The Isolation Project

One spring day in 1988, I sat in a sunny room on the campus of Eastern Washington University (EWU) in Spokane, Washington. Toys and games were strewn about the carpeted floor, which was empty of furniture. I watched an 8-year-old girl tiptoe around the room. Cecelia had thick dark braids and big brown eyes. She wore pink leggings that matched her sweatshirt and the ribbons in her hair. She paced a silent path with her wrists slightly lifted, ignoring the toys, the games, and me. She smiled to herself as she followed some invisible labyrinth for hours, not speaking.

Her behavior didn’t seem strange to me because I had a sister who, like Cecelia (not her real name), had autism and difficulty communicating. Margaret and Cecelia were both part of a study at EWU examining whether children with autism might show an increased desire to communicate after a period of isolation. As a high school senior, I was there to chaperone Cecelia, who was too young to be alone and not potty-trained.

I talked to her, not expecting her to answer, ate with her when the researchers brought us meals, and tucked her into her sleeping bag that night. When I helped her into pajamas, she held lightly to my shoulders and looked past me like I wasn’t there. Being alone with Cecelia was not hard for me. As Margaret’s younger sister by three years, I learned early that it’s possible to love someone quietly and connect differently. My mother picked me up the next day and I chattered all the way home, joking that the isolation experiment had certainly worked on me.

Margaret had just turned 21 and didn’t need a chaperone for her stint at EWU the following weekend. In our rowdy household of seven, Margaret often preferred to sit apart. However, being completely alone for 24 hours was different and the isolation was hard on her. She became very sad at one point, but she made it through alright.

I don’t know what results the EWU researchers ultimately found, but our lives continued to move forward. I graduated from high school and Margaret aged out of the public school system. I passed neurotypical milestones—college, my own apartment, travel, a career, and marriage—and Margaret grew in her own way.

She has specific interests and the fact that they are different from mine does not diminish them. She also has very unshakable ideas about what she is unwilling to do and communicates her boundaries in sometimes bellicose ways, which I’ve grown to appreciate since discovering, as an adult, that I’m an introvert. Understanding my own preferred limits, I’ve come to see Margaret’s as a kind of agency. In many ways, Margaret’s autism is a kind of super introversion. When I look at it like that, I can see how alike we are.

Introverts go the (social) distance

One spring day in 2020, I sat in my sunny office trying to write as the neighborhood paraded by the window. My daily life had not changed radically with the pandemic because I’ve worked from home for years and I don’t have children.

I’m embarrassed to say that the most difficult change for me was adjusting to my neighbors being home all the time. Seven days a week, our households produced a symphony of anxiety with power tools, lawnmowers, barking dogs, and crying kids. My once-solitary walks were filled with others looking for solitude themselves or worse, conversation. Strangers crossed the street just to say hello, wanting to talk to someone, anyone, about the weather, their garden, their feelings. I found myself, as ridiculous as it now seems, avoiding people as I came to terms with the fact that the neighborhood, which had secretly belonged to me between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. all these years, actually belonged to us all.

As the season of isolation and arrested motion stretched into summer, I recalled the EWU experiment. I wondered if the same concept was at work among the lonely strangers, my new acquaintances, who were, perhaps, unaccustomed to isolation. I wanted to help them and reassure them that isolation wasn’t the worst thing. After all, we introverts do this social distancing thing by choice all the time.

As for Margaret, she has shown her own brand of resiliency during the pandemic. Like the rest of us, she had to surrender her routine: swimming practice, social time with friends, weekly grocery shopping, and Monday dinner with our mom. As her activities were restricted one after another, she grew increasingly frustrated. The staff at her group home reported episodes of pinching, shoving, and tearful apology. But when things eased up again, Margaret returned to the few activities that were available to her, including grocery shopping with her mask diligently in place.

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In August, as I sat on my mother’s deck wrapping up a socially distant lunch with Mom, Margaret leaned out the sliding glass door, flashed her brilliant smile at me, and said, “Hello, Eileen! We missed you!” Then went inside to go about her business. I was acknowledged and dismissed.

Connection through social isolation

Once social distancing eased up, we saw tremendous spikes in the virus. The murder of George Floyd ignited outrage from coast to coast. In the aftermath, a renewed call for social justice continues to burn in my state with more than one hundred days of protest and counting in the nearby city of Portland. And last week, more than three million acres of western land burned in unprecedented wildfires, destroying thousands of homes and blanketing surrounding states with hazardous air quality for more than a week. This weekend, America lost a hero in Ruth Bader Ginsberg, a feminist icon and historic figure on the Supreme Court. As we lurch from one catastrophe to the next, I try to remember that the world has always been imperfect, though during this year the word “unprecedented” has lost its punch.

Yesterday was fall equinox. I page back through my summer calendar, which is a minefield of canceled plans for reunions, family trips, concerts, and conferences. Long-range planning of any kind seems laughable, but it inspires a new question: Is it possible we are connecting in meaningful, if different ways?

On my good days, I see the pandemic as a kind of global isolation project. While physically separated from each other, we are brought together by common desires for human health, social justice, the environment, and just government. The time we do have with friends and family feels more precious and intentional. And there is this host of accidental connections—the neighbors who have become friends, the new friends who have become intimates, and old friends rediscovered and cherished.

For me personally, having my on-the-go life hobbled by circumstances beyond my control has intensified the gratitude I feel for the people in my life. On my good days, I believe we can find wonder and a renewed sense of strength in this upside-down world.

The other day, I asked my mother what she remembered about the after-effects of the EWU experiment on Margaret. She said she noticed that Margaret was more verbal for a short time after the isolation period but it didn’t last. However, she recalled the drive home vividly. She said Margaret sat quietly in the passenger seat and Mom opened the sunroof to the dark night sky. My sister looked up at the stars, smiled our mother, and said, “Isn’t it beautiful?”