Under the Influence with Terry O'Reilly - S9E24 - Branding A Disease

Episode Date: June 10, 2020

This week, we explore the branding of diseases. Over the course of history, diseases have been named after people and countries with devastating effects. Names have stigmatized entire regions, decimated industries and have even caused diplomatic crises. And countries have weaponized diseases for political purposes. As with all branding, words matter. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hi, it's Terry O'Reilly. As you may know, we've been producing a lot of bonus episodes while under the influences on hiatus. They're called the Beatleology Interviews, where I talk to people who knew the Beatles, work with them, love them, and the authors who write about them. Well, the Beatleology Interviews have become a hit, so we are spinning it out to be a standalone podcast series. You've already heard conversations with people like actors Mark Hamill, Malcolm McDowell, and Beatles confidant Astrid Kershaw. But coming up, I talk to May Pang, who dated John Lennon in the mid-70s. I talk to double fantasy guitarist Earl Slick, Apple Records creative director John Kosh. I'll be talking to Jan Hayworth,

who designed the Sgt. Pepper album cover. Very cool. And I'll talk to singer Dion, who is one of only five people still alive who were on the Sgt. Pepper cover. And two of those people were Beatles. The stories they tell are amazing. So thank you for making this series such a success. And please, do me a favor, follow the Beatleology interviews on your podcast app. You don't even have to be a huge Beatles fan, you just have to love storytelling.

Subscribe now, and don't miss a single beat. This is an apostrophe podcast production. Your teeth look whiter than no, no, no. You're not you when you're hungry. You're in good hands with Austin. You're under the influence with Terry O'Reilly. Back in 1964, an epidemic hit North America. Symptoms were contained almost exclusively to teenagers,

and it spread across cities like wildfire. The condition was labeled Beatlemania. Their song, I Want to Hold Your Hand, had just been released and sold a quarter of a million copies in just three days. It was the number one single on rotation at radio stations nationwide.

Pan Am Flight 101 landed at JFK Airport February 7th, 1964. There are rumors around that this is Britain's revenge for the Boston Tea Party. 3,000 screaming teenagers are at New York's Kennedy Airport to greet, you guessed it, the Beatles. It was pandemonium as the fans pressed forward. Girls screamed, the press covered their ears, and four alien-looking figures emerged from the plane. They wore funny-looking

mod suits and sported weirdly long hair. A press conference was held inside the terminal. Two hundred reporters jostled for position. The four Beatles looked out at the press patiently

while smoking cigarettes. Then the first questions were lobbed. Could you please say something? No! No, we need money first. They captivated the press with their humor. When the reporters asked if they would ever get haircuts, the seemingly quietest Beatle said... I had one yesterday.

That quiet Beatle, or quieter Beatle, was George Harrison. But there was a reason he was quiet. He was suffering from a severe throat infection that day. With so much riding on the big Ed Sullivan show appearance two days away, manager Brian Epstein was adamant the U.S. press should not be told there was anything wrong with George. He was instructed to remain quiet at the press conference

and save his voice for the big show. So, he did as he was told. The press branded each Beatle individually. John was the intellectual one, Paul was the cute one, Ringo was the funny one, and George was the quiet beetle.

As soon as George got to the Plaza Hotel in New York after the press conference, he went straight to bed. It was touch and go whether he would be well enough for the Sullivan performance. His older sister Louise, who lived in Benton, Illinois, was flown in to take care of George. The hotel doctor announced George had a 104 Fahrenheit or 40 degrees Celsius fever and strep throat.

He gave George a shot, vaporizer treatments, and, according to Epstein's assistant, a handful of amphetamines. George was told to stay in bed and use his voice as little as possible. He even missed out on a photo session in Central Park. With one beetle bedded with a sore throat,

three of the quartet take an airing in Central Park. When the time came, George was bundled into a limo, sped to the Sullivan Theater, a guitar was put in his hands, and he bravely got through the groundbreaking performance. But that historic trip branded George Harrison forever as the Quiet Beetle, a label that always made him laugh. Later in life, fellow traveling Wilbury Tom Petty said George was anything but quiet. He was hilarious and, quote, never shut up.

But even in George's death many years later, the brand held. The headline said, The Quiet Beetle is gone. A brand is like a burr on a wool sweater. Once it's there, it's very hard to remove. In the world of marketing, creating a memorable brand can have lucrative, long-lasting results. But when it comes to branding diseases, a name can have devastating, long-lasting consequences.

