*dear conservative folks/religious people/those who are family and feel this is TMI-this is between R and X rated. Written as a lonely, single medical student dedicated to my future husband. You’ve been warned*

**to those same people-I love y’all, but I’ve been married to him for 13 years now, let’s calm down. That shouldn’t even have to be true to avoid getting judged for being…human. We are too uptight about this ish. There’s almost seven billion people and an AIDS endemic worldwide. We are hypocrites. It’s a problem, and perpetuates rape culture too 👀**

***I asked him years later, he had no clue we had this intense ’moment’. Men***

****feel free to laugh at what a rookie at life I was BUT you have no idea how much courage it took to share this, so be kind please****

Biology is a powerful thing.

Though I studied biology in college, and am now delving deeper and deeper into this material (pun intended?), it never actually occurred to me to apply it to everyday life.  But biology rules us even-especially even!-when we don’t want it to.

Take, for example, the human sex drive.   What happens when you put 300 sexually repressed medical students in a lecture hall, and the professor begins talking about the biological basis of sexual behavior? On VALENTINE’S Day, of all days?

Pure chaos.

It started out innocently enough.   He began talking about criteria for sexual identification, the basis of gonadal development in the fetus, etc.  All relatively small potatoes for us since we had completed Embryology the year before.  Hormones start to become discussed-dihydrotesterone, estrogen, progesterone, etc. etc.  All of a sudden, I become only too aware of my own.

Take the female menstrual cycle.  Exactly what hormones where pumping through my blood as the professor spoke?  Well, I know what
hormones-estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone-but how much was present?  What part of the cycle was I on?  Did that peak in estrogen-wow, is that why I wrote an irrational letter to my mom, and a good friend from home?  Is it the reason I crave weird things only at certain times of the month?  (Today, I ate bananas with peanut butter and jelly, and then ate lunchmeat with hummus!!!)  Before I started this stage in my career, I always attributed the above mentioned events to stress.  It takes me years into my studies to realize-duh!-that there is a hormonal basis to my behavior. Though I knew the facts alone (this hormone does this,that hormone does that, whatnot), I didn’t actually make the association.  I knew, but I didn’t know, you know?

Then talk shifts towards the magical topic-sex.

The talk begins to turn towards the Masters and Johnson model of sexual response-excitement, plateau, orgasm, and resolution. Stuff I heard in my biology and psychology classes in
undergrad.  So I tune out.  And wonder about Masters and Johnson-two people who dedicated their lives watching other people have sex.  What drove them?  How did they keep their cool watching all these people doing it  over and over again over the years?

Then, my thoughts shifted towards me.
V-day is TODAY and I’m single?  I’m always single, geez.  I turn around to see how the class is reacting as a whole and saw one guy fidgeting in his chair………….

I turn back around, shift in my chair, and begin tapping my feet.   Gently.  The casual observer would attribute my behavior to anxiety.

The professor start talking about each of the stages, and what happens physiologically and psychologically to men and women in each
stage.  About disorders in each of these stages,how to treat them, etc. etc.

I shift in my chair again, and this time, notice a few more people doing so as well.   Apparently, I am not alone in my thoughts.

The talk finally peaks-literally!-to the orgasm phase in men and women.  More fidgeting, more awkward laughs from the island feverish, sexually repressed medical students.  I learn that in men, there is a dramatic change in pulse, respiration, and blood pressure.  I learn that contractions of the anal sphincter occur, and that there is a emission and propulsion phase. in which-you guessed it!-there is build up of fluids in the prostate, and in the propulsion phase, the ejaculation of semen occurs.  For women, the basin of the uterus attains its greatest size, muscular contractions occur, along with uterine and vaginal contractions.  Dramatic changes in pulse, respiration, and blood pressure, as well as contractions of anal sphincter, occur as well.

Well, that’s what I would have learned, had my mind not been elsewhere.

Instead, I looked back at the mysterious gentleman behind me. Again.

He was wearing glasses.  Not the nerdy kind, the cool kind, the GQ kind.  One day stubble,beautiful brown eyes slightly blurry from lack of sleep. Dark black hair. Smooth Indian skin made golden-brown from the harsh heat of the Caribbean sun.  He was classically, conventionally handsome-the kind you’d bring home to mom (lets’ pretend that’s where my mind was at the moment).  Tall, well built, but until that day, I didn’t really notice him.  Well, I’d talked to him a few times, but that was it.  He was supposedly friends with so-and-so, who had hooked up with so-and-so and such-and-such party. I think we had a few post exam drunken gab sessions, but not LIKE THAT…One of those things.  But all I noticed in that moment was that he was fidgeting again…….hmmmm.

Our eyes met.

He didn’t smile, neither did I.  I had only spoken to him a few times, and him, likewise.  But in that second we had passionate, across the room eye-sex.  All of a sudden, the room felt much too hot, and much too small.  The world disappeared.  My cheeks became flushed.  A flush that remained with me for the rest of the day, according to my friends (I blamed it on the heat, of course).  I’m surprised that all the seats, all the rows that separated us didn’t spontaneously burst into flames.

That moment was everything you read about in Cosmo and Maxim, and then some. That moment was like something out a trashy romance novel, a
novel so over the top and scandalous that most women won’t admit to having read it(including myself).  The kind of passion most middle
age women could only dream about, the kind that their Viagra popping husbands can no longer fulfill.  The kind that every woman wants, really, secretly, regardless of her age, level of education, and whether she’s a feminista or not.

