discrimination

Hija de Caguas y La Habana

In observance of Mother Language Day and because its topic makes this appropriate, the rest of this post is in my native Spanish.

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He pensado mucho de mis raíces.  Soy una criatura de combinación, hecha de muchas piezas, cosida difícilmente junta.  Soy americana, boricua, cubana, y en unos meses, canadiense.  Nací en una ciudad, de padres ciudadanos y campesinas, quienes llegaron a madurez en New Jersey después de niñeces en las islas del Mar Caribe, inmigrantes sin inglés.

Viví en New Jersey, rodeada de las culturas italiana-americana, boricua-americana, e irlandés-americana.  Viví también en Miami, en el medio de la cultura cubana-americana y la mezcla de cosas raras y únicas que es el sur de la Florida.  Vivo ahora en Canadá, en donde tengo que construir cosas familiares de partes salvadoreñas, jamaicanas, y polacas.

No sé si jamás veré los lugares de mi pasado.

Años van a pasar antes que podrá volar a New Jersey para ver la calle donde viví.  Mis padres me dijeron que la casa ya no parece como acuerdo, que las rosas ya no crecen en el patio y la mata de acebo hace años se murió.  Quizás es mejor que no lo veo.  Hay carboneros por acá, y casi nadie que quiero ver por allá.

Mi familia no quiere bregar con la idea que yo soy la persona que soy.  Cada vez en cuando me llaman, pero no ha sido similar que antes.  Ahora se oye la tristeza o el coraje en sus voces cada vez que oyen la mía, como que están hablando con una fantasma de una memoria.  Lo que oigo es literalmente nostalgia: dolor en sentir que algo se perdió y no se consigue más.  Ya no me piden a llamarlos.  Mi familia en Miami es, por su cuenta, mucho más pequeña ahora, consistiendo de la minoría de mis relaciones que no me han repudiado y amigos que han quedado cerca.  Si vuelo a Miami otra vez, tendré que solicitar amigos para albergarme, porque jamás podré sentirme seguro en la casa de mis padres.  Hay recuerdos queridos por allá, y cultura familiar, y comida que me hace llorar.  Quiero regresar, eventualmente.

Nunca he visto a Cuba ni a Puerto Rico personalmente.  Quizás algún día tendremos dinero suficiente para visitar a las islas que me dieron las culturas de mis padres, para que yo pueda ver así cerca de donde vengo.

Nunca he tenido una relación especialmente cariñosa a mis raíces culturales.  La cultura hispánica todavía da apoyo a sentimientos homofóbicas, anti-transgéneras, anti-ateas, y de varias otras formas opuestas a lo que yo vivo.  El machismo hispano es famoso, severo, asqueroso, y vergonzoso, y no quiero ningún parte en preservarlo para las generaciones futuras.  Las generaciones futuras merecen mejor que eso.  Hay mucho para criticar en nuestra historia, especialmente ahora que el poder de la Iglesia Católica sobre las sociedades hispánicas se está debilitando.  Fue posible, con mi distancia y mi expulsión de la compañía hispanohablante, que yo rechazara el resto.  Fue posible, con esa ruptura, que rechazara mi raza también.

Ni quería ni pude.  Aunque podría ser blanca en un contexto específicamente latinoamericano, no soy blanca por acá.  Traigo detrás de mi cienes y cienes de años de revolución y resistencia, yuca y maíz, sol y arena.  Detrás de me tengo los atentos finales de Hatuey y Agüeybaná de conseguir un archipiélago Taino fuera de control español.  Detrás también tengo los esclavos africanos quienes nos dieron las delicias de nuestra cocina: sancocho, tostones, mofongo.  En ser rechazada de la cocina de mis padres y prevenida a quedarme conectada a mis raíces de esa manera, tuve desaire recargada a conocer de dónde vine.

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I almost died last week.

CN: Descriptions of withdrawal, hospital admission, medical symptoms and needles.

It wasn’t an accident, or even a sudden onset of something like appendicitis. No, my brush with death came about as a result of fear. Specifically, other people’s fear. Fear of addiction, fear of being wrong, and fear of being fooled.

You see, the week before I was admitted with Crohn’s. I went to an appointment with my Gastroenterologist and he sent me straight to the ER. I was admitted, and put on high doses of Dilaudid, after the usual adjusting games where they started me on 1mg every 6 hours, before finally conceding that 2 mg every 4 was what was needed. In addition to that, I had Gravol and Benadryl to control the various side effects of the opiate.

I spent the week essentially zonked out after several weeks of increasing pain and nausea, and a trip to the ER every 2 weeks since Christmas. My admission came on the heels of two weeks of being sick with a sore throat, which kept me not just from being able to take my Remicade, but my medical marijuana as well. My throat hurt too much to handle the irritation from the smoke.

My crohn’s had gone into overdrive. I wasn’t digesting, I was in pain, and I needed help.