Many epidemics and pandemics have been named after places and people, leaving a legacy of stigmatization and discrimination. Even when a disease is conquered, the negative branding can live on indefinitely. And that's why the World Health Organization is trying to change the rules. You're under the influence. In 2015, the World Health Organization laid down new guidelines. But those guidelines weren't about critical medical steps to curb viruses or how to manage risk in an acute health emergency.

These new guidelines detailed something more basic. They were about how to name a disease. The aim was to reduce the damaging stigma that is inflicted when diseases are named after people, places, or animals, and to minimize unnecessary damage on travel, trade, tourism, and animal welfare. And even more to the point, the World Health Organization wanted to reduce the shame and taint disease names can impose on cultural, social, or ethnic groups. The world has a long history of stigmatizing people when it comes to diseases. Because a brand sticks.

As I often say on this show, a memorable brand can define a product for decades. Repetition is a big factor in branding, for the more often a brand gets mentioned, the more indelible that brand name becomes. How a brand is first positioned in the marketplace is often the snapshot people file in their minds. Unfortunately, the same principles apply when branding a disease.

Maybe the best example is the Spanish flu of 1918. It is remembered as the deadliest pandemic in recent history, infecting one-third of the world's population and killing more than 50 million people worldwide. But the Spanish flu has a very interesting and telling history. World War I was underway. As the pandemic began to spread like wildfire throughout Europe and the U.S., wartime media censorship was enforced. Public officials in Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and the United States

all chose to either suppress the pandemic news or downplay the severity of the virus. The reason? Governments didn't want to lower morale or cause panic during the costliest war in history. That decision would eventually kill more people than the war itself. The one country that wasn't subject to media censorship was Spain. It had declared itself neutral in the First World War. As a result, public officials and the Spanish press in Madrid

reported freely on the pandemic as it spread through their country. Spain's King Alonso XIII also fell gravely ill due to the virus and that only heightened the attention. This extensive and almost solitary reporting of the disease in May of 1918, amidst a virtual media blackout in most other countries, gave the world the false impression the disease had originated in Spain. While it is difficult to pinpoint the exact origin of the 1918 pandemic, one thing was certain.

It did not start in Spain. One of the earliest recorded outbreaks of the pandemic came from the United States, specifically rural Kansas of all places. Soldiers were crowded into a training facility there, and on day one, hundreds of recruits started checking into the infirmary, complaining of severe flu symptoms that included high fevers, violent coughing, and excruciating pain. Many of these young men were healthy farm boys who were suddenly flattened by the virus.

500 were bedridden by the end of the week. When boatloads of American soldiers were shipped out, they took the virus with them. The influenza tore across Europe. It was so serious, it impacted the war, with over 200,000 French and British soldiers becoming too ill to fight. The British Grand Fleet could not even be put out to sea as 10,300 men reported sick. Soon, the German forces were filled with the same virus. That summer, the influenza seemed to finally subside. But that hope was dashed when the pandemic came roaring back in the fall,

more lethal than ever. The link between the war and the virus was undeniable and crushing. Troops took the virus with them on ships, on trains, into the barracks and into the trenches. Then it jumped to China, India, Japan and the rest of Asia. When Spanish flu health messages of 1918 finally emerged, they looked strikingly similar to COVID-19 messages of today. Newspaper ads implored people to wash their hands multiple times a day. People were asked to quarantine and not gather in groups.

Other ads had big headlines saying, wear a mask and save your life. There was disdain for people who flouted the rules. Brands also picked up on the Spanish flu name and reinforced it with the public. One typical ad said the virus came by way of Spain and stated, the best way to stay safe was to apply Vicks VapoRub at the first sign of a cold.

Medical professionals and officials in Spain protested. They said the Spanish people were being falsely stigmatized. Not only did the flu not originate in Spain, the outbreak there was brief and was much more serious in other countries. Nonetheless, the worldwide media overwhelmed the facts. If you've ever wondered about the staying power of a brand, the Spanish flu is a case in point. A full 100 years later, the Spanish flu is still referenced and still remains a source of irritation in Spain.

Another flu pandemic broke out in 1957. It was branded the Asian flu, as it had been first identified in East Asia and subsequently spread to countries around the globe. An estimated 1 to 2 million deaths were recorded worldwide by this virus. As with the 1918 pandemic, it was the second wave that was the most lethal. By March 1958, over 7,000 Canadians and 70,000 Americans had died as a result of what scientists called H2N2. But the public and the press still referred to it as the Asian flu. And, as a result, the Asian community was stigmatized by that branding.

