Vaxxed to the max

 The following article may not be entirely true (in fact, it may be entirely fabricated). But hey, in this strange world we live in, it could happen... 

I watch from a distance as the motley crew exits the community centre in a small Manitoba town. In unison, the four men strike a pose – heads bowed, fists exalted high into the air. 

I can only wonder what the people waiting in line think of these four ragged white men as they attest to some mysterious power. What exactly did they get vaccinated with?   

A better question might be, have they been vaccinated one too many times?  

Out of sheer curiosity, I began following their leader on Twitter a couple weeks ago. Like most people, I thought it was a joke. Most media attention is paid to the vaccine hesitant, the anti-vaxxers, and the anti-maskers. But a much smaller group of people – perhaps no less harmful – is falling under the radar. They are the vaccine hungry – those who can’t get enough vaccine. I call them the super-vaxxers. 

In a normal year, these men from rural Alberta would never be able to pull off such a stunt. To get a vaccine, whether needed for travel or as a regularly scheduled inoculation, requires the proper checks and balances. You can’t just walk into a medical clinic to get your third dose of measles vaccine. 

But that all changed with covid-19. To get a shot in the arm, all you need is a health card. And it doesn’t have to be yours. 

“Oh yeah, they’re easy to get,” said Todd, a forty-year-old former oil rig worker with lanky arms. “With so many anti-vaxxers out there, all it takes is fifty bucks.” 

His long-time friend, Randy, looked at him with horror. “Fifty? I never pay more than 20!”  

Their strategy to over-inoculate themselves is ironically dependent upon an opposing force: the anti-vaccination movement. For some cash and a fully vaccinated health record, anti-vaxxers are more than willing to let these super-vaxxers get another shot. All they have to do is lend them their provincial health card. 

“One dude actually paid me to get two doses!” said Liam, the youngest in the group. He’s only nineteen, but has already been injected with 18 doses of the sacred trinity of approved vaccines. 

“I got the A-Zed first, then the P-fizer” – he enunciates both the p and the f – “then the Modern stuff. Then I got them all over again! And then again! And then again!” He keeps repeating himself as the others chuckle. 

Todd, who hatched the scheme as soon as his age group was eligible, has had 46 doses as of this writing. “I’m getting to the point to where if I go a day without a vaccine, I’m in trouble,” he confides. “Like I literally get the shakes. It’s wicked.” 

None of them seem to worry about the short- or long-term effects of consuming too many vaccines. 

“You know, there’s no research on it,” Todd explains to me. “That’s just it. Everyone says, get your vaccine. Get two vaccines. But no one says, don’t get more than two vaccines. On that front, they’re suspiciously silent.” 

And this is where it gets a little hokey. Don, the eldest of the group – a fifty-eight-year-old retired Roman Catholic priest – claims something supernatural is at work. 

“This, er, vaccine...” Don's voice is hoarse – he almost whispers when he talks. “It’s been in the making for twenty years – look it up, it’s true. They’ve been keeping it from us. Because...” – his voice grows even quieter – “...there’s a divine being in each dose. No, no, I'm not talking about aborted fetuses. That’s conspiracy. I’m talking about a touch of God in every vial. They’ve been keeping it from us – feeding it to the elites. But now they gotta share it. They had no other choice. But they don’t want to give us too much, you see – just enough to stop covid.” 

Conspiracy theories (and other symptoms) aside, the four men say they’re having the time of their lives. Travelling from province to province, they’ve gotten to know a lot of different Canadians. 

“I mean, who knew anti-vaxxers could be so hospitable?” said Todd. “They invite us for dinner, give us a place to sleep. Such a blessing. They give us a fresh dose of immunity, and we give them a fully vaccinated health record.” 

Randy, whose wife left him last year, is simply grateful for the opportunity to spend the time with his friends. “I’ve never felt so alive than after V-day, travelling with my buds. I know it won’t last forever. But the summer’s long, and hey, new nasty variants are on the way!” 

Our conversation could only last so long, as the group was already late for an anti-covid rally in a nearby town. But before they left me that afternoon, I had to know one more thing: Did they feel at all guilty for indirectly supporting the anti-vaccination cause? Anti-vaxxers, after all, spread such dangerous theories, like believing that vaccines cause autism in kids.  