It was hot.  It was fabulous. It was also totally in
our heads.  Or maybe just my head.  I don’t know.

Wow.  Welcome to Temptation Island, Grenada.
Stay posted, and I’ll tell you who’s sleeping
with whom next week (across the room, nonetheless).

So this is what happens in the recesses of my dirty little mind when I’m trying to get an education.  Oh God.  Oh no.

I’m a good Indian girl.  I’m here to
study.  At least that what it appears like externally. In my mind, I’m as bad as a nymphomaniac on death row.

AND SO IS EVERYONE ELSE HERE, that’s what really scares me.

But as of now, I’m just trying to memorize everything that I had just told you, and then some.  Hopefully, I will treat anyone who comes in with desire, arousal, plateau, and orgasmic disorders.

Hopefully I can control these emotions, control myself and fulfill my purpose in life.  Which I can do with the help of God, and with my own hard work.

And by keeping my eyes of the gentleman in the back row.

Everyone envies the rich  

It IS an enviable place to be

There are levels of rich 

old money 

new money 

never worry about it money

but there is an upper class in between 

and that is most of the ‘rich’ 

We watch HGTV and see the glitz and gleam of their lives

 but not everything that glitters is gold

in their abundance of excess what you don’t see

are the bills 

they stack every counter

keeping up with the Jones costs a pretty penny

no one else crunches your numbers though 

you are expected to give more when you have more

yes,  being rich is a better problem to have 

 but it’s still a problem 

As tone deaf and privileged as that take is in a starving world, 

that doesn’t make it’s untrue 

it’s not as simple as budgeting better 

that’s the common man’s thought 

building wealth means constantly spending your accumulated wealth to make things bigger and better

it’s a never ending game 

you gotta put your kids in private school to build the right connections

buy the right ‘clothes’ to fit in with the crowd that can ensure your connections and future college placement/job placement etc 

it costs money to ensure children’s monied future 

the never ending monotony of capitalism 

it is better to be rich, yes

I’ll never insult someone and tell them money can’t buy happiness

it can’t alone, but it can help you 

easily afford the basics and then some

it’s easier to cultivate happiness when one isn’t hungry and left wanting  

 what most people don’t realize is being wealthy means giving up another most valuable asset 

your time 

how do you cultivate happiness without time to slow down and enjoy the sunset or warm summer breeze? 

It’s a different side of a coin, that’s all

It’s the simple things we forget 

it is more enviable to be FREE

free from materialism 

it motivates us, 

innovates us, sure 

BUT it also 

consumes us

evades us

smothers us

slowly kills us 

And that’s the god honest truth 

gleaming hardwood floors

shiny purses and shoes

the latest video games

fancy vacations and cars 

it’s hard to escape that life 

but if you do

freedom awaits

gives you the ultimate gift back 

YOUR TIME

in this materialistic world

rebel and simplify 

let us learn to consume less 

It’s literally killing us all

Dear rebelrouser, 

I feel your heart 

beating under breasts that have just formed

restless 

yearning for change 

You are the change

you are the wave

you are Us 

the future 

never be complacent

come to the fight

make good trouble 

the rebelrouser must shift

imperceptibility 

implacebaly 

irrevocably

to the girl who can sit in schools, meetings and ‘behave’ fast 

be ready with a quick smile 

heels or keds/either one if she wants 

stay still still like her beating heart 

always ready for that imperceptible change in the air

The fight 

the hardest thing about being us 

is knowing when to turn it off

find your shape 

it’ll never be perfect to everyone 

if you got to call our racists at family gatherings 

allow yourself to be fun with friends

If your friends offend, 

lean inwards

towards family who may not seem like you, but truly see you and accept you as you are

If you don’t have that, call me

I love you already 

dearest rebelrouser

you are my family

the blood in veins

you are my veins

together we will fight another day 

If thanksgivings are awkward, give yourself a by on christmas

or by shopping with friends

or online 

or by the pool 

dear rebelrouser

talk less

listen more

read the entire thing before you respond-I know it’s painful 

turn off facebook notifications

blocking shit stains is worth it if that’s what you need to fight another day

Take a break 

Designated social media times ONLY

there’s just too much beauty out there that we’ve convinced ourselves is boring

refrain from that dopaminergic limbic system bubble rush 

it’s the simple things, baby 

the golden rays of the sun 

how light refracts in water

baby giggles 

falling in love with a good book or tv show 

a play

the wind on your face 

dear rebelrouser

prepare for the not all men’s/white people/desis talking points 

Perfect that response

get emancipated-legally and spiritually from the shackles of your holy bonds

dear rebelrouser

if you got a crush on a man, ask how he feels about your own rights

you’ll either get over him damn fast 

or fall madly in love 

guess which is more common-and that’s good 

WE are the crushes to have on ourselves.

Quit wasting time trying to obtain them and try to obtain your own true potential

practice until your toes bleed

read until you are the smartest most educated best self you can be

dance

sing

write a play 

discover your own body

your own magic

your own truth 

dear rebelrouser-those who accuse you of being dramatic are projecting

dear rebelrouser

dress how you want, wear what you want how you want 

Just NEVER judge another queen

NEVER call names if you can help it

you don’t have to like or love anyone, but try not to destroy their own divine feminine

blowing out their candle doesn’t make yours brighter

igniting destruction in light  your own anger holds us ALL back 

Where were we when our rights were taken away/never given by men?

