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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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@roohafsa
Let me talk about doctors for a minute.
I’m seeing some “doctors think more logically than you do” and “doctors don’t make judgments based on their emotions” and “you should 100% trust your doctor” stuff going around right now, and it kind of scares the shit out of me.
Absolutely you should be able to trust your doctor. Absolutely you should hope that they’re looking at you as dispassionately as possible when considering your privileges, and as mercifully as possible when considering your needs. And if you get four doctors telling you the same thing, probably you should listen to them. If you’re told you need PT, if you’re told you should consider the merits of this medication or that one, you should take it into consideration. You should be able to work with your doctor toward your best health outcome, regardless of if you like them very much.
But doctors are people. And people are capable of all sorts of bullshit. People get tired. People mix things up. People are prisoners of their prejudices, unless they are constantly fighting them. And to fight them they’d have to a)recognize them and b)realize that they’re wrong things to believe, and frankly most people are just not capable of that on any constant basis.
And even if we’re not talking about the forcible sterilization of Native American women and of women in prison, even if we’re not talking about the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment, even if we’re not talking about all the ways that doctors in the US have manipulated and abused the communities they were supposed to be serving, just on an individual level falling to the belief that a)your doctor knows everything and b) your doctor really, really cares about you? That can be very dangerous.
So let me tell you a little story.
My mother and her twin sister were born in Anaheim, CA, in 1960. They were born with what today would be recognized as acute asthma, and they spent their first twenty years very, very sick a great deal of the time. Constantly in and out of the hospital. Both their parents were smokers (it was the Sixties! The years of asthma cigarettes were barely past, and lots of people still believed in ‘smoking for your health’) and it was California before the unleaded fuel laws, before pollution regulations of any sort. My mother and her twin both nearly died on many occasions, their lungs slamming shut like books.
So my grandma, she took them to a lot of doctors. But even before the days of big insurance, that wasn’t cheap, and the family was poor. So when after a decade or so she found a doctor with a big smile, a doctor who was locally renowned for the survival rates of his asthma patients, a doctor who obviously really, really knew what he was doing, that’s the one she stuck with.
And she didn’t much question him, when he said that my mother’s asthma and my aunt’s asthma were different kinds, and that they needed to each take a different kind of medicine, and that Grandma needed to be very, very careful not to mix them up.
You see…Mom and my auntie, they were identical twins. That is, genetic clones. Exactly the same in so very many ways.
And this was before ethics boards, this was before medicine and research had any expectation of or regulation for informed consent. The doctor told you what to do, and you did it, and that was that.
And my mother, and my mother’s twin, were only half-white.
Do you see where this is going?
This wasn’t a hundred years ago. This was by this point the mid-Seventies. Bell-bottoms and disco, Bowie was Ziggy Stardust and the Thin White Duke, the first series of Star Trek had already been off the air for several years. This was only a minute ago, you guys. When you walk into a vintage store, you see clothing that’s older than what this doctor did to my family.
You’ve probably been through middle school science. You know that when doing an experiment you need your control group–the one that doesn’t change–and your experimental, right? The one that gets some new condition or stressor?
And the doctor flipped a coin, or chose some other way at random, and he gave my mother the control. That is, Mom lucked out and got the medicine that was already known to him to work pretty well.
And my auntie, my doomed, beautiful auntie, was made into an experiment.
When my mother describes those years, she says that her sister “looked like a burn victim.” Auntie’s skin sloughed off in sheets. She got cataracts, her hair fell out in chunks, she couldn’t be out in the sunlight. She developed all sorts of interesting food allergies (who the fuck is allergic to red #40, to the point of anaphylaxis?), her bone density suffered, and basically if you want to imagine a nasty side-effect there’s a fair chance she had it.
And the doctor? He wrote a fucking paper. Maybe several. And he never told Grandma what he was doing. And he never told his test subjects what he was doing. And he was a pioneer, he saved lives, he pushed the knowledge of asthma forward by a lot, I’m sure. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t see any reason to. Mom and my Auntie were half Filipino. White, Protestant Grandma dared to marry a Filipino-American man, and a Catholic besides! She couldn’t be trusted with any serious decision.
And so my aunt suffered all sorts of unpleasant repercussions of that treatment for the rest of her life, until she died at a mere 52 years old.
What I am saying is, doctors are people. That is all they are. People with their prejudices and their greed, people with their soft hearts and their emotional exhaustion. They’re not somehow special or more or better than anyone else is. They’re just people who have been to a bit more schooling than the average Jane. You want to tell me that architects are somehow more logical in their life decisions than someone else? That lawyers are less likely to be prejudiced? That entomologists are more trustworthy than, say, artists, if we’re talking about anything other than bugs?
