MASKS AND MATERIALITY IN THE ERA OF COVID-19

Abstract

During the covid-19 pandemic, cloth and disposable masks were recommended to reduce virus transmission. As mask wearing became more common, whether by personal choice or regulation, and the variety of masks available increased, these masks acquired the status of key material-culture objects. This essay reflects on the symbolic nature of obtaining, wearing, and discarding masks during the pandemic within the context of Michigan in the United States. Using material-culture theories proposed by Anna Tsing, Arjun Appadurai, Christine Harold, and Andrei Guruianu and Natalia Andrievskikh, I consider the cultural value, power, and communicability of masks. Woven into this reflection are my personal experiences with masks as they relate to the three themes. I conclude by reflecting on the ephemeral nature of masks and the ever-changing meanings derived through an examination of material culture.

Keywords::

• commodity
• COVID-19
• disposable
• gift economy
• masks
• materiality
• material culture
• N95
• pandemic

A day or two prior to the start of each semester, I find myself putting too much time into planning what I am going to wear on the first day. I stare into my closet wondering what I want my clothing choice to communicate to students.I think, the suit? No, it will make me seem too stiff and I want my students to feel comfortable enough to participate and share ideas. Nice jeans and shirt? No, that could appear too casual and this class is a challenging one that the students need to take seriously. I’ve even joked with my fellow faculty about showing up on the first day in my doctoral robes, Professor McGonagall-style, a reminder to students that I have earned the degrees that come with the title “Dr.” or “Professor,” and an attempt to discourage their use of “Mrs.” and other prefixes that refer to a presumed marital status. This year, however, it wasn’t the clothing, but my mask that I was contemplating.

My university, like many others, spent the summer establishing a plan for students, faculty, and administrators to safely return to campus in the fall. Among other things like reduced classroom capacities, copious amounts of disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer in all rooms and common areas, and virtual office hours, the university mandated that masks must be worn at all time inside any campus building and outside as well if anyone is within six feet of another person. The Office of Alumni Affairs provided one cloth mask with the university mascot to each faculty and staff member on campus, as well as to students who were paid to help enforce these policies by encouraging mask wearing, providing masks to those not wearing one, and setting a good example by wearing one themselves. Initially, however, this was not the mask I chose to wear on the first day.

My mask-providing university is based in Michigan, a state whose female Democratic governor was lauded by some and criticized by others, President Trump in particular, for the strict measures on commerce, social gatherings, and mask wearing that she implemented between March and October 2020 using executive orders.¹ As a material-culture scholar and human geographer, I am forever curious about the value held by material objects obtained, displayed, or discarded. The arrival of covid-19 in early 2020, and in my state in March of that year, presented new material cultures that communicated local and national values, preferences, and identities. In Michigan, toilet paper, disinfecting wipes, hand sanitizer, and raman noodle packages became objects valuable far beyond their market price as they disappeared from the literal and virtual shelves of stores from Kroger to Amazon, were hoarded by some, and suddenly rationed by those who had only a few weeks-worth stored away. Yet, to me, mask distribution, buying, and wearing stuck out because these actions were done in mostly public ways. Whether or not one wears a mask beyond private spaces, and what kind of mask they wear or what is depicted on the mask, communicates perspectives on the pandemic, elements of American cultural values, personal identity, and even politics, as responses to the pandemic in the United States are as much a political issue as a public health one.

This essay is a reflection on masks as material culture in the era of covid-19. It is a collection of my observations and thoughts as I lived through the pandemic in Michigan. My reflections are informed by my own expertise as a scholar of material culture, in addition to material-culture theorists like Anna Tsing,, Arjun Appadurai, Christine Harold, and Andrei Guruianu and Natalia Andrievskikh. These reflections are divided into three parts, though they are not mutually exclusive: obtaining masks, where I reflect on the perceived value of the mask itself in its various forms; wearing masks, where I reflect on the political and personal identities and powers communicated through the act of wearing (or not) a mask during the pandemic; and discarding masks, where I consider the irony in the ephemeral nature of masks. This essay is not meant to be a comprehensive review of masks as material culture, as their meaning and value is changing even as I write this and will likely evolve further before this essay is published. Instead, my goal is to begin an interpretation of the mask within the context of a global pandemic and local—Michigan—cultural responses that can be expanded on as this phenomenon continues.