After a long pause, Liam finally spoke up. “Listen, everyone’s got their beliefs, and I respect that. But personally, I think vaccines actually prevent autism. Like, after my fifth dose of P-fizer, I think I have less autism. Maybe I’m becoming, like, a genius or something. Anyway, that’s all I think.” 

I suppose it doesn’t matter to them what people think. So long as there's free will, these super-vaxxers will milk the anti-vax movement for all its worth. 

A little book worthy of your bookshelf

Please add this to your must-purchase-but-may-never-read book list: Reset: Reclaiming the Internet for Civil Society, by Ronald J. Deibert. I understand if you never get around to actually reading it, but at least have it displayed prominently on your bookshelf. 

 Another option is to listen to the five-part series on CBC Idea’s podcast (I know, I’m asking a lot...) 

But I’ll give you a few reasons why you should at least consider. First, he’s Canadian. That counts for something, right? Second, he’s despised by the Russians and other autocratic states. That tells you he’s doing something good, right? 

He also knows a lot about our new digital world. What could be more relevant? But as with all books we don’t really want to read, there are some messages we don’t necessarily want to hear. It’s like reading about climate change in the 1980s or covid-19 in December 2019, before we could ever conceive of the global impact. Why should we be interested? My iPhone works fine. Facebook serves me well. I’ve got nothing to hide! 

But the effect of our new communications ecosystem is having a significant impact on all of us, where “accountability is weak and exploitation is endemic.” 

It’s reached the point where everyone is vulnerable. 

Diebert, who founded the Citizen Lab at the University of Toronto, has been the target of attacks himself because of his mission to dig beneath the surface of government and corporate use of the internet. It's strange, but governments of all stripes don’t appreciate it when a small Canadian research group uncovers their methods of espionage. 

But it happens. One wrong click (as the Democratic Party learned in 2015) and the Russians gain access to all your data. It’s become common for foreign governments to hack the phones of their political opponents, even those living abroad. With such easy access to information (your contacts, your messages, your location), human spies have become obsolete. 

But it’s not just foreign governments. Edward Snowden revealed how the U.S. government invaded the privacy of its citizens by seamlessly hacking their personal social media accounts. Ironically, he now lives in exile in Russia. 

Corporations don’t even need to hack your data. They just take it, because we’re all too willing to give it to them. Facebook and Google, to name a couple, rely on this model. Through “free” services, they get to know you and your likes and how to target you as a consumer; how to even manipulate your consumer choices. It doesn’t sound so bad, does it?  

They might even track your location through your phone. Does it bother you then?  

You might say that you have nothing to hide, but the truth is, we all have something to hide. Facebook owns billions of life stories that are now the company’s life stories. Something doesn’t sound right about that. 

But I digress (I assure you, Deibert’s book is much more to the point). Diebert covers all aspects of new technologies, from their addictive nature to their impact on the environment, which I hadn’t much thought about. 

The screens we use portray such a clean, environmentally friendly surface. No longer relying on the physical use of paper, we can instead send and share documents via email. Instead of driving to a meeting, we can now chat over a Zoom call.  

Yet this all requires energy. Every Google search creates the equivalent carbon dioxide of driving your car 50 feet. It may not sound like much, but think about how many searches and webpages you view in a day, emails and texts you send and receive, and videos you watch online. 

All this digital action, which I naively thought of as benign to the environment, adds up. About 7% of greenhouse gases are now caused by our online activities. So much for saving the world by going online! A video conference is still better than flying across the country to meet, but it’s not negligible. 

There are other frightening issues that Diebert touches upon, like the mining of rare earth elements that make your smartphone so smart. But I’ll leave those depressing details for another day (we can only digest so much in a sitting). 

To be clear, the book isn’t calling for an all-out war on technology. Deibert isn’t some idealist from left field. In fact, his title is misleading. He's not actually advocating for a complete reset on our technological progress, but rather restraint, as he reveals in his final chapter. 

He understands there’s no stopping social media, as he shares his own struggles with the addictive features of his phone. There’s no stopping technological trends, where we pretty much need a phone to operate in today’s world (to be sure, there are still ways to live without one, or so I've been told). 

What he wants is a re-evaluation of how tech companies and governments use our data; how technology is being used to impact democracy, the environment and human rights. 

That message alone is worthy of your bookshelf. 

Will church survive the Trump pandemic?