I’ve known doctors who were excellent human beings. But that wasn’t because they were doctors, it was a sideline to that fact. Some people certainly become doctors because they have good hearts. But let’s be honest–most of them do it for the money. And while there’s nothing wrong with choosing a career for the lifestyle it’s going to provide you, doing so doesn’t make you a better person.
They’re just PEOPLE. And people have so very, very many flaws.
So much of being an asexual woman is coming to terms with your worth outside of your sexual desirability and male gaze.
On Loving Whiteness/Cool Like Us
I wore hemp bracelets and wrapped my hair in a messy bun in sixth grade. I listened to a combination of Backstreet Boys, Nine Inch Nails, and hip hop from the Top 9 at 9 on B96. In our auditorium turned cafeteria, I sat two tables away from white boys who I longed to love me - only to legitimize me as a woman, not for any real love for them. I wanted to be wanted like some other girls are wanted by men. It was the only thing about being a woman I had ever seen or known. I knew nothing of my own desires - that I could have them, own them, enact them. (I might still be this way.)
In seventh grade, it was more of the same. Wide leg jeans we got from the mall. Middle class music that went back generations into whiteness. As far back as the 1960s suburbia of record stores and and David Bowie and Debbie Harry and the appropriation of all of that Black music. Jimi Hendrix and Radiohead we got from Napster. The burned CDs that filled my locker, next to the pile of double A batteries that were my lifeblood. I made sure I had extra of them even when I forgot to pack a lunch. This was a slow and steady descent. The filling of my mind with the things that had oppressed me and had oppressed every other melanin-filled person. Whatever it was that told us we were not cool and they were cool and we had to be like them or else perish. In school that year, I once pretended to another brown girl that I never watched Bollywood movies because they were lame.
In eighth grade, I tried fruitlessly to straighten my hair. It never worked - which left it in a caricature of mid-90s loose waves when I wanted slick straight hair with a part in the middle that my face was too wide for anyway. I wore flared jeans and button down shirts. One sweater from Abercrombie and Fitch that I begged my mother to buy for me and that I thoroughly wore out. At Eid, I made a fuss of the itchiness of my shalwar kameez and pulled a face in every photograph. At school the next day, I told my classmates that Eid was like Christmas (it’s not) and that it might even be better because I had a load of cash from it. I don’t remember what I bought with the money. Maybe a few CDs. Eminem or Matchbox 20. Maybe a few books from the annual library book sale - where everything was a 50 cents or less - like Walt Whitman’s collected works or Franny and Zooey (the copy with the rainbow stripes in the corner).
Hating where I was born was my only credibility to coolness in high school. I wore concert tees and jeans my sister had bought when we had gone to Europe that one summer. I had long, beautiful legs that I hid under bagginess. I had long beautiful hair that I tucked into a ponytail. I spent too much time thinking about other people looking at the fine, fuzzy mustache I was growing or the thickness of eyebrows. In an effort to dress up, I once wore a blazer to school (I desperately wanted to be a white man from 1987), and I got compliments all around.
And here I am now. Still listening to Blondie and Michael Jackson and all of the other wonderful things I am nostalgic for that do not - could never - belong to me. Just another brown girl wanting to be white when she knows she can never be any of those things. All of the poetry I did not read in Urdu sometimes strikes me and I cry for everything I have lost by being who I am. All of the music - the Qawwali, the bhangra, the ragas - my uncle playing the dhol at my sister’s wedding - dancing to hip hop beats in a Bollywood style at the mehndi - all of washes over me and it is so overwhelming that I put everything else away. Who knew that YouTube playlist could be this political - but then again, everything is.
Never have there existed more centers of power - never more attention manifested and verbalized, never more circular contacts and linkages, never more sites where the intensity of pleasures and the persistency of power catch hold, only to spread elsewhere.
Foucault, History of Sexuality Vol 1 Can’t seem to get this one sentence out of my head.
Behind the scenes of the Goosebumps episode The Haunted Mask
I had so many nightmares from just this episode that I didn’t sleep properly until like 1999.
Omg. I’m working on my YA novel (which I have been working on for over 2 years) and I JUST NOW REALIZED that there is a lesbian character with a partner and one of them dies. How many queer literary stereotypes are hidden in my novel. What am I incorporating into my work that I don’t even realize that is harmful to others.