Obtaining Masks

In May 2020, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) released the results of a study on the global value chain of masks designed to protect the wearer against covid-19 (OECD 2020).² This study, which focused only on the disposable N95 “surgical” or “medical” masks and respirators, traced the commodities involved in production, dependent, of course, on the global market value of these commodities, as well as costs related to production, sterilization, and the careful packaging required of a sterilized product. While global gas prices plummeted as stay-at-home orders were issued in countries across the world, the demand for these polypropylene (a polymer derived from oil) face masks skyrocketed. National Public Radio reported that in March 2020 in the United States, a pack of 30 N95 masks was selling on Amazon for US$199, when the average price prior to the pandemic was around US$15. Delivery time was more than a month (Rosalsky 2020). Interrupted global supply chains, labor shortages in many industries, price gouging by companies selling masks, and hoarding by those who could afford to buy them accentuated the problem. Then, of course, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) message that the mask, as a form of PPE, could save one’s life fed the demand. In short, masks became highly valuable objects exchanged in a capitalist system.

When school closures and shutdowns were first announced in mid-March 2020, and stay-at-home orders issued, finding masks was a challenge. Most of the masks available were disposable. Some people bought large quantities and hoarded them. Three-ply and surgical (N95) masks were the most common, but we were encouraged to save them for essential workers. It took a while for the U.S. industrial sector to mobilize in mask production. There was also debate over which kind of mask was most effective. The N95 masks are still considered one of the best lines of defense if one must engage in public spaces, and in Michigan we were encouraged to “save” those masks (as in, not buy them and/or hoard them) for those who could not quarantine due to the essential nature of their jobs. Hand- or machine-sewn cloth masks, which unlike N95 masks were reusable, had to fill the gap, and in my community, several groups mobilized to make and distribute cloth masks to as many people as possible. Demand for masks was high, supply was low. The lost art of sewing reemerged on the (quarantined) domestic landscape. Not only were masks highly valued as a form of personal protective equipment (PPE), but the commodities and tools required to make them, and individuals who garnered this knowledge, became, overnight, highly valued elements of society.

I obtained my first mask in mid-March 2020 from my neighbor, as a gift. I did not pay for the mask itself or the supplies used to make it. My neighbor, an avid sewer, a retired postal worker, and a person genuinely concerned about her fellow human beings, began sewing masks using a pattern she found online (with CDC recommendations for its construction). I had been unsuccessful at that point in securing a mask for myself and my elementary school–aged son and was growing concerned. She didn’t know this, however. She texted me one afternoon in mid-March, just before Michigan’s stay-at-home orders were issued, and said she had just left three masks in a plastic bag on my front porch. One for me, one for my son, and one for my former spouse (a person she had never met). She made my mask out of a cotton pattern depicting Van Gogh’s Starry Night because she knows I “do things with the arts,” and my son’s mask out of Michigan State University cloth, his favorite in-state sports team. These masks were both highly valuable commodities and gifts to us.

Anthropologist Anna Tsing writes about the differences and connections between gifts and commodities (Tsing 2013, 2015). According to Tsing (2013), in a capitalist economy, “commodities define the system” [emphasis in original]. Taking the gift out of the commodity is very difficult and the two are not mutually exclusive categories. There are some distinctions, however. The degree of alienation between recipient and producer is greater for commodities than for gifts, or for commodities that have become gifts. Furthermore, “value in a commodity system is in things for use and exchange,” whereas in a gift system, it is “social obligations, connections, and gaps” between players that add value (Tsing 2013, 22).

The mask from my neighbor was inarguably a gift. Although I did not know the cotton farmer and the fabric was probably woven by machine, I did know the person who transformed those resources into my mask. The degree of alienation was minimal. The gift of the mask connected us and bridged a social-interaction gap that lockdown orders had created. At the same time, however, my gifted mask was also a commodity. I had something that other people were desperately trying to find, sometimes spending large amounts of money to obtain. Its exchange value, had I chosen to sell it, was considerable. Its use value even more so. The mask served as both a protective agent and the means to obey state laws, as it enabled me to make occasional grocery store runs or get something I needed from my campus office. When the same neighbor that gifted me the mask got sick, she asked me if I could pick up a prescription for her and leave it on her porch, a task I was willing and able to do because I now had a protective mask.