The reason the doctors agreed to finally treat my pain properly is that I told them, that once I got home I wouldn’t be taking dilaudid anymore.

Not one doctor stopped thinking about their fear of addiction long enough to hear what I was saying and remember their training. (more…)

What’s the Difference Between Eugenics and Pro-Choice

A lot of people can’t really parse the difference between being pro-choice and supporting eugenics. If choice is choice, what does it matter if people choose to abort children with disabilities specifically? Doesn’t it make sense that not everyone is capable and able to care for a child with a disability? Aren’t we taking away a person’s right to choose by saying that making that decision on the basis of disability is wrong?

It can be confusing and difficult to deconstruct, until we realize that when we are discussing eugenics and why it is dangerous, we are not discussing whether or not a person has a right to choose to end a pregnancy, but discussing the bigoted ideas that may be the reason for the decision.

Pro-choice activists can instinctively understand for example why abortion on the basis of sex or race would be wrong, while not seeing that assertion as invalidating a person’s right to choose. So why do we have this difficulty with disability?

Because socially we see disability as a bad thing, so much so that we have a tendency to see disabled people as not being fully human. This may seem like an extreme representation of the opinion until you realize that there are still arguments over whether people with certain disabilities have consciousness, are able to experience pain, etc. That treatments considered torture against abled people such as ABA and conversion therapy (not to mention bleach enemas) are not only still allowed for treatment of certain disabilities, but outright fucking encouraged by charities that claim to speak for these disabilities. That the murder of disabled children is often excused and almost never results in jail time.

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The Horror Is Mine

My social circle has been remarkably supportive of the traumas and challenges I’ve faced over the past year.  A few of its members, however, haven’t yet grasped the nature of the rift that has emerged between me and my parents.  They keep telling me to watch how viscerally I criticize them and to intersperse my rage with acknowledgement that the people who raised me are doing “the best they can” to wrap their heads around my situation.  At their worst, they tell me not to “air the family’s dirty laundry,” failing to grasp that one of the foremost weapons against their particular secrecy-based abuse dynamic is the cleansing light of day.

Every time I hear those phrases, my mind flits back to the worst nightmare I ever had, in June 2015.  This was around when my parents first started losing their minds over seeing my long hair and painted nails over webcam, and sent the first of an onslaught of Emails that stabbed directly at what I was going through.  I was terrified that, in their bigotry, they would do something extreme.  They threatened to cut off my financial support if I breathed too loudly in their direction; what “punishment” would they impose for joining what my culture regards as its most outré abomination?  What would I face if I ever again put myself at their mercy by sleeping under their roof, as I did for two weeks every year?

Those are the fears they tell me to put aside when they plead for reconciliation.

Those are the fears I dreamed about that night.

Those are the fears I wept about that morning.

Content note for oneiric horror, kidnapping, and emotional trauma.

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Quickie Rant: Hey Actually, That’s Ableist

Since getting involved with atheist activism, which was my first introduction to online social justice circles, I have seen people make an effort to drop racism language, cissexist language, sexist language, etc. from their vocabularies. Yes not all and not nearly enough, but still there was a visible segment of the community that made this effort.

The same cannot be said for the effort people put in to remove ableist vocabulary from their language. Sure some of the big ones like R*t*rd that many of us have known since childhood was a slur, but st*pid, Id*ot, Cr*t*n, M*r*n, l*me, Cr*zy, for those I haven’t seen as much effort, even from people who claim to care. It’s disheartening.

Every day I scroll through my newsfeed and I’m bombarded by these words from people who are my friends, who claim to care about me and people like me.

Do you really think we don’t notice?

Many of us are just too exhausted to have the same argument again and again. When many of us struggle to survive in a world that in some cases is actively trying to kill us, often through neglect (think flashing lights, they are fucking everywhere!!), it can feel like too much to tell yet another person: “Hey actually that’s ableist.”

 

What’s the Harm in “Female-Bodied”?

Guest post by America Yamaguchi

[CN: sexual assault]

 

“Female-bodied” is a term that is endlessly harmful.

It reduces cisgender women to their uterus. While childbearing is a massively important component of patriarchal harm, it goes far beyond that. It is also harmful to insist that childbearing or a uterus is what makes a woman a woman, both to trans people of all genders, and to cisgender women who are infertile for any reason. It compounds a major source of psychological distress to cis women who cannot have children. By the standards of “female-bodied” to mean the uterine body plan, a cisgender woman who is missing any aspect or has a dysfunction by any part, is bound to feel like less of a woman. Thus, this term directly attacks the womanhood of a variety of cis women as well as trans women.

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Where is Your Condemnation Now?

TW: For Racism

During the Ferguson protests, during the Baltimore uprisings, during countless demonstrations that took place because black children, black men, and black women, are being murdered, there were countless and endless condemnations by white people of the protestors as being too violent, too angry.