It would parallel the SARS outbreak in Ontario 46 years later. While the name SARS, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, wasn't branded by country of origin, the disease was immediately linked to the Asian community. Many Chinese Canadians felt they were targets of racist abuse during the SARS outbreak. There was ostracism targeting school children. Subway riders refused to sit next to Asian commuters, and businesses turned Asian customers away. An informal boycott of the Chinese community, stores, and restaurants had a devastating effect on Asian-owned small business. By some estimates, those businesses lost up to 80% of their income that year. Stigmatization then ripened into harassment. Media outlets frequently used images of Chinatown

and Asians wearing face masks in their SARS stories. Globally, it was often referred to as the Chinese plague. The spread of SARS was eventually controlled due to strenuous efforts, but the spread of disease racialization continued. The Ebola virus was first reported in 1976. The first case was discovered in the small village of Yambuku in the Northern Democratic Republic of the Congo.

In his memoir, the co-discoverer of the virus said naming the virus after Yambuku ran the risk of stigmatizing the village. So, they chose to name it after what they presumed was the closest river to the village. Their map, however, was inaccurate,

and in their fatigued state, they named the virus Ebola after the Ebola River, which was 111 kilometers or 69 miles away. As a result, when the Ebola virus outbreak occurred in West Africa in 2013, African immigrants from Liberia and Nigeria were instantly stigmatized in North America. Many tried to hide their ethnicity to avoid the backlash. West African students were asked to stay home from American schools

and workers felt discrimination at work. The Sierra Leone soccer team representing West Africa was shunned at games in other countries in Africa. As it struggled to qualify for the Africa Cup of Nations, rival teams refused to shake their hands. Other teams forfeited games rather than play them. And the team was mocked with chants of Ebola, Ebola from the beginning to the end of their matches. And here's the thing. Even though the players were born in Sierra Leone,

none of them played professionally for Sierra Leone, or even lived in West Africa. They played for club teams in Europe and the United States. They only came together to play for their home country during the Africa Cup of Nations. Yet, even though the players had been nowhere near the outbreak, they were still treated like outcasts everywhere they went.

Stigmatized by Ebola. One of the more revealing aspects of history is the way many countries chose to name diseases after their enemies. Before the pandemic of 1918 became known as the Spanish flu, the Spanish called it the French flu. Germans called it the Russian pest. The Russians called it the Chinese flu.

Brazil called it the German flu. And in Poland, it was called Bolshevik disease. In 14th century Europe, much of the continent was at war, and each country blamed its enemies for contagious diseases. So, before syphilis was known as syphilis, the French blamed it on the Italians and called it the Neapolitan disease. In retaliation, the Italians spit on the ground and called it the French disease. Russians called it the Polish disease, and the Polish called it the German disease.

In 1530, an Italian doctor and poet published a story about the condition titled Syphilis or the French disease. The main character was a shepherd named Syphilis who rejected the sun god, and the deity struck him down with the disease. And that's how Syphilis finally got its geography-free name. And we'll be right back. If you're enjoying this episode, why not dip into our archives, available wherever you download your pods. Go to terryoreilly.ca for a master episode list. Some diseases and conditions are named after the scientist or physician

who first report them in scientific journals. Hodgkin's disease was named after Thomas Hodgkin, an English physician and pathologist who first described the disease in 1832. Parkinson's disease was named after Mr. James Parkinson, who wrote a study titled An Essay on the Shaking Palsy in 1817. Alzheimer's disease was first described by a German neuropathologist named Alois Alzheimer when he presented his findings on presenile dementia.

And Tourette syndrome was named after Georges-Gilles de la Tourette. He first described the illness in 1884 as Maladie des tics. Naming a disease is tricky. There's a committee that actually specializes in that. The official naming of a disease

has a process. Once a new virus has been discovered, the scientists responsible usually suggest a few names and send them along to an organization called the International Committee of Taxonomy of Viruses. Then, that committee chooses a name. It's never easy. With over 7,000 languages on the planet,

it's incredibly difficult to find an option that won't cause trouble somewhere, stigmatize an entire region, decimate an industry, or even cause a diplomatic crisis. For example, there was another influenza outbreak in 2009 that was branded

as the Mexican Swine Flu. Although it was not transmitted by pigs, the virus looked suspiciously like one known to infect pigs. As a result, the swine flu branding prompted many countries to slaughter livestock and ban the importation of pork products. Yet, this H1N1 virus was not a foodborne illness, and it was therefore incorrect to refer to it as swine flu.