The difference between my first mask and the ones people were combing Internet sites to purchase is fairly clear. People trying to buy masks—or any other commodities in high demand, like toilet paper, for example—were not concerned with who made it. There was no relationship with the producer or any part of the supply chain prior to or after the product was obtained by the person who sought it. Hoarding strictly involved commodities, as those with an abundance likely kept them for themselves, friends, or family, or resold the surplus at higher prices. Although there are clear relationships between gifts and commodities, my first mask was clearly a gift, and not just because I didn’t pay for it. Our masks were made by my neighbor specifically for me and my son. We didn’t ask for one. She chose the cloth to reflect our interests. She took care to place them in Ziploc bags and not come into contact with us upon delivery. They were personal and contextual. They further solidified our relationship as friends because the act of giving them expressed a genuine concern on the part of my neighbor for our well-being. It was a warm and selfless dyadic gesture that came during a consumer period dominated by hoarding.

It is not, however, the only mask I have that I didn’t pay for. My university gave each faculty member a single mask with a small version of the mascot on the side, as they required mask wearing to enter campus. Even though I didn’t have to pay for this mask, I don’t consider it a gift. Each faculty member (and staff and administrators, and most students, and several alumni) received the same mask, so there was no personalization. Masks were delivered to our mailboxes and mine greeted me when I returned to my campus office after not having gone to campus for more than three months. I did not know when it arrived, how long it had been there, or who placed it in that location. It was contained within a commercially sealed package. The degree of alienation between myself and my university-provided mask is great. I have no personal attachment to this mask, even though it bears my university’s mascot.

Anna Tsing (2013) warns us about creating dichotomies between gifts and commodities because systems of exchange are “mixed and messy.” Designation as a gift or a commodity is often based on the perception of the person doing the categorizing. The same object can be a gift to one person and a commodity to another, switch back and forth between these two designations, or exist as both at the same time. Most gifts, including my Van Gogh mask, are made from raw materials and depend on global supply and value chains. As described earlier, my Van Gogh mask was a commodity first, and a gift second. Although I do not know where the cotton to make this mask was grown and harvested, where the fabric was woven and imprinted, and where the elastic was produced, I do know who sewed the mask, how and why she chose the fabric, and by what means and intentions it was delivered. Furthermore, the Van Gogh mask facilitated a stronger relationship between myself and my neighbor in part because of this knowledge about its production and intended purpose.

On the other hand, my university-provided mask remained a commodity even after it was in my possession. A few weeks later, however, after discovering how comfortable it was and that I could wear it without causing my glasses to fog up, I asked the Office of Alumni Affairs (which had paid for, ordered, and distributed the masks on campus) if there were any left, as I had a friend who struggled to wear glasses and a mask at the same time in her job. The director gave me five masks in the same commercially sealed packages, which I then gave to friends. Were these gifts? I gave them to people with whom I already had a strong personal relationship. I did not make the masks myself, nor did I pay for them. To my friends, the masks were objects that facilitated their work. I am not sure if the actual mask itself held any emotional value, though my friends probably appreciated the gesture.

Arjun Appadurai (1986, 2012), another scholar of material culture, rejects the gift-commodity distinction. Appadurai sees anything that is exchanged as a commodity because it has economic value. My Van Gogh mask had/has economic value. I could have sold it for probably US$30 back in May. My university-provided mask does not lack economic value just because I did not pay for it. I could have sold it as well. It is still the most effective mask I have for teaching because it is the only one that doesn’t fog up my glasses, and that factor likely increases its value as a commodity. In exchange for the mask from my university (and, of course, my salary), I am expected to deliver content to students in person because I have been provided with a relatively safe means for doing so.

