The Real Contagion They Don’t Want You to Spread — A Contagion That Face Masks Protect Against

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by Allan Stevo, Lew Rockwell:

It was after a campaign.

Political campaigns are named for military campaigns.

This had been a political campaign.

Jack, a military man and an occasional member of our team, was outside the office in the ritzy SoHo neighborhood of New York City.

In the days before dystopia struck, in that postcard perfect neighborhood, the narrow old sidewalks were packed in both directions with models, billionaires, musicians, actors, artists, hopefuls, hustlers, neighborhood fixtures, and European tourists. It was sometimes hard to distinguish members of one group from another.

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Everyone just sort of blended in. If you were on those sidewalks you belonged there and were treated as such.

Jack had a heavy Chinese accent, having been born in China, and a particular staccato way of emphasizing words, that could make even the most gentle words come across as harsh.

While some members of our team were inside looking for new business, other guys from the team were outside our classic downtown Manhattan, low-rise brick building, making fun of Jack. Egging him on. Jack talked a tough game about what a ladies’ man he was. So why hadn’t anyone ever seen him even speak to a lady during all the time we had spent together?

Honest question. The haranguing on that topic had been going on for weeks, and that afternoon, alongside our stoop, standing atop the neighbor’s rusty cellar doors, alongside that SoHo sidewalk, enough was enough.

Jack had enough of this talk from cowards. He reached out his hand toward the crowded sidewalk, touching the hand of the first model passing by, guiding her toward him by her hand and looked her in the eyes.

As if entranced, or maybe just on autopilot, the model was very willingly led by Jack off the bustling sidewalk, a few steps toward Jack onto the easement.

He drew her close, looked into her eyes and said in his heavy accented staccato speech “Why you so shy?”

At a moment of daring like this, you are rewarded for your bravery or fall flat on your face. Every person of courage knows the number of strikeouts a Babe Ruth has when he swings for the fences.

This boy ran from the Chinese Communist Party to the US military. He fled everything he knew to come to a new land where he barely knew the language. He had more guts in his clumsy fingertips that held the model’s hand in his, than most American men have in their entire body.

Terrified, she took her hand back and continued on her way posthaste.

Everyone outside had a good laugh at Jack’s expense and returned inside to retell the story in detail, adding a bit of legend to that storied place, and eventually getting back to the search for new business to bring in the door, and new battles for this team to fight in the name of freedom.

I have no doubt about who the bravest person alongside the sidewalk was that afternoon. It wasn’t the chattering class. It wasn’t the peanut gallery. It was the man of action, even though he lost his cool and got goaded by the jackanapes.

As we pass into this dystopian moment in time and sit upon a cusp of a new dystopian era, or retake the freedoms we once knew so intimately, no one need do anything as daring as grab a model’s hand.

No one need do anything as daring as look her in the eyes.

No one need do anything as daring as speak your fourth or fifth language to her as you say “Why you so shy?”

No. Nothing like that. It begins with a simple resolution to live life by a higher standard.

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