While in university I used to have fun arguments with my atheist friend (at least I thought they were fun). In one of our discussions, she suggested churches in North America would eventually cease to exist.  

I scoffed at the thought. While I could agree church participation was declining, I had no conception of it disappearing. Certainly not anytime in my lifetime. 

It was the “liberal” churches, after all, that were losing members. Their pews tend to be filled with the elderly – those who've spent a lifetime involved in traditions and community within a religious institution. For various reasons, their children didn’t find the same fulfillment. 

Evangelical churches have had more success hanging on to their congregants. They offer programs (endless programs!) to keep people of all ages engaged and they offer community where it is often lacking in our individualistic society. 

But as one of our pastors confided in me a few years ago, even these churches aren’t growing. He went on to say that their only "success” has come through attracting “people who grew up in church, like you.” He was referring to me and my family, whom he had never talked to before – perhaps he perceived the pastor’s kid’s look on my face? (I didn't tell him his lack of interest in people could be part of the problem.) 

This pastor eventually left our church to start a new one – one where there were more pureblood converts, I presume, and less chaff from other churches. I'm not sure how he’s been doing, but he struck me as the type who could create a small congregation by sheer determination. 

Because that’s what it would take. Over the past year, I doubt it’s gotten any easier. 

The pandemic has disrupted everyone’s lives, and for many church-goers it will have been the first time they’ve stopped attending church for a lengthy period of time. When I grew up, the only time I didn’t go to church on Sunday was when I was gravely ill. It was then I realized there was something else waiting for me on Sunday morning – they were called The Smurfs. To this day, I cannot understand what TV programmers were thinking (11 am Sunday morning? Really?!). 

  Once you get hooked on The Smurfs, or other Sunday-morning activities, it can be hard to go back to church services. The pandemic may have given people the excuse they need to simply stop attending. 

But I think there's an even bigger issue that’s still playing out. It started four years ago, when the White evangelical church placed their faith in a man named Donald Trump.  

He was a means to an end. He was their King Cyrus, if you prefer justification from the Old Testament. He vowed to protect their interests: To create laws and appoint judges who would interpret laws in their favour. It didn’t matter that he was a racist, a misogynist, or prone to incite violence. As a rare anti-Trump, white evangelical columnist wrote just yesterday: “[Trump] exemplified a type of politics where cruelty is the evidence of commitment, brutality is the measure of loyalty and violence is equated with power.” All that mattered was that he protected the White (emphasis on White) evangelical church’s interests. 

I never had much respect for the Religious Right before Trump, but I’ve lost all of it now. Trump, an utterly irreligious man, has turned people off from Christianity in droves. People who didn’t need to be driven away, like those of colour who attend multi-racial communities of faith, and women, many who were already second-class congregants in patriarchal church structures, may not return. 

It’s important to note that the Black evangelical church (just as fervently evangelical/fundamentalist as the White church) did not support Trump. They supported the devil in Joe Biden (please permit me to be facetious). This alone demonstrates how much this is a political issue about power, not a religious or, heaven forbid, a spiritual one. 

But do most people differentiate?  

Trump did a number on the church, and the pandemic has given people the time to reflect on this. 

For many churches, it will be a difficult return to normal. 

Sometimes it's okay to give for wrong reasons

A few years ago, my wife and daughter suggested we donate to our municipal library. My response was viewed as cold: “You know we already pay library taxes, right? It’s right on our property tax bill. I can show you.”  

Surprisingly, they didn’t want to be shown. 

Seeing this was a battle I couldn’t win, I relented. I gave the institution twenty bucks.

A few days later, I received a rather lengthy message from someone at the library thanking me for my donation. They even asked if I wanted to go out for coffee sometime. 

Obviously, they don’t get many donations. But still, it was nice. 

It was also enough to make me a regular donor. Because every year, a few days after my donation, I get the customary phone call. 

This year I even upped my pledge. It felt so good... I mean to get that phone call. The message they left was even longer, even more effusive in their gratitude. I listened to it at least a couple times. 

As altruistic as I like to think I am, there’s an immense feeling of satisfaction in giving to organizations that put you on a pedestal for your ounce of generosity. (And let’s be clear, my donation likely only covered an hour’s wage of the person calling back donors to thank them for their donations.) 