As of this writing, the costs to consumers of masks have dropped substantially. A quick search on Amazon (October 2020) shows that N95 masks are running around US$1.50 each, or a pack of 20 for about US$30. The general 3-ply masks are selling for around US$0.50 each, or a pack of 50 for US$25. Both kinds qualify for Amazon Prime two-day shipping from several suppliers. My Van Gogh mask, which I would have considered a gift at any point, was also valuable in the timing of its deliver. In other words, the processes for obtaining masks and their commodity value have changed drastically over the last year. In February 2021, I noticed individual masks available free at a local Home Depot. In one year, these masks had lost their entire value. With more availability comes greater consumer choice. Now, instead of using just any mask we can get, we can choose to wear masks that convey messages and identities.

Wearing Masks

For my first-day-of-school mask, I went with practical. I chose a white cotton mask I had been given by the United States Census Bureau to use while working as a census enumerator over the summer. It was comfortable, allowed me to breathe sufficiently, and it was a neutral color. It did not, however, prevent my glasses from fogging up, which is what prompted me to try the university-provided mask. In anticipation of the semester, and teaching partly in person, I had also purchased two masks from Amazon on which a map of the world was printed. I am a geography professor and a map lover. These masks were an expression of one part of my personal identity. When they arrived in the mail, however, I discovered the masks were made of multiple layers of silk and were thick. Silk is a comfortable fabric for sure, but the multiple layers made it almost impossible to take deep breaths, something I have to do often while standing and talking at the front of a big classroom trying to project to students spread out as much as possible.

This process of choosing and then wearing a mask, and then observing the mask choices of my students, colleagues, and the general public, made me think more seriously about mask wearing as a form of identity expression. For me, masks went from being objects to being subjects when personal choice became part of process. One of the ways a material object becomes an expression of identity is when the person using it for this purpose has a variety of types, brands, or patterns from which to choose.

By the time the Fall 2020 semester started, the supply of masks in the United States had caught up to demand. Disposable masks were readily available everywhere from Amazon to the nearby Kroger. Facebook advertisements for masks in varying designs and fabrics (mostly reusable ones) were regularly infiltrating my news feed. In other words, masks could be an expression of one’s identity because there were now thousands of prints and tens of styles to choose from. A person’s mask went from being anything they could find that might work as a protective layer to an act of personal choice and expression of identity.

Perhaps one of the drivers behind masks as expressions of personal identity was that when they were initially recommended and in high demand, the masks available were one size fits all, or one type fits all. When masks were largely unavailable or inaccessible, consumers had little choice if they actually found one. This supply/demand problem led to objects turned into masks that were not initially intended for that purpose, things like a shirt or neck warmer pulled over one’s nose or a handkerchief held up to one’s face.

With time, patterns used in cloth masks made for others also became a way for mask makers to communicate sentiments toward those receiving the masks. Mask-sewing groups chose various fabrics and prints as they made masks initially for healthcare workers experiencing a shortage of PPE, and then for other groups in the public. One CNN report showed images of hearts and flower patterns used by a group in Atlanta, an expression of appreciation for the sacrifice healthcare and other essential workers were making (CNN 2020). The Facebook group “Sewing Mask Pattern,” which according to CNN had just over 3000 members in March 2020, now shows 12.2 thousand members January 2021. The group “Mask Makers Community” has 13.9 thousand members.

The act of producing this material culture falls, of course, in the context of a global pandemic and a shortage of protective equipment. As the country waited for an already reduced industrial sector to mobilize and meet demand, these grassroots sewing groups stepped up in World War II collective fashion. The key difference, however, is that while WWII sewing groups involved a physical mobilization of women in groups together in the same space, the covid-19 mask-sewing groups were, to use Benedict Anderson’s (1983) term, largely imagined communities.³ They emerged as concerns about the availability of PPE became louder and alarming, and were formed largely via social media from neighborhoods, friends, church groups, and other entities that were established pre-covid, usually for entirely different purposes. People sewing masks during covid-19 were working alone, at home, by themselves, often using material they already had, as fabric stores were closed in the early days of the pandemic. Instead of sharing techniques and patterns in person, people sewing masks used YouTube videos for instruction on how to design the most effective ones. In a sense, these YouTube videos were gifts themselves, free classes from those who had the knowledge and skill to those who needed it for a greater purpose.⁴

