What the Pandemic Is Teaching Us About Cooperation and Empathy

We’re building collective immunity to combat future challenges

I interviewed Professor Jonathan Haidt yesterday on my podcast about the brain mechanisms triggered by the coronavirus pandemic.

Bees, wasps, ants, the naked mole rat, and humans are thriving superspecies because of a remarkable attribute: cooperation. This superpower is never more evident than when under attack from a physical enemy.

Cooperation is a powerful force. But when confronted with a pathogen, we see the person next to us not as an ally but as a threat. This leads to division and racism, as evidenced by the president calling corona “the Chinese virus” and the Chinese spinning rumors that the U.S. Army started the pandemic.

Jon Haidt mentioned that the “demo” in “democracy” means people, and people, in isolation, make shitty short-term decisions — I want lower taxes and more payments transferred to (wait for it) me. A liberal democracy is meant to inject institutions that slow our thinking and look ahead.

The stimulus package is an example of our institutions working. Threats to our economy inspire our collective humanity, but threats to our health inspire division. In sum, your Benjamins are safer than his descendants.

The platinum lining

Vaccines are first-ballot Hall of Fame for things we’ve done right. It sounds obvious in hindsight, but take pause and wonder at the crazy genius notion that to prepare for an enemy, we introduce a small amount.

Could corona be the vaccine for our age?

If/when this pandemic ends, might we emerge with a stronger immune system: the ability to ramp hospital beds and ventilators, enhanced systems for learning and cooperation, and a generation that places more importance on cooperation, and less on borders, political ideology, or number of Instagram followers?

Will a product of this crisis be a generation of leaders that, post-crisis, embrace innovation (vaccines, supply chain agility), empathy, and cooperation that better prepare us for the many challenges our growing world will face?

Many of us are distilling the meaningful (economic security, political ideology) down to the profound — the well-being of people we love. I’d like to think the strongest, most fortunate among us are transitioning from our heels to our toes to ensure our legacy as parents, bosses, and citizens is to reduce the suffering of people we’ll never meet.

The line between joy and terror

Sheltering in place has made me more empathetic for the sick, people caring for the sick, and medical professionals on the front line of this battle. After 11 days 24/7 with my kids, I also have more empathy for mothers who drive their kids, and themselves, into a lake in a minivan. It’s always a minivan.

I have it relatively easy, and have convinced my family that I must stay focused on work as the world needs more cooperation, ventilators, and… podcasts. The official changing of the guard is the hour pre-bedtime, when my sons’ mother sneaks out and shelters in (any other) place with a bottle of rosé.

While Mom was socially distancing from us last night, my oldest screamed “Roach!” and both my boys (no joke) jumped up on the table. Where did they even learn to do that, a cartoon?

I grabbed a shoe and turned the waterbug into juice with antennae. I then pretended to scoop it up and ran toward my kids with my hand extended as if pursuing them with a machete. The chase was on.

After several laps around the dining table, they ran outside and attempted to barricade the door with outdoor furniture. I got out through the garage, snuck up behind them, and screamed, with the hand of roach juice extended, “Roach MAN!” My oldest screamed, ran, and erupted in laughter. The kind of laughter every parent wants to remember in their last moments on Earth. Nothing else, no other thought, just this singular sound that requires no interpretation.

My youngest, in contrast, screamed, collapsed, and began sobbing. It appears the line between joy and terror is around 11 years old.

My youngest retreats to his room. I run after him. He’s in bed under the covers crying: “I told you not to do that.” He didn’t, but that’s beside the point. It’s a weird feeling, being Scary Dad. In that moment, you’ve failed. Your only real job is to protect, vs. threaten, your offspring. The solace is your mistake is fixable. After consoling him, we reattach to our father-son dynamic: pajamas, brushing teeth, reading, and adjusting his back. We’re good again.

Caregivers live longer and are happier than anyone. I had kids late in life and never really comforted anybody until I was in my late thirties when my mom was dying. And now with kids. The species chooses prosperity, and its foundation is people irrationally passionate about the well-being of someone else.

The rewards of comforting others are primitive and immense. For a moment, it all (specifically your role here) makes sense. Our health care workers are exposing themselves to substantial stress and risk. I’d imagine it’s also very rewarding as, simply put, they matter, a great deal.

Most of us are in a position to offer relief, help to one another. To not comfort someone is to deny yourself something wonderful — connection and meaning. Put yourself in the moment and comfort someone. You deserve it.

This pic was taken in Morristown, New Jersey, this week:

Life is so rich,
Scott

P.S. Hear my whole conversation with Jonathan Haidt on Apple, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Originally published on profgalloway.com.