Israel's deputy health minister called an emergency press conference to address this mysterious, fast-moving flu. He stated the country would call it the Mexican flu, and definitely not the swine flu. The reason? Swine flu was deeply offensive to the country's Jewish and Muslim citizens, many of whom shun pork on religious grounds. Upon hearing this, the Mexican ambassador to Israel filed an official complaint

that said naming the virus after his country was deeply offensive and that his country should not be named after a deadly disease. In the end, Israel agreed that the original name was fine and swine flu would not be rebranded. Meanwhile, pig farmers protested that swine flu had led to huge losses in their industry as the public mistakenly believed pork might be infectious. Egypt, for example, ordered a cull of every single pig herd in the country. Just the words swine flu, which was erroneous, had sparked both a diplomatic dilemma and a fearful killing frenzy. In 1976, the American Legion held a big convention in Philadelphia's iconic Bellevue Stratford Hotel.

It was a bicentennial celebration, with about 4,000 delegates and their spouses attending. 600 were staying at that hotel. A few days after the convention, 221 delegates became ill with severe pneumonia-like symptoms and fevers reaching 107 Fahrenheit or 41.6 degrees Celsius. 34 eventually died. The organism behind the disease was unknown to scientists at the time. The Bellevue-Stratford Hotel was temporarily closed as a Centers for Disease Control task force combed the building for clues.

They checked the hotel kitchen, elevators, carpets, and wallpaper for contaminants. They came up empty-handed. Fifty police detectives helped the CDC interview all the victims looking for patterns. It was a mystery. Some of the convention delegates were sick, but most were healthy,

even though they all ate the same food, drank the same drinks, and even shared the same hotel rooms. It was clearly deadly, but not contagious. The investigation

was running out of ideas and was slowly petering out. Then, five months later, a CDC microbiologist who was bothered by the unresolved case took a second look. On a hunch, he was able to isolate the then

unknown bacterium. But even with that critical discovery, the source was still a mystery. That's when the American Legion stepped up and put pressure on the scientific community to keep investigating. The press had begun calling it Legionnaire's disease, and the American Legion actually recommended

that the name be adopted for the condition. It was an extremely rare instance of a group willingly associating its name with a deadly disease. But the American Legion had a reason. It believed calling it Leighon Air's disease was a way of instilling purpose and media urgency to the matter. Then, not long after, a breakthrough. While investigating similar outbreaks,

a microbiologist discovered that the bacterium, now called Legionella, thrived in warm water. As it turned out, that clue led to the hotel's industrial air conditioning system. It cooled the building by allowing warm air to pass through the water in its rooftop cooling tower. There, the bacteria

multiplied. Then, powerful fans sent the unwanted heat out of the top of the tower as a fine mist which rained bacteria down onto roughly 220 of the 4,000 convention delegates who just happened to gather in one specific area outside the hotel.

Even armed with that knowledge, Legionnaire's disease still occasionally occurs to this day. But the original 1976 outbreak was a rare case where branding the disease did not stigmatize a group of people. But rather, the American Legion insisted on being associated with the disease because it allowed the Legion to maintain pressure on the media that, in turn, maintained pressure on the investigators not to give up. To this day, it is the only disease in the world named after an annual convention. Branding is a very powerful act. And it's not confined to marketing, even though the principles remain the same.

A memorable name, extensive media coverage, and an emotional storyline that can define a product for decades. That's why branding a disease is a very serious matter. The implications of the words can have lasting and destructive consequences. They can provoke a backlash against communities and religions. They can create unjustified barriers to travel, crush commerce and trade, lead to the senseless slaughter of animals.

And the name of a disease can destroy people's lives and livelihoods. As we've all discovered, speed is critical in a pandemic or epidemic. Not just from a medical perspective, but from a linguistic one as well. The longer it takes for a virus to be named, the more likely that some other non-scientific name will stick. The way H1N1 was so quickly branded as swine flu. It's a natural tendency for people to jump to hasty labels when panic sets in.

That's why the World Health Organization has asked reporters, scientists, the public, and world leaders to avoid giving diseases unscientific names

or to weaponize disease names for political purposes. Because if history has taught us anything, a mind is a terrible thing to infect when you're under the influence. I'm Terry O'Reilly. This episode was recorded in the Terrastream Mobile Recording Studio.

Producer, Debbie O'Reilly. Sound Engineer, Keith Ullman. Theme music by Ari Posner and Ian Lefevre. Research, Patrick James Aslan. If you liked this episode, you might also enjoy Selling Death, Season 3, Episode 20. You'll find it in our archives wherever you download your podcasts. Follow me on Twitter and Instagram at Terry O. Influence. See you next week.

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