As mask wearing became more ubiquitous in public spaces and buildings, and the necessity of mask wearing more urgently communicated to the general public, so did the presence of the face mask in advertising. The company Phantom Fireworks and its highway billboards, which tend to proliferate the advertising space along Midwest interstate highways during the weeks before July 4th, this year depicted the phantom with a mask on. The Michigan State University Spartan statue wore a mask as early as April 2020 (“Michigan State’s Sparty Statue …” 2020). By late summer 2020, television ads included actors doning face masks. In a pre-Halloween 2020 Facebook post, a friend from graduate school posted a picture of the pumpkin on the front step of his house wearing a facemask. By January 2021, television dramas like NCIS: Los Angeles, which had begun filming new episodes, had their main characters donning masks when interacting with the public. In other words, wearing a face mask is slowly (too slowly, in my opinion) becoming commonplace.

Although mask wearing was slow to catch on in the United States, one reason that the practice had relatively slow adoption rates in Michigan, in particular, was because wearing a mask became a political expression. When the pandemic hit Michigan, Governor Gretchen Witmer issued stay-at-home orders and mandated mask wearing (a mandate that is still in place as of this writing) through the power of executive order, largely because general recommendations to wear masks and socially distance were initially ignored by many. Witmer’s use of executive order was controversial and sparked large protests; the largest one held in Lansing on 1 May 2020 attracted national and international media coverage (Slotkin 2020). At least three people were killed in confrontations at businesses attempting to enforce the mask-wearing mandate, and some law enforcement agencies in the state refused to enforce the order. Yet 92 percent of Michiganders surveyed as part of the Democratic Fund + ULCA Nationscape Project (15 June—11 July 2020) said they had worn a mask when they went out in public. Nationally, the response was 89 percent (Kovanis 2020). In other words, there was some discrepancy between what people say they do—and how they respond to a survey question when they know the answer they should give—and what they actually do. Images of protesters at the state capitol throughout the spring, summer, and fall showed these groups gathering without masks and social distancing, in defiance of the executive order given by the governor (Oosting and Beggin 2020; Slotkin 2020). Refusing to wear a mask in public became synonymous with defiance of the governor’s order and declaration of independence and freedom, while wearing a mask and practicing social distancing came to be viewed as a sign of support, regardless of whether or not the individual was intentionally taking a political stance.⁵

Politics aside, the perception of the mask’s power to protect is one worth mentioning. Using photographs posted to Facebook by my “friends” as an example, I see a group of people standing much closer than six feet, but all wearing masks. To me, this is an acknowledgment of the power of masks to protect, especially in situations where people are closer than the recommended distance. This image, and one where people are standing six feet apart and are also masked says “we are doing our part to protect others” and “we believe these measures will help us.” Although CDC guidelines indicate the six-foot distance and mask wearing both, there is the perception that masks have the power to protect when social distancing is not possible. The perceived protective power of the mask reduces space, where not wearing one among concerned individuals often results in increased physical distance between them. In this way, masks can empower the wearer to take some greater risks than that person might have been willing to take without the mask.

There is a point, however, where the mask becomes a dangerous object. Concern about how often they are washed between uses, and whether or not they have been touched by hands that have come in contact with contaminated surfaces grows. The ubiquitous problem of mask slippage means I am constantly adjusting my mask on my face, and then trying to remember when I last used sanitizer or washed my hands. Here, the materiality of the mask changes. What was once an agent of protection becomes a potential agent for contagion. Unlike the KonMari Method, the currently popular method for tidying up designed by Marie Kondo that encourages the individual to hold an object in their hands, experience its tangibleness, and decide whether the object produces joy, touching a mask makes it a more dangerous object, regardless of the connection to it felt by the wearer. Furthermore, the inability of the face mask to be 100 percent protective, thus negating their usefulness, has been exploited by antimaskers.