At each other’s throats more often enough

Nah, rebelrouser 

sometimes fiery hearts clash

keep your distance to avoid that catastrophe 

but don’t dim their sun 

practice your gifts

but perfect your heart more 

dear rebelrouser

grow a backbone

not a wishbone

dear rebelrouser

read.  read a lot.  It doesn’t have to be what they assign you in class.  What interests you?  Consumes you?  What loves you back?  It’s ok not to know.  Keep searching.  Have faith.  Love yourself through all your awful and bad, silly and sad.

get an education.  You don’t have to use it. 

But you need that foundation in a world determined to misunderstanding you and taking you less seriously. 

dear rebelrouser 

learn krav maga 

maybe conceal carry if you are properly trained, but don’t be an idiot

dear rebelrouser

spread your values to your children first, get mad on the internet second

THEY are the change you wish to see, not Chad from Chattanooga

Dear rebelrouser

find your tribe

You may look your whole life

but find one kindred warrior amongst the glass among war torn battle fields will carry the earth to its ends 

dear rebelrouser

be optimistic 

happy

you are the change

one at a time 

good trouble is any trouble sweet girl 

but don’t be too sweet and get run the fuck over

Nah, they like that-a little too much

Dear rebelrouser

when seeking a path,

seek those who don’t look like you 

in general, don’t go for those with no other substance 

they’re too shackled

complacent

they think following the rules will protect them from the patriarchy 

it almost never does 

Dearest rebelrouser,

embrace your pain,

your trauma

your flaws

your mistakes 

but never let that become the one characteristic that defines you

consumes you 

overshadows all else that is good and true and beautiful about you 

don’t lash out at others in projection

that’s your own shit 

not theirs

own it

love it

be it

but don’t let the virus of revenge, hatred and anger consume you

The only thing that wins is the hatred itself 

My dearest rebelrouser

I love you 

Be true

Be good

Be YOU

Racism doesn’t exist, they sneer, while simultaneously making fun of your beautiful name only meant to honor a goddess and long dead great village chiefs that came before you , your body hair, skin color, way grandma dresses.  20 years later, they take on a ‘no shave’ month challenge and do yoga like she did and are celebrated like the whimsical little hippies that only THEY are allowed to be.  Suddenly, the thing that marred your humanity and existence is trendy, edgy and hip.  Wonder why that label sticks with Downtown Karen Brown and not me?  Take the bindi of your face and the namaste out of your mouth until we invite you to do so.  It doesn’t belong there.  It never did.

Racism doesn’t exist, they said while sneering at your ‘gross’ food that once kept entire villages from dying of malnutrition for thousands of years before their civilization even existed.  That was the only sacred gift families could give to another before long journeys and difficult plights ahead.  We gave you spices for your cold potato salad that weren’t even on your radar before the 12th century, show some respect for something that isn’t yours just once .

Racism doesn’t exist, you’re rich after all, you think you’re ‘better’. while simultaneously making fun of your cheap clothes cause your penny pinching immigrant parents were in constant crisis mode activated by weaponized poverty and white supremacy, while making ignorant comments about a religion they copied that even you don’t 100% believe in while refusing to sit next to you, snidely replying this seat is taken and whispering about you behind their back-that is, only if you were lucky, they were usually emboldened enough to do it to your face.  You weren’t THEM, after all -you didn’t get to matter 

Racism doesn’t exist, they sneer, while making fun of the way you walk, talk your personhood itself.  While asking if you worship cows while they smear their own feces water on themselves in the name of salvation 

Racism doesn’t exist, I’m not white/straight/rich either, they’d sneer, while carrying water/spewing out half truths/weaponized talking points for the thing that actually hurt them.  Believing the bile fed to them.  It wasn’t us.  It was never us.

Racism doesn’t exist, the same things happened to me. Betty, I have no doubt it was as painful for you as it is me, but they were making fun of your acne and braces, not your personhood.  Your humanity.  Your identity itself.  Your very existence.  Also, btw, it just goes to show that the standards of white supremacy/blonde nordic ideal/‘family’ (lol)values  you failed to uphold hurt you too.

Don’t play the victim, they’d cry, but when you threw 1/180th of what they did back in their faces, the crocodile tears began and never ended.  It was a goddamn epidemic. Victims don’t sludge through mud with average grades and ignorant teachers who hated them for breathing to rise amongst the ashes and become a physician, writer and a mother, thank you very much, do they?  My rise isn’t something to be jealous of, of course I got lucky in many ways but all it means is if I can do anything, so can you-and then some.  

Don’t play the victim, you act arrogant and put your foot in your mouth too often. Sure, I can acknowledge my fatal flaws but then so should you-your own fragility and arrogance.   You scored a touchdown at the peak of your high school career and called yourself the GOAT.  They cheered, not berated you.  Maybe stop talking for once and learn something.  Why is our first instinct to always bring women ‘down’ a peg?  Have you ever asked yourself why we were meant to be kept down in the first place?  Start questioning.  Loving ourselves and blowing our own horns doesn’t mean you aren’t special too. It’s only ugly if we drag your own name into the mud.

