On Being a Neighbor

The other week I was having lunch with a friend. This was just as fear of the COVID-19 pandemic was beginning its tidal flow here in the U.S. – an approaching moon’s gravity pulling at our collective conscious. My friend asked me what I thought it would mean to be a “good neighbor” during a pandemic. It’s a great question: what does it mean to be a good neighbor? Here is Mr. Rogers’ version of the question:

I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So let’s make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we’re together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Won’t you please,
Won’t you please,
Please won’t you be my neighbor?

The request to be a neighbor is a question of values, not beliefs. To answer Mr. Roger’s question in the affirmative is to choose a value, because to choose to be a neighbor is something independent of feelings. In fact values, as I am defining them, exist in spite of feelings. Let me explain what I mean.

In many of the posts I’ve put up on this blog so far, I have spoken of beliefs. I’ve suggested that perceptual illusions exist because of “beliefs,” and that reflexes exist as “beliefs,” and that emotions are “visceral beliefs.” When a doctor taps my knee, and my foot jerks forward, this behavior shows a “belief” that maps the stretch of a ligament with falling. When I see the Mueller-Lyer lines as being of unequal length, this judgment shows a “belief” that maps angles to depth. And when I feel fear or anger or disgust, these are visceral beliefs that map a situation to perceptions of particular types of risk and that elicit avoidance / elimination behaviors. 

Here is an important distinction, though: beliefs are not the same as values. 

A belief is a perceptual conjecture or a hypothesis about the causal structure of the world – one that originates from each individual’s unique set of experiences and/or our species’ shared evolutionary experiences. Beliefs are inferences updated (or not) from experience. Values, though, are aspirational. They are less a conjecture about the world, and more a hope for the world. This is a crucial point, especially when it comes to our emotions / feelings. So let me state it again: feelings (visceral beliefs) are not values.

We have visceral beliefs, i.e., “feelings,” that pertain to status, relative self-importance, relative need for resources, and so on. If I feel that I am of a higher status than another individual, I might also feel that my needs are more important, or that actions that harm that other person are justified. These beliefs are not so much chosen as they are free-floating in the contingencies of our environments. (Remember, “contingencies” refer to the selective forces of history). Just as we don’t choose to see a visual illusion, we don’t, in the moment, choose our feelings. They simply happen.

Feelings or values?
A group of teenage girls scream obscenities in front of their Montgomery, Alabama school against desegregation, 1963. (Photo by © Flip Schulke/CORBIS/Corbis via Getty Images). Used with permission.

Values, though, are those principles which we have self-chosen, from within the boundaries of our individual contexts, of course. They define how we would like to act. They are our ideals — the person we would hope to be. 

Values might coincide with visceral beliefs (feelings) and/or they might conflict with these beliefs. It is easy to be gracious from a position of strength. Less so from a position of vulnerability. This is why Rambert in the section from The Plague says, “You two,” he said, “I suppose you’ve nothing to lose in all this. It’s easier, that way, to be on the side of the angels.” Rambert, remember, has been seeking to escape the quarantine of the plague in order to return to his love in Paris. He is stating that it is easy for the Rieux and Tarrou to courageously stay and take care of the sick because they have no cost. In this sense, their beliefs align with their values. For Rambert, though, the visceral love he feels for his wife is at odds with staying to help combat the plague. At the end of the section I provided in the last post he learns that he is mistaken.

I bring this up because crises trigger feelings – some heroic and some shameful. We have leaders inciting fear and directing it at others. So, we have President Trump speaking of the “China Virus,” we have Secretary of State Pompeo speaking of the “Wuhan Virus,” we have senators darkly hinting that SARS-CoV-2 was released from a secret Chinese lab, and we have accusations from Chinese officials that covid-19 was brought to China by the American military. Closer to home (for me, at any rate), we see individuals attempting to escape the horror of widespread, indiscriminate death by linking it to “positives.” So, the President of Vassar College recently tweeted out “How many lives has coronavirus saved in China due to less pollution? Ironic” (Tweet has since been deleted). To her credit she immediately apologized, and I suspect she regrets the feelings that motivated the original posting. Further, it is also quite possibly feelings that lead one to “smugly” point out that the “Spanish Flu” that killed millions world-wide in the early 20th c. occurred in Kansas, or suggest that isn’t it ironic that the terrorist attacks of 9/11/2001 momentarily decreased oil consumption because of the aviation shutdown. As if this helps anything — raises one’s status or makes one appear more knowledgeable.

Again, to refer back to the quote from The Plague, it is indeed like a single record that gets played over and over and over. Blame. Diversion. Dry intellectualization. The desire to be “right.” However, I would be hesitant to judge any of these reactions. After all, although the the reactions are perhaps problematic, they are also tragically human — behaviors, comments, and tweets driven by the machinery of our Homo sapien psyches.

Here, after all, is the reality of the COVID-19 pandemic in Italy. Warning, the video shows individuals suffering…it also shows doctors and nurses doing their part to care for those who are suffering. And here is an image that shows a row of military vehicles lined up along an Italian street. Are they bringing in needed resources? No. They are carrying away bodies.

And here is an image of Dr. Li Wenliang, who died in the service Chinese patients, many of whom also succumbed from COVID-19. As Rieux says in The Plague, “There’s no question of heroism in all this. It’s a matter of common decency. That’s an idea which may make some people smile, but the only means of righting a plague is common decency.”

These images evoke feelings, and some of those feelings are unpleasant, meaning our psyches recoil and search for ways to escape their input. Blame. Raise the drawbridge. Dehumanize. Ignore. Become wary. And these reactions may in fact align with one’s values. They do not, though, align with values that recognize every individual, regardless of status and tribe membership, as unique, valued and equally bounded by death. Values centered on healing, self-sacrifice, and the preciousness of our limited time, rather than self-protection and self-aggrandizement.