Masks also have the power to hide. Popular culture icons like Batman, Zorro, and the Lone Ranger, to name just a few, wore masks that appeared to make them unrecognizable to the people they came in contact with. Batman’s mask was full-face, Zorro’s and the Lone Ranger’s just covered their eyes, but left their mouth exposed. Batman’s mask was also protective, Zorro’s and the Lone Ranger’s just hid their identity. None of these masks were used as a protective health device, of course. And they were all black. Although the eyes can communicate emotion, the viewer is left with few other clues to a mask-wearer’s reaction, at least fewer clues than we are used to having. One New York Times article that was widely circulated in my academic circles described how African-American men were concerned about the increased tendency for racial profiling brought about by mask-wearing mandates (Taylor 2020). More so than other groups, African-Americans, and African-American men in particular, felt forced to choose between their health and their safety, citing concerns voiced by non-Blacks that African-Americans in masks were “up to no good” (Taylor 2020). Whether a mask hides the eyes or the mouth can change the perception of the viewer, as well as any racial profiling the viewer may be guilty of due to the color of the wearer’s skin, their size, their gender. Masks also prevent the wearer from using most facial expressions to convey sentiment, something I feel limits me in the classroom while I teach with my mask on.

Thus, masks are material culture that exist in this marginal space between law and personal choice, between individual protection and community concerns, between hidden identities and outward displays of personal identities, between empowerment and disempowerment, between safety and danger. Yet, we cannot end the mask discussion without briefly considering what happens to these material items after we wear them.

Discarding Masks

Communication Professor Christine Harold (2020, 4) calls waste “the pejorative term for excess,” a condition generated by perceived and planned obsolescence ubiquitous in capitalist economies. Waste implies a growing consumer culture and has devastating environmental impacts (Harold 2020). In March of 2020, there was hardy an excess of masks, so the idea of disposable masks was striking. While I certainly understood the public health reasons for discarding a mask after one use, the idea of doing so was difficult, knowing masks were limited in number. Still, I saw these disposable masks strewn across the Target parking lot in May 2020. Recycling anything came to a halt in Michigan, as curbside recycling pickup was suspended and bottle returns closed. Waste in general accumulated, and discarded masks and gloves, which could not be recycled, added to the volume. In “tragedy of the commons” style, human health was prioritized over environmental health (Adyel 2020).

Masks in the covid-19 era maintain an ephemeral nature because health officials recommended against reuse. As production of disposable masks caught up to demand, and disposable masks became much easier to obtain, their life span dwindled further. An experience outside my local Target store is worth mentioning. In Michigan, as of this writing, mask wearing is required indoors in all buildings outside of one’s private residence. When someone puts on a mask because it is required to, say, enter a store, the value of the mask is held in its protective capabilities: both protection from covid-19 and protection from being asked to leave the store. (I’m speaking mostly about disposable masks here, as that is what I observe a majority of shoppers and employees wearing.) That value is immediately lost in the parking lot, however, because the requirement to wear it is no longer in place. The risk of being rejected from the store as a customer is eliminated, and the risk of contacting covid-19 in the open-air parking lot is significantly reduced. The act of discarding the mask on the ground, instead of in the waste bin at the store exit, further drives home for me not only that value has been lost, but how quickly that protective object became valueless—it wasn’t even worth depositing in the trash bin. The presence of disposable masks laying on the ground in a puddle is visible evidence that their purpose has expired. It could also be seen as a communicative act by those who object to mandated mask wearing.

In The Afterlife of Discarded Objects (2019), authors Guruianu and Andrievskikh explore how disposed materials become “something more” after their initial purpose has expired. An old ticket stub becomes a memory, and family object becomes an heirloom as it gets passed through generations, discarded plastic bags get made into kites—these examples demonstrate added value and life to objects over time. Will discarded masks have an afterlife? At the moment, I doubt it. A discarded mask is considered contaminated. On one side it contains the wearer’s germs and on the other the germs of anyone or any environment the wearer came in contact with. covid-19 masks have no value as shared objects. Even when they were limited in supply, stealing a used one had no benefit, as the mask’s perceived contamination made it valueless after its single use had been achieved.

On the other hand, cloth masks may have an afterlife. I will likely save my Van Gogh mask from my neighbor in my box of keepsakes, as it was a gift and will serve as a memory of life during the covid-19 pandemic. It is also possible that cloth masks may be repurposed after they are no longer needed or required, probably not by anyone other than the person who wore it, but it could be used to wrap or protect a fragile object, thereby extending its protective qualities that initiated its acquisition.