Do I blame them?  Well, yes and no. Their parents drank.  They suffered the crushing weights of coal mines, injury and often, the poverty and drug addiction that followed.  They’ve been fed anger and lies for so long they can’t tell which way is up and keep sinking deeper and swimming downwards instead.  All they know is what they’ve been told.  Poke holes in the talking point they’ve blindly recited, they can’t defend it and get angry.  Think that you’re calling them stupid.  We know nothing about your intelligence. But if you can’t defend your argument-well, do you really believe it?  Or did someone tell you to believe it like you believe in your own soul and salvation?  Maybe,just maybe, God sent us to remind you of the real truths that exist outside of your disinformation bubble. 

Tha truth is, hurt people hurt people.  But this isn’t Braveheart.  They’re no longer the brave underdog Scottish lads and lassies fighting for their own freedom.  They have somehow become the oppressor itself.  

And yes, not all.  But I’m not talking about you then, am I?  Sit down and realize what your friends/colleagues/mothers and fathers did.  Like it or not, what you LET them do while you stared on silently.  We don’t blame you as much as you think, you’d better believe we’ve had to do it too.  And have some humility.  Leave them in the dust and join us in the sunshine where yes it still pours sometimes but there are tree leaves and flowers and beauty and love and GROWTH.

When you know better, you do better.  All the mud and mistakes and weariness on my face and bones should teach y’all that.

What you’re experiencing now isn’t racism, just backlash to the racism of your own people-and it’s been LONG overdue.  Yes, everyone is rightfully angered.  No it’s not all on you but maybe get past your own personal feelings and agenda and just listen.  Your ancestors ’othered’ more people than they included, and yea, that isn’t your fault-but if you and your children continue the pattern, it’s on you too. If you refuse to speak up, it’s on your too.  The time for courage is now. We’ve multiplied, and are doing well.  It burns some of you, we see you.  Ignore those darker urges like Christ would.  Do better.  Join us in the sun.  

The good old days y’all had were at someone else’s expense-never forget.  Let’s forge something new and better ahead WITHOUT trampling on other folks-gay, trans brown, black, female, etc this time. Let it be seen that I reduced my own identity to etc because I’m as conditioned as you. We are ALL works in progress. Come join us in the sun.

My body is a sin 

Pillowy mounds of flesh that carved out humans

Miraculous, joyful beings with light in their eyes,

Dimples and thighs.  Smiles that are perfection 

Yet I’m the one sweating  

Covering up my shame around my elders

Because honor is connected to modesty and lack of sexual proclivity, right?

Even though the babies they cherish are a product of that most beautiful union

That secret mustn’t be whispered too loud

Our bodies are a sin 

Breasts are meant for feeding, yet if used, are met with disgust

On display for the pleasure of men only 

Menstrual blood signifies fertility

Yet only brings us shame if we stain 

A slip of cleavage makes us devilish

Tight pants?  Short skirt?  Even more so….

Pierced ears?  Sexualizing babies never became easier

A hairline so frought with feminine beauty that it must be covered

The only place we shouldn’t be covered are beaches,bars, and bedrooms 

In those venues, if you’re covered up too much, another label awaits

Prude, frigid. Unwanted, unloveable

Simply because one is unable to turn sexuality on and off like a switch 

What a world

We are always covering up for someone, aren’t we?

From the disapproving looks of our Mothers and Fathers

A racist grandma who doesn’t believe in a black persons humanity-never mind our own.

Never mind her own, either

With views etched in ethnic supremacy and feminine inferiority 

Our co workers.  Who hopefully, won’t get too handsy at the office party

From complete strangers.  In case their roving eyes linger too long

Our lovers and friends.  Who label us sexy or slutty based on the most arbitrary measures.  Smoky eyes?  Good.  Slightly  more smudged eyeliner?  Rough night, followed by even rougher-sinful, shameful-SEX

We’re just asking for it, aren’t we?  By living and breathing in the world of men

If we exist in the plain of perfection,

We are at the same time revered and reviled

We must be gold diggers, right?  Anyone who looks like that is up to no good

If we do not, though, our womanly value is rendered worthless  

Being fat OR unfuckable-an insufferable crime 

Or-worse yet-both at the SAME TIME.

There is a fate worse than being cat called, you see.  It is NOT being cat called

Worse than derogatory words cutting into our humanity 

Is being ignored

Invisible

Out of this fear women are set up to compete with each other 

Within the colosseum of patriarchy, the last one standing wins

Youth and beauty are a gladiator’s most powerful weapon

The ultimate prize?  Mastering the arts of seduction.  Being ‘kept’-not forced to go back into the ring for another round

We are just cogs in this eternally spinning wheel 

Seeking confidence in bringing each other down, not the societal confines that Imprisons us 

Even when we win, we lose

We are slaves.  Gladiators. Queens, confined to one king or more

Fit into their space you must or you’ll sink

Follow their rules or flay about 

Be smart-but not smarter than them

Be sexy-but that is a really short skirt! 

Be confident-but don’t be conceited!  Who do you think you are, anyway?   

Work out!  But don’t get TOO muscular!

Be thin!  But why don’t you eat a burger!

Men love curves!  But don’t you know excess weight is unhealthy? 

Stop complaining!  But hey, why didn’t you stick up for yourself? Why didn’t you speak up earlier? 

Women who don’t reveal these unspoken truths to their daughters are only setting them up for failure 

I see my baby girl and am only sickened by her fate

Reading books about Marie Curie and Mae Jameson will not be enough

They succeeded despite the rules, but is that her truth?  Look at what they did to Hillary Clinton.  To Cleopatra. To most women with ambition.  The lies and smears start before she ever could 

They will pollute the history books till the end of days 

A 34 year old woman who doesn’t want kids?  The horror!