For the most part, our family’s donations come automatically out of our bank account. That’s all well and good. In fact, I prefer it because I miss the money less, and we know that non-profits depend on a steady stream of funds. 

But there are a few organizations we give to out of the blue, just because we want to. It’s those little gifts that can be the most rewarding. 

Giving to people on the street can have a similar, uplifting effect.  

Like the guy I met one morning walking to work. This young man looked a little down on his luck when he asked for change, so I gave him $20. He thanked me as I began walking away, telling me about all he could buy with the cash. That made me feel good. Which made me wonder, did I really do it for him? 

I realize doling out change (or bills) may not be the best way to alleviate poverty, at least that’s what I’ve been told; better to give to an organization that helps the needy rather than to complete strangers. But is this always true? 

Some research has shown that giving directly to the poorest of the poor can be more effective than giving to organizations that assist the poor. Why? Because the poorest of the poor (generally) put every dollar to good use. A gift of cash through GiveDirectly, for example, can be life-changing, enabling families to repair homes, buy livestock and medicine, and invest in education. 

Microloans don’t appear to have the same track record. Although these may feel more prudent to us Westerners – encouraging entrepreneurship, helping people become more self-sufficient, etc. – they aren't always that effective. Give a family a boost in cash, and the improvements to their lives are immediate and even longer lasting. 

With that all said, our family continues to give to larger non-profit organizations. They’ve been doing their work for years and seem to be pretty good at it.  

Like the library.... Yes, I know, it’s not even a charity – although technically, it has charitable status (an all-important factor when filling out your tax return). 

But in the end, it’s more than the charitable tax receipt or knowing I’ve helped an organization I value.  

It’s all about that phone call. 

Housing is the new toilet paper

Hard-wired in our human brains is the tendency to move in herds.  

This can explain a lot of trends, but also makes the future difficult to predict. The pandemic has illustrated that not everything we do all together is rational. 

Who, after all, could have predicted the great toilet paper run of 2020? Sociologists will grapple with this event for some time. Was it the soft comfort afforded to us in a collective moment of fear and dread? Or was it the need to horde something – anything – to give us a sense of control? 

Whatever the reasons, miraculously, we never ran out. We had an ample supply of old-growth timber to keep our bottoms clean. 

As covid-19 vaccines slowly roll out, I would have expected a similar rush to get inoculated, but we're not seeing quite the same urgency.  

In the drive-thru in Regina (a covid hotspot, in case you hadn’t heard), the wait times were often less than an hour. One day they had excess vaccines, so decided to open things up to emergency and other front-line workers (why they weren’t available to them in the first place is a mystery). 

Of course people have their reasons for not lining up. Some are more comfortable waiting for an appointment and some are vaccine hesitant. But so far, anyway, the toilet paper frenzy was bigger than the rush to get vaccines. One must deduce that we’re more concerned about keeping our bottoms clean than risking sickness and death. 

Another recent phenomenon is the pandemic housing boom. While unpredicted, now in hindsight, it makes complete sense. 

Lower interest rates, a need for more space, and more money in our pockets (for the middle/upper class, anyway), has led to yet another unprecedented spike in prices. 

 A quick glance of the headlines in The Globe and Mail on Friday reveal the extent of our obsession: 

The trouble with the bubble: Why Canada’s red-hot housing market is defying the burst. 

What does $700K buy across Canada: Properties priced at the national average, from coast to coast. 

Tax tips for buying, building, renovating or selling a home. 

Home of the Week: From a typical downtown Toronto ‘rental junk’ to joy. 

Notice the implicit condescension toward renting... In today’s society, you haven’t really made it until you own a home. Only then will you will reap the rewards of eternal home maintenance and renovations. 

The housing bust has been predicted so many times in Canada that we now call these people false prophets. Not even the great housing crash of 2009 – the one that decimated Europe and the U.S. – has left us undeterred. 

But it won’t last forever. 

A surprising trend demonstrating our unpredictability is the recent decline in car ownership. In Saskatchewan, car registrations declined 11% from 2014 to 2018, while the population continued to increase. 

The pandemic will surely accentuate this trend. We've driven our car so little this past year, cobwebs began growing under the wheel wells (well, almost). 

As with all things we think will never change – if ever there was a symbol of progress and status in the 20th century, it was the car – eventually they will. But good luck trying to predict when.