Conclusions

One afternoon in early July, I sat in my car in the parking lot of the grocery store frantically combing through my purse. I eventually dumped everything out and looked through each item individually. No luck. My Van Gogh mask was gone. I always kept it in my purse, except for when I regularly washed it. I had coveted that mask. For several months, it was the only one I had because even those I had ordered online took time to arrive, the only one I received as a gift. Although I have several masks now, enough to wear a new one each day, the Van Gogh mask holds the highest personal value. It wasn’t a concern over a lack of PPE that I felt. Instead, it was a sense of loss—loss of something that a friend had made by hand for me, loss of something that connected me to her. And, a loss of something that connected me to an experience.

A few weeks later, I was doing laundry and checking through pants pockets for the random tissue that would wreak havoc on my clothes if it went through the wash cycle. I reached in the pocket of a dress and pulled out … my Van Gogh mask. I then remembered wearing it into my school office, but then upon leaving, deciding to go for a walk on the deserted campus before returning to my car. As I was outside and alone, I took off the mask and put it in my pocket. The dress remained in my laundry room for several weeks, waiting for enough other clothes of similar colors that needed washing to justify the water. It was here that I found my mask. I felt happy. It was the first time that a mask had generated joy, instead of trepidation or concern.

What will masks remind us about the covid-19 era? Will they become artifacts in museums of medicine and material culture? What new styles, designs, and technologies will emerge in the coming weeks, months, and years? As I write this, Michigan is experiencing a resurgence of covid-19 cases, but unlike spring of 2020, PPE is in abundance. How will that abundance change the spread of the disease? How will the value of masks change over time? Perhaps one benefit of the ephemeral nature of material culture is that meaning and value will change, and material objects will continue to provide glimpses into culture and society.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank David Kaplan for inviting me to contribute to this special issue and members of my SVSU Writing Accountability Group for their help brainstorming about the meaning of masks. Sherrin Frances, Rob Drew, Warren Fincher, and Scott Youngstedt read earlier drafts of this manuscript and provided valuable feedback. Finally, thank you to the reviewers, whose comments helped me refine and improve my work.

Notes

¹ On 2 October 2020, the Michigan Supreme Court ruled that Governor Whitmer did not have the power to issue or renew executive orders related to the coronavirus after 30 April 2020. The governor had extended the coronavirus state of emergency declaration on April 30^th, citing the Emergency Management Act (EMA) of 1976 and the Emergency Powers of the Governor Act (EPGA) of 1945 (Alsup and Cullinane 2020). On 5 October 2020, the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services reinstated many of the governor’s mandates, such as those requiring face coverings in public areas and limiting the size of gatherings, under Emergency Orders they were granted during the Spanish Flu epidemic in 1918 to protect public health during a pandemic (WXYZ 2020).

² This study only included and referred to surgical masks, also called “procedural masks” or “medical masks” and the N95 respirators, as both have similar value chains. The recommendations made by the OECD as a result of this study reflect the mission of this organization, one that prioritizes global economics and trade, and should be considered in light of the organization’s general goals.

³ There has been debate in academic circles about whether Facebook is really an imagined community (see Gill 2017 for arguments about why Facebook is not such a community), and while I agree with many of these arguments, I would posit that Facebook groups are indeed imagined communities, with thousands of members globally who have never met each other, do not know each other in any other context, and seemingly share the same interests or philosophies as the group’s description claims. But whether Facebook or any of its groups are imagined communities or not is beyond the scope and focus of this essay.

⁴ One reviewer noted that there were sewing groups that met in person. That might be the case in other places, but in Michigan, where lockdown orders were instituted early in the pandemic and were pretty strictly enforced, any group that met in person to sew would have done so in a clandestine format, its members most likely reluctant to tell others they were violating state laws, and thus I cannot report on the occurrence of this practice. The point is that most of the sewing groups were virtual as I described in the essay.

⁵ Local and regional context is, of course, important here. A friend who traveled to Ann Arbor in the summer of 2020 reported people wearing masks while outside walking. Ann Arbor, as a college town, is generally considered by the rest of the state to be more progressive and forward/outward thinking than other regions.