A Latino lesbian who does hundreds of hours of community service?  Hardly a human 

A transgender youth who wants to love  without fearing their truth?  

It’s honesty or die for them 

TV villains are judged for their sexuality, not by the twisted virtues of their character

Shame

Shame

Shame

Shame

Like caged gladiators, we must fight to the death

As warriors we must be strong

Sink or swim, we must carry on 

It is time to go out and be with my babies

To be a citizen of the world 

But first, I must cover myself head to toe 

Even though I’m in my own house

Even though it’s 80 degrees

Even though I’m just taking out the trash 

Even though I’m just cooking 

Even though I’m just taking care of the babies of others 

Because-just like yours-my body is a sin 

Wrote this 5 years ago while feeding my then infant daughter. Women will always inspire me 💕

I see her, dressed in all white like the sisters that walked before her, rise with grace and composure.  Her face, serene.  Never a crack in her veneer-made of steel-as she is booed and jeered by onlookers.  She is a pillar of strength-knowing she is won.  Riding out her undeserved humiliation with her head held up high.  Still getting under his skin because he feels the truth in his bones as clearly as we do.  She won.  She was better, smarter, wiser, more experienced, more beloved, more qualified.  Yet she lost. We all lost.  How befitting for her, for us-our punishment for living, for being women, for daring to strive towards greater unknowns.  Emails.  Benghazi. Propaganda, hate, lies.  The victim of her husband’s wrongdoings.  Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.  Knowing it wasn’t her politics they brought her down, but her womanhood.  Anything to bring down the girl from Illinois who dared to think she was just as good-hell,even better- than the boys the next to her.  

She was never going to be ‘uncle Joe’.  How can she crack jokes and be one of the guys?   If she did, she’d be deemed a flirt who slept around to get ahead.  It would ruin her.  If she smiled tersely and continued to talk shop while the boys drank beer, she was a humorless bitch, a bore, the girl no one wanted to be around.  

Not ‘personable’ enough.  

Well, it’s time for a bunch of humorless bitches to rise.  

I am tired. 

Tired because I know that MLK’s ‘I have a dream’ speech still doesn’t fully apply to girls-yet.   Tired of waiting for the day in which I can stop smiling, and start shouting.  Tired because I know my own mask-the one that cracks so much more easily than hers-cannot bear the burdens of staying quiet any more.  

Sick of being the pliable plaything for men to mold, to shape their ideals of beauty, perfection and intelligence on me.  Years and years of operant conditioning threaten to break me.  I only smile because they want me to.  Wear a size 2 because that is all the space I am allowed to take up.  Avert my eyes so that I won’t invite their unwanted touches and stares.  Hide my ‘liberal’ agenda.  Who I am to have opinions?  It doesn’t please you.  The only offending agent is my my brown skin and unruly curls.  Deeming me ‘exotic’.  But as I age, even that fades.  Gray hairs come.  Double chins form. The weight and love of my babies form macroscopic dents that forever changed the topography of what once was beautiful.  Everything fades.  Just not my mind-sharper, angrier and more focused by the minute. 

I am tired. 

Of being friendless.  Though it is more exhausting to have friends.  

Fitting the mold again.  Pretending to be white because I don’t know who I am otherwise.  But I don’t share your blood.  Knowing many of your ancestors enslaved, looted, pillaged, and raped mine, and others, too. But it’s not your fault, how dare I make you uncomfortable with my rhetoric?  Even though you do nothing to acknowledge my pain and make it right.  To be fair, how could you?  You didn’t know.  Since I smile.  Always smile. Maybe then you won’t notice the bags under my eyes.  

I am tired. 

Tired of women being their own worst enemies. It is one thing to disagree on politics.  But what exactly makes you so angry at the thought of another girl shining?  Even one you don’t agree with?  Her path would only serve to light yours, not to mention your daughters.  Why do you hate your own?  Not only did you digest the lies of men, you added your own bile to it.  Nice girls never make history-you only have the rights you have because of other queens that fought for your continuous ingratitude.  Love them or hate them, if you don’t stand with women, you  are part of the problem.  You are the reason we make 77 cents for every man’s dollar. 

She is a queen, a goddess, something so much more than the leader of the free world.  Yet, like all queens, she is bound by her station.  Which is only to fight for a king.  She is the most powerful piece on the board.  But only if she stays in her lane.  Defending the king who may or may not be worthy. 

Queens, let us rise.  Let’s smash the chessboard. Make it our own. 

They haven’t seen nothing yet.  One day, someday, the world will yield-to us.  WE are actually the silent majority-that somehow lost.  Let us rise. Let us make HERstory. KEEP MARCHING. Don’t forget to use your voice and VOTE in EVERY election.  

I used to be full of stories.  So much so, that I would live through my characters.

Growing up as an Indian American in a predominantly white area was no walk in the park.  I put my foot in my mouth so many times that eventually, I decided to completely shut up.  Writing was my love, my life, my only escape.

I knew my characters inside and out.  I knew their middle names, their fears, their strengths, weaknesses, what they wore, and what their dreams for the future were.  They were my everything, you see.  They lived in an almost ethereal place called Lake Grove.