Time to edit the shit of out this novel. It will need a major rehaul but this is what drives me creatively.
Songs and smells that you encountered first sitting in your car on a hot summer desert day with the mountains in front of you and behind you and your foot on a gas pedal. Eyes forward but tired. A long day done, sweat that has dried on your clothes. Hot summer desert day. There are no mountains here - only trees that masquerade as majesty.
There was the feel of the knob on the A/C, the smell of the air conditioning when you stood in front of it in your apartment - your apartment and no one else’s apartment - that mirrors the smell in your car. It is a soft smell, almost plastic almost chemical, it is the smell of cold. It is the smell of your mom’s Nissan van in 1996 when it felt new and you were moving from one house to another house.
There was the ability to put the song back on and let the cold wash over you on a hot summer desert day, put the phone in a cup to amplify the sound, and it is just you, but you are full.
Here there are only trees and their shade, a box fan on an open window in your apartment that feels like someone else’s apartment.
The song is still there in only your ears. When you listen to it, you feel a chill.
Mood:
My fucking life
I’m this but opposite. Smiley and nice and then a cold-hearted bitch once you get to know me.
Three days after the attack on the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar in Sehwan, Pakistan, classical dancer Sheema Kermani participates in dhamal at the shrine. This is what defiance in the face of terror looks like.
Added context: On Thursday 16th February, 2017, the shrine of the great sufi Lal Shahbaz Qalandar was bombed in an attack claimed by ISIS in which over 85 people were killed. Sufi shrines and the culture that surrounds them in Pakistan are considered “un-Islamic” by the religious right-wing extremists, but for the majority of the country they are a place of love, devotion, and some of the last vestiges of hope in country wrecked by violence.
Dhamal is a form of worship at shrines that combines music, poetry, chants, and dance and is one of the reasons religious extremists consider shrines to be un-Islamic. This picture of dhamal being performed at the site of the attack, by a woman no less, has quickly become iconic; a small glimmer of painful hope in a week of only death and loss.
She graduated over a decade ago? Why is it even mentioned in the article, how is it relevant
[A tweet by اسماعيل (@smileyabadin10) that reads: “she’s 30 years old!!!! AND! THEY! ARE! USING! HER! HIGH! SCHOOL! YEARBOOK! PIC!!!!!!”
Pictured is a news story that begins: Authorities announced this morning the arrest of a 30-year-old Davis woman in connection with the Jan. 22 vandalism of the Islamic Center of Davis that has been classified as a hate crime.]
Fucking WHAT
There are reports of active checkpoints popping up (permanent and temporary) here is a map of places to avoid
Please be cautious if you are in CA TX AZ+ NM
@allthecanadianpolitics!
Here is a link to a page where people can direct their donations after tonight’s shooting, would you please share with your followers?
Et le lien en français également:
https://www.canadahelps.org/fr/organismesdebienfaisance/islamic-cultural-center-of-quebec/
Look around you. Appreciate what you have. Nothing will be the same in a year.
Them: Donald Trump is actually a really good guy for refusing to take the president’s 400K salary. See he’s really not in it for himself or the money!
Reality: Because Melania and Barron Trump will remain in Manhattan and Donald Trump himself will be staying at Trump Tower as much as possible during his presidency, one floor of Trump Tower may be converted into a round-the-clock command post for the Secret Service. This safety precaution will cost the government roughly $1.5 million per year and the money will be pocketed by Donald Trump’s own company.
#this is not normal #you fucking nitwits#the president’s salary is to remind them#that they are a PUBLIC SERVANT#that they are paid to do a job not rule as king#that he’s doing this is spitting upon that very ideal#that is fucking baked into the concept of the presidency#you absolute fucking morons
It’s also literally something Hitler did.
“… it was clear that Hitler had little use for the modest salary of 45,000 Reichsmarks he earned as Reich Chancellor, or for the annual expense allowance of 18,000 Reichsmarks; early in his Chancellorship, therefore, he publicly renounced both salary and allowance in a propagandistic gesture designed to advertise the spirit of selfless dedication in which he ruled the country.” Richard Evans - The Third Reich in Power
when someone calls u their best friend out loud > romantic love
Hey, just a word of warning to all my followers, please remember that it is a Class E Felony to wish harm or death upon the President of the United States . Yes, even on social media. People have gotten deported over this in the past.
I wholeheartedly support #notmypresident but unfortunately, this law would still apply. Be careful with those assassination jokes, which do qualify as a federal offense now. Stay informed and make informed decisions.