Last night, white people came to a Black Lives Matter demonstration for no other purpose then to commit violence. Their purpose wasn’t to raise awareness, to express anger and hurt over government sanctioned murders. No. They were there to kill people who had the nerve to protest being murdered. They were there because they don’t see PoC as being human beings, as being people. They shot five people.

When the police responded, their response included macing protestors after they had just been shot at.

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Don’t You Fear Terrorism

If you have any interest in the news, you have heard about the attack that took place by a stadium in Paris. The attacks on Paris were not the only ones that took place. In addition to Paris, Daesh (ISIS/ISIL) has also claimed responsibility for attacks in Beirut and Baghdad which took place just hours before the ones in Paris.

In light of the attacks, there has been an international backlash against Syrian refugees. The backlash has included attacks on refugee camps, attacks on Mosques in Canada, the US, attacks of Muslim people all over the world. It has also resulted in the US attempting to close its doors to desperate people fleeing from Syria. Politicians are announcing that they are barring their specific corners to refugees in flagrant violations of their own laws, and still others are suggesting measures reminiscent of the Holocaust and the persecution of Jews in Nazi Germany before the start of the war.

Why? Because they’ve decided that Syrian refugees pose a safety risk.

Some people have decided that the torrent of refugees is the perfect disguise for any terrorists looking for admittance to the US or any other place where refugees fleeing. This, of course, ignores the realities of the refugee process, and the fact that none of the terrorists have even been found to be Syrian nationals.

The racist and islamophobic rhetoric and actions of the last few days, always seem to be accompanied by apologists asking: “Don’t You Fear Terrorism?”

The question is meant to suddenly make these bigoted measures seem appropriate, because, it’s not racist you see, its self-defense.

But see, here’s the thing. I do fear terrorism.

I fear the terrorists who send threats to people who fight for social justice.

I fear the terrorists who put people’s lives in danger by doxing them.

I fear the terrorist who decides to shoot me or my friends because he’s decided that feminists are to blame for anything that has gone wrong in his life.

I fear the terrorist who walks into a school with a gun because a woman told him no.

I fear the terrorist with a badge who kills people based on the colour of their skin.

I fear the terrorists who see nothing wrong with brutalizing their children because of a disability, or because they are trans, or gay.

I fear the terrorists threatening and murdering people of colour for daring to exist: in churches, universities, in parks playing as children, walking home from the store.

I fear the terrorists who blow up clinics because they disapprove of a woman’s right to choose.

I fear the terrorists in government who use fear to slowly strip us of our rights.

What I don’t fear are children and terrified people fleeing their homes and everything they’ve known, who have watched their homes destroyed, and seen their friends and family killed.

The refugees are not terrorists. The terrorists we are so afraid of grew up right here.

Guest Post: The Stigma of Mental Illness and Religiosity: A Dual Insult

Guest post by Katrina Halfaker

 

My life is defined, to some extent, by my mental disorders. To be chemically different is to be a lesser. It is to be stigmatized. We’re cast as violent, deranged, and irrational even though we are ten times more likely to be victims of abuse, often by those in positions of power, whether they be police officers, academic administrators, loved ones, or strangers on the street.

 

I’m an atheist with OCD, which is comorbid with other anxiety-based disorders, and I noticed clues of their onset as early as when I was ten, as did my family, though they never took me to a doctor. In the last year, I’ve dealt with mild pubic trichotillomania. Years before, I developed a binge-eating disorder (which led to childhood obesity). It went quiet for a while, but still, it occasionally asserts itself in relapses. Every single person in my immediate family has been or is currently affected by at least one major disorder (diagnosed and undiagnosed: SAD, borderline personality disorder, and depression). I was raised in a religious household and educated until teenage-hood in a low-key Creationist school. We never had a licensed school therapist or nurse, or any provisions outside of an occasional hearing and vision test – but we did have chapel every week.

 

So, yes: I know the difference between reinforced frameworks and chemical diversity.

 

Many of you, my fellow secularists, need to understand one very crucial aspect of this dilemma: you have made it personal when you call religion a mental illness. And you have transgressed in ways you believe you have not. And you are unwilling to acknowledge it.

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The Most I’ve Ever Been Hurt

I learned something this week.

I learned that I can beg and plead, at the brink of tears, more emotional than you have heard or seen me in more than ten years, for over an hour, and you’ll be unmoved.

I learned that I can pour my soul out for you on the page, in the form of communication in which I’m most comfortable, and you won’t bother reading it for comprehension.

I learned that you’ll always default to trying to be my emotional inverse, calm and collected when I am urgently emotional, shrieking and yelling when I’m quiet, because you never had any higher end than trying to make me doubt my own feelings and replace them with yours.

I learned that I can make a tiny request, that means more to me than anything, and the measure of your response will be how inconvenient it is for you.

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