In Lake Grove, there were no bullies.  Sexism and racism did not exist.  Like a Marlo Thomas song, everyone was free to be themselves.  Just a bunch of kids and teenagers who would have adventures in love, life and popularity that girls like myself could only dream of.

My favorite of all the characters was a girl named Jacqueline Sara.  She was me, of course-more popular, pretty, badass me.  Less awkward, less blood of my ancestors me.  I called her Jackie for short.

Jackie was beautiful.  She didn’t wear glasses or braces.  Her bangs were Aqua Netted to the point of perfection.  Her dark hair never frizzed, and her jeans were always double folded at the bottom (what can I say, I’m a proud product of the 80s and early 90s). Her biker shorts NEVER rode past the Umbro shorts over them.  She had a pair of Adidas Sambas that she wore like a boss.

More than anything, though, Jackie was fearless.  She stood up for what she believed in-and was all the more admired for it.  She was a singer, a dancer, a painter and a poet-yet still managed to keep her grades up to please good old mom and dad.  She was an all-star.  Every other character just served as her worker bees.  Always the popular humanitarian, she managed to keep the peace between the social outcasts and the ‘cool’ kids.  She was class president, of course.  The product of two hard working, upper middle class American parents.

It was hard being different.  Eventually, though, I began to embrace myself for who I was-even though I knew no one else would.  Jacqueline Sara eventually evolved into Leela-an Indian American girl with many of the same qualities.  She was a tennis maestro and a soccer star.  Thankfully, she had ditched the sambas and the biker shorts by then.  She had a future at Harvard-after all, what else was to be expected?  She wanted to be an astronaut.  Her sidekicks evolved to be a mixed crew-some white, some Indian, some black.  I had heard Martin Luther King’s I have a dream speech by then, and decided to evolve, too, if only in my fantasy world.

My heroines had many adventures.  They went traveled all over the world, and met so many people.  Most of their escapades were home grown, though. They babysat, snuck behind the treehouse and played pranks on each other.  They went to parties, learned how to behave at school dances, had first crushes, first kisses, and best friendships.  They were my saviors through some very arduous years.

They say time flies.  I don’t think that is true for many of us when we are 10-18 years old.  Most of us are not the prom kings and queens.  Most of us are nobodies.  Most of us are duffs (if you don’t get the reference, watch the movie.  It’s awesome).  Your best bet is to find similar friends who will commensurate your misery, and to develop interests and hobbies that will slowly build your confidence.  When you’re a nobody living under your parent’s rules, and trying to survive adolescence/middle and high school, time goes by SLOWLY.

Thankfully, adulthood eventually arrived-and the blessed freedom that came with it. I abandoned my childhood friends.  Finally, FINALLY it was my turn to go to parties, not just write about them.   Which I attended-a little too often.  It was time to study hard-which I did.  But not nearly enough.  I wanted to be a doctor.  It was all I talked about.

Which left me with my next muse-the human body.  Even on a molecular level, we are so wonderfully designed.  Each cell, each tissue, each organ has a myriad of functions.  On every level, the human body is artfully constructed.

Take the circulatory system, for example.  Human blood is composed of red blood cells, platelets, various proteins, clotting factors and plasma.

Each red blood cell is cleverly constructed.  It contains an iron molecule in the center; each which bind to 4 hemoglobin molecules. Every hemoglobin molecule will bind to oxygen and carbon dioxide, allowing for it to be transported all over the body.  It is even designed to favor oxygen over carbon dioxide -allowing us to maximize our ability to transport oxygen all over the body even in low oxygen settings.

Furthering this intricate system is a 4 chambered heart that pumps oxygenated blood all over the body and allows for deoxygenated blood to return.  It goes from our arteries, then arterioles, then capillaries, where, at each level, oxygen is being exchanged for carbon dioxide.  The blood then completes its journey back from the capillaries to the venules to the veins back to the heart.  Then, we exhale the carbon dioxide, inhale oxygen, and this intricate process begins all over again.

Let’s not even get started on platelets, and the various clotting factors. Any time someone cuts themselves, various platelets and clotting factors travel to the area of the cut.  The platelets, which are activated by something called tissue factor, then adhere to the wound and clump together, along with the another blood product called fibrin.   This sets in motion a series of complex molecular cascades that allows for clotting to occur.

                                (I want to date this diagram.[1]  I’m totally normal, right?  Right?  Anyone? Anyone?  Buehler?)

What boggles my mind is that all of this complexity occurs on a cellular level alone.  When trillions of cells, various tissues, organs, and organ systems work together in concerted motion to allow for the human body to function, what you have is truly one of the greatest masterpieces of all time.  One that works beautifully.

That is, of course, until it doesn’t.

Take the heart, for example.  If the left chamber of the heart weakens, the entire pump system is backlogged. All of this can lead to eventual failure of the remaining chambers, eventually, causing death; as we do need for our blood to transport oxygen and carbon dioxide all over our bodies efficiently.

Then, there’s clotting.  So many steps have to occur concurrently for the human body to function.  Any deficiencies in any of the enzymes involved (von Willebrandt factor, Factors 7, 8 ,9 10) can cause major problems for the human body.  If we can’t form clots, we can potentially bleed ANYWHERE-into our brains, our guts, or even any open wound on the skin.

