursing home? Visiting caregiver? Frontline physician? The children across the street? Their parents?
The Stitchers’ Corps turned six weeks old on May 1st. What has emerged from the isolated and quarantined homes of Central Pennsylvania may give the even the noble monarch a run for her money. As of today, the Corps has swelled its’ ranks to nearly 900 members. And their combined and continuing efforts have made and donated over fifteen thousand and four hundred masks (15,400) from entirely donated materials.
The Corps has no management. No pay. No dues. No production targets or quotas. No recognition for someone that makes 5 masks or 500. Likewise, there is no religious or political affiliation. No prerequisites. No expectations. It’s existence is a result of the moment we are in and the challenge we face.
In the times before the virus, the members of the Corps had lives as varied as the patterns of mask materials themselves. Genesis, a music teacher has been forced to move twice since this ordeal began. Into each new residence she’s brought her sewing machine and out of each have come more masks. Retired nurse and nursing professor, Diane, is looking to protect her children and grandchildren along with her fellow colleagues and co-workers still in the trenches. Alina worked at an early childhood education center. Before this she could re-attach buttons with needle and thread. Now she’s teaching herself to use a machine and using patterns from Stitchers’ page. She thinks of her husband and his coworkers in the prison when she sews.
My only quibble with the butterfly analogy is the characterization that what was before was not beautiful in these people and this area, for surely it was. It must have been. But no person can argue that what has emerged isn’t one of the most dazzling displays of compassion, sacrifice and service.
Mr. Cuomo was right. The handmade masks and the people that made them represent the best of America. And, I would submit, the Stitchers’ Corps of Central Pennsylvania are the best of the best.