Does psychology have anything to say about this interaction of “feelings” and values? It does actually, and I’ll get to that in the next post.

The Plague

“Albert Camus” by DietrichLiao is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

One of the most powerful works of fiction I have read in my life is The Plague by Albert Camus. It was assigned as part of a Religious Studies course that I took in college. Thanks Professor Twiss!

The Plague describes the impact of an epidemic that sweeps through a city. Slowly members of the community begin to die, and then more become infected, and the city is placed under quarantine. Sure, the story may be read as an allegory for the spread of Nazi ideology across Europe. Or it may be read more broadly as the fundamental condition of being human. Death is our common, inescapable plague, and faced with it we have choices. I’m going to refer to it in the next post as an example of how “beliefs” differ from “values.”

In this excerpt three characters are meeting up at the end of the day. Rambert is a reporter who is seeking to escape the quarantine in order to be with his wife in Paris. Tarrou is someone who happened by accident to find himself in the city at the time of the epidemic. He is someone who perceives all murder, regardless of the cause, as immoral. Finally, we have Rieux, a doctor who throws himself at the disease with little effect beyond exhaustion.

When the two friends entered Rambert’s room that night, they found him lying on the bed. He got up at once and filled the glasses he had ready. Before lifting his to his lips, Rieux asked him if he was making progress. The journalist replied that he’d started the same round again and got to the same point as before; in a day or two he was to have his last appointment. Then he took a sip of his drink and added gloomily: “Needless to say, they won’t turn up.”

“Oh come! That doesn’t follow because they let you down last time.”

“So you haven’t understood yet?” Rambert shrugged his shoulders almost scornfully.

“Understood what?”

“The plague.”

“Ah!” Rieux exclaimed.

“No, you haven’t understood that it means exactly that, the same thing over and over and over again.”

He went to a corner of the room and started a small phonograph.

“What’s that record?” Tarrou asked. “I’ve heard it before.”

“It’s St. James Infirmary.”

While the phonograph was playing, two shots rang out in the distance.

“A dog or a get-away,” Tarrou remarked.

When, a moment later, the record ended, an ambulance bell could be heard clanging past under the window and receding into silence.

“Rather a boring record,” Rambert remarked. “And this must be the tenth time I’ve put it on today.”

“Are you really so fond of it?”

“No, but it’s the only one I have.” And after a moment he added: “That’s what I said ‘it’ was, the same thing over and over again.”

He asked Rieux how the sanitary groups were functioning. Five teams were now at work, and it was hoped to form others. Sitting on the bed, the journalist seemed to be studying his fingernails. Rieux was gazing at his squat, powerfully built form, hunched up on the edge of the bed.

Suddenly he realized that Rambert was returning his gaze.

“You know, doctor, I’ve given a lot of thought to your campaign. And if I’m not with you, I have my reasons. No, I don’t think it’s that I’m afraid to risk my skin again. I took part in the Spanish Civil War.”

“On which side?” Tarrou asked.

“The losing side. But since then I’ve done a bit of thinking.”

“About what?”

“Courage. I know now that man is capable of great deeds. But if he isn’t capable of a great emotion, well, he leaves me cold.”

“One has the idea that he is capable of everything,” Tarrou remarked.

“I can’t agree; he’s incapable of suffering for a long time, or being happy for a long time. Which means that he’s incapable of anything really worth while.” He looked at the two men in turn, then asked:

“Tell me, Tarrou, are you capable of dying for love?”

“I couldn’t say, but I hardly think so, as I am now.”

“You see. But you’re capable of dying for an idea; one can see that right away. Well, personally, I’ve seen enough of people who die for an idea. I don’t believe in heroism; I know it’s easy and I’ve learned it can be murderous. What interests me is living and dying for what one loves.”

Rieux had been watching the journalist attentively. With his eyes still on him he said quietly:

“Man isn’t an idea, Rambert.”

Rambert sprang off the bed, his face ablaze with passion.

“Man is an idea, and a precious small idea, once he turns his back on love. And that’s my point; we, mankind, have lost the capacity for love. We must face that fact, doctor. Let’s wait to acquire that capacity or, if really it’s beyond us, wait for the deliverance that will come to each of us anyway, without his playing the hero. Personally, I look no farther.”

Rieux rose. He suddenly appeared very tired.

“You’re right, Rambert, quite right, and for nothing in the world would I try to dissuade you from what you’re going to do; it seems to me absolutely right and proper. However, there’s one thing I must tell you: there’s no question of heroism in all this. It’s a matter of common decency. That’s an idea which may make some people smile, but the only means of righting a plague is common decency.”

“What do you mean by ‘common decency’?” Rambert’s tone was grave.

“I don’t know what it means for other people. But in my case I know that it consists in doing my job.”

“Your job! I only wish I were sure what my job is!” There was a mordant edge to Rambert’s voice. “Maybe I’m all wrong in putting love first.”

Rieux looked him in the eyes.

“No,” he said vehemently, “you are not wrong.”

Rambert gazed thoughtfully at them.

“You two,” he said, “I suppose you’ve nothing to lose in all this. It’s easier, that way, to be on the side of the angels.” Rieux drained his glass.

“Come along,” he said to Tarrou. “We’ve work to do.”

He went out.

Tarrou followed, but seemed to change his mind when he reached the door. He stopped and looked at the journalist.

“I suppose you don’t know that Rieux’s wife is in a sanatorium, a hundred miles or so away.”

Rambert showed surprise and began to say something, but Tarrou had already left the room.