What can we do as doctors?  Modern medicine is truly spectacular.  We provide drugs that stimulate the heart muscles to work just a little bit harder.   We try to minimize-and prevent-anything that will weaken the heart further.  If you’re missing a clotting factor?  We give blood and platelets as needed, and try to provide the clotting factors.  Many times, we set up ideal conditions that allow for the human body to heal itself.

Unfortunately, it’s not always enough.  Mistakes happen.  People die.  The average human’s bloopers suck, yes.  An error on an Excel spreadsheet gets you yelled at by your boss.  Or worse, gips your client out of a sizable tax return.

Our oversights, on the other hand, may be the reason your baby stops breathing at night.  We fret and fume-always wondering if we did the right thing.  We worry about our patients.  We check labs and bring them back-just to make sure everything is okay.  It is enough to turn the most laid back of us into an anxious mess.  We count on our village of nurses, medical assistants, nurse practitioners and pharmacists to save us many a times.  They count on us, too.

Throw in the massive sleep deprivation and psychological abuse that often occurs during medical school and residency training, and you have a socially deficient, often suicidal profession that spends entirely too much time healing others and the expense of themselves.  Not to mention, all of this occurs during the formative years in which we are getting married and starting our own families.  It’s not uncommon to have residents that are separated from their babies for long periods of time.   After all, someone has to raise them.

It was during these years of residency and early parenthood that I lost track of Jackie and Leela.   I sacrificed my love of reading and writing for medicine instead.  My once large vocabulary has now been reduced to medical jargon.  Not to mention, replaced with thoughts of sleep schedules, potty training, baby talk and nursery rhymes.

Now, more than ever, I realize I need my characters.  But it’s time to evolve.  Right now, I’m working on Priyanka-a newly minted pediatric intern-as she explores life during residency.

I am hoping to follow Priyanka as she deals with many moral and ethical dilemmas during her medical training.  Not to mention, her adventures in love and loss.

I wish I could say Priyanka was as fearless and Jackie and Leela.  But she’s fearful-and all the more wiser for it. Life DOESN’T always work out as it should.  Sometimes, it’s one endless series of disappointments after the other.

But when it works out-and even when it doesn’t-living life and loving others is the best thing we do.   I hope to be any of these women one day.

Maybe, just maybe, I can quit playing a character and start playing myself as the leading lady in my own life.  Which is why I’m here.  Healing.  Writing.  Speaking out.  Putting myself out there, hopefully.

I hope you enjoy my blog, and whatever else may follow.

[1] https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/42/Classical_blood_coagulation_pathway.png

By Dr Graham Beards (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

I used to be full of stories.  So much so, that I would live through my characters.

Growing up a socially challenged Indian American in a predominantly white area was no walk in the park.  I put my foot in my mouth so many times that eventually, I decided to completely shut up.  Writing was my love, my life, my only escape.

I knew my characters inside and out.  I knew their middle names, their fears, their strengths, weaknesses, what they wore, and what their dreams for the future were.  They were my everything, you see.  They lived in an almost ethereal place called Lake Grove.

In Lake Grove, there were no bullies.  Sexism and racism did not exist.  Like a Marlo Thomas song, everyone was free to be themselves.  Just a bunch of kids and teenagers who would have adventures in love, life and popularity that girls like myself could only dream of.

My favorite of all the characters was a girl named Jacqueline Sara.  She was me, of course-popular, pretty, more badass me.  I called her Jackie for short.

Jackie was beautiful.  She didn’t wear glasses or braces.  Her bangs were Aqua Netted to the point of perfection.  Her dark hair never frizzed, and her jeans were always double folded at the bottom (what can I say, I’m a proud product of the 80s and early 90s). Her biker shorts NEVER rode past the Umbro shorts she wore over them.  She had a pair of Adidas Sambas that she wore like a boss.

More than anything, though, Jackie was fearless.  She stood up for what she believed in-and was all the more admired for it.  She was a singer, a dancer, a painter and a poet-yet still managed to keep her grades up to please good old mom and dad.  She was an all-star.  Every other character just served as her worker bees.  Always the popular humanitarian, she managed to keep the peace between the social outcasts and the ‘cool’ kids.  She was class president, of course.  The product of two hard working, upper middle class American parents.

It was hard being different.  Eventually, though, I began to embrace myself for who I was-even though I knew no one else would.  Jacqueline Sara eventually evolved into Leela-an Indian American girl with many of the same qualities.  She was a tennis maestro and a soccer star.  Thankfully, she had ditched the sambas and the biker shorts by then.  She had a future at Harvard-after all, what else was to be expected?  She wanted to be an astronaut.  Her sidekicks evolved to be a mixed crew-some white, some Indian, some black.  I had heard Martin Luther King’s I have a dream speech by then, and decided to evolve, too, if only in my fantasy world.

My heroines had many adventures.  They went traveled all over the world, and met so many people.  Most of their escapades were home grown, though. They babysat, snuck behind the treehouse and played pranks on each other.  They went to parties, learned how to behave at school dances, had first crushes, first kisses, and best friendships.  They were my saviors through some very arduous years.

They say time flies.  I don’t think that is true for many of us when we are 10-18 years old.  Most of us are not the prom kings and queens.  Most of us are nobodies.  Most of us are duffs (if you don’t get the reference, watch the movie.  It’s awesome).  Your best bet is to find similar friends who will commensurate your misery, and to develop interests and hobbies that will slowly build your confidence.  When you’re a nobody living under your parent’s rules, and trying to survive adolescence/middle and high school, time goes by SLOWLY.

Thankfully, adulthood eventually arrived-and the blessed freedom that came with it. I abandoned my childhood friends.  Finally, FINALLY it was my turn to go to parties, not just write about them.   Which I attended-a little too often.  It was time to study hard-which I did.  But not nearly enough.  I wanted to be a doctor.  It was all I talked about.

Which left me with my next muse-the human body.  Even on a molecular level, we are so wonderfully designed.  Each cell, each tissue, each organ has a myriad of functions.  On every level, the human body is artfully constructed.

Take the circulatory system, for example.  Human blood is composed of red blood cells, platelets, various proteins, clotting factors and plasma.

Each red blood cell is cleverly constructed.  It contains an iron molecule in the center; each which bind to 4 hemoglobin molecules. Every hemoglobin molecule will bind to oxygen and carbon dioxide, allowing for it to be transported all over the body.  It is even designed to favor oxygen over carbon dioxide -allowing us to maximize our ability to transport oxygen all over the body even in low oxygen settings.

Furthering this intricate system is a 4 chambered heart that pumps oxygenated blood all over the body and allows for deoxygenated blood to return.  It goes from our arteries, then arterioles, then capillaries, where, at each level, oxygen is being exchanged for carbon dioxide.  The blood then completes its journey back from the capillaries to the venules to the veins back to the heart.  Then, we exhale the carbon dioxide, inhale oxygen, and this intricate process begins all over again.

Let’s not even get started on platelets, and the various clotting factors. Any time someone cuts themselves, various platelets and clotting factors travel to the area of the cut.  The platelets, which are activated by something called tissue factor, then adhere to the wound and clump together, along with the another blood product called fibrin.   This sets in motion a series of complex molecular cascades that allows for clotting to occur.

                                (I want to date this diagram.[1]  I’m totally normal, right?  Right?  Anyone? Anyone?  Buehler?)

What boggles my mind is that all of this complexity occurs on a cellular level alone.  When trillions of cells, various tissues, organs, and organ systems work together in concerted motion to allow for the human body to function, what you have is truly one of the greatest masterpieces of all time.  One that works beautifully.

That is, of course, until it doesn’t.

Take the heart, for example.  If the left chamber of the heart weakens, the entire pump system is backlogged. All of this can lead to eventual failure of the remaining chambers, eventually, causing death; as we do need for our blood to transport oxygen and carbon dioxide all over our bodies efficiently.

Then, there’s clotting.  So many steps have to occur concurrently for the human body to function.  Any deficiencies in any of the enzymes involved (von Willebrandt factor, Factors 7, 8 ,9 10) can cause major problems for the human body.  If we can’t form clots, we can potentially bleed ANYWHERE-into our brains, our guts, or even any open wound on the skin.

What can we do as doctors?  Modern medicine is truly spectacular.  We provide drugs that stimulate the heart muscles to work just a little bit harder.   We try to minimize-and prevent-anything that will weaken the heart further.  If you’re missing a clotting factor?  We give blood and platelets as needed, and try to provide the clotting factors.  Many times, we set up ideal conditions that allow for the human body to heal itself.

Unfortunately, it’s not always enough.  Mistakes happen.  People die.  The average human’s bloopers suck, yes.  An error on an Excel spreadsheet gets you yelled at by your boss.  Or worse, gips your client out of a sizable tax return.

Our oversights, on the other hand, may be the reason your baby stops breathing at night.  We fret and fume-always wondering if we did the right thing.  We worry about our patients.  We check labs and bring them back-just to make sure everything is okay.  It is enough to turn the most laid back of us into an anxious mess.  We count on our village of nurses, medical assistants, nurse practitioners and pharmacists to save us many a times.  They count on us, too.

Throw in the massive sleep deprivation and psychological abuse that often occurs during medical school and residency training, and you have a socially deficient, often suicidal profession that spends entirely too much time healing others and the expense of themselves.  Not to mention, all of this occurs during the formative years in which we are getting married and starting our own families.  It’s not uncommon to have residents that are separated from their babies for long periods of time.   After all, someone has to raise them.

It was during these years of residency and early parenthood that I lost track of Jackie and Leela.   I sacrificed my love of reading and writing for medicine instead.  My once large vocabulary has now been reduced to medical jargon.  Not to mention, replaced with thoughts of sleep schedules, potty training, baby talk and nursery rhymes.

Now, more than ever, I realize I need my characters.  But it’s time to evolve.  Right now, I’m working on Priyanka-a newly minted pediatric intern-as she explores life during residency.

I am hoping to follow Priyanka as she deals with many moral and ethical dilemmas during her medical training.  Not to mention, her adventures in love and loss.

I wish I could say Priyanka was as fearless and Jackie and Leela.  But she’s fearful-and all the more wiser for it. Life DOESN’T always work out as it should.  Sometimes, it’s one endless series of disappointments after the other.

But when it works out-and even when it doesn’t-living life and loving others is the best thing we do.   I hope to be any of these women one day.

Or maybe, just maybe, I can quit playing a character and start playing myself as the leading lady in my own life.  Which is why I’m here.  Healing.  Writing.  Speaking out.  Putting myself out there, hopefully.

I hope you enjoy my blog, and whatever else may follow.

 

[1] https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/42/Classical_blood_coagulation_pathway.png

By Dr Graham Beards (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons