They need food, water, shelter and compassion

The southern border of the United States is experiencing an increasing number of immigrants seeking a new life in the United States.  The response from many politicians and pundits?

“They’re bringing diseases here.”

“They want to take our jobs away.”

“They want to mooch off of taxpayers.”

“They’re here to invade the country.”

Such opinions are disgusting and do not accurately reflect the reality of the situation.  They are inhumane; treating refugees as undeserving of compassion and empathy.  

The reality is that tens of thousands of people, a fuckton of children among those numbers, are traversing thousands of miles to escape severe poverty and crime in Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. Often these people have nothing more than the clothes on their backs. When (and sometimes, tragically, IF) they reach the border, they are exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. What they need is food, water, shelter and some compassion.
For many refugees, they are getting just that, in the small town of McAllen, TX:
http://thinkprogress.org/immigration/2014/07/24/3463127/texas-border-religion/

They need food, water, shelter and compassion
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What does it mean to be a ‘Strong Female Character’?

Kelly Sue DeConnick (she who writes the monthly adventures of Captain Marvel) has an/the answer:

“When I’m looking for a strong female character, or a strong character at all, I’m looking for a character that has a purpose in that story, that has an interior life of some sort. They don’t have to be physically strong; they don’t have to be morally strong or ethically strong, because men and women come in a huge variety of all of those things. Emotionally, ethically — I’m less concerned with that. I just don’t want them to be props. That’s the only thing that offends me.”
— Kelly Sue DeConnick
(source:  comicquotations, via sapphoshands)
What does it mean to be a ‘Strong Female Character’?

What does it mean to be a 'Strong Female Character'?

Kelly Sue DeConnick (she who writes the monthly adventures of Captain Marvel) has an/the answer:

“When I’m looking for a strong female character, or a strong character at all, I’m looking for a character that has a purpose in that story, that has an interior life of some sort. They don’t have to be physically strong; they don’t have to be morally strong or ethically strong, because men and women come in a huge variety of all of those things. Emotionally, ethically — I’m less concerned with that. I just don’t want them to be props. That’s the only thing that offends me.”
— Kelly Sue DeConnick
(source:  comicquotations, via sapphoshands)
What does it mean to be a 'Strong Female Character'?

More Diversity in Comics

I’ve never seen this image, but I like it.  I may be an atheist, but I fully recognize that various religious groups have been oppressed and marginalized.  They have their culture shit on, and often they have been subjected to heinous crimes.  Judaism is one such religion.  This image is a showcase of many of the Jewish characters in comics.  I applaud the diversity.

 

(source: docgold13, via sapphoshands)

More Diversity in Comics

Join the 21st Century

Right wing authoritarians seem to bleed hate, and they almost live in a perpetual state of pissiness, especially on subjects like guns, abortion, or queer rights.  They’re freaking out again, this time over a fake news report

On Monday, totallyfakeandnotreal “satire” news site National Report published an articleclaiming they had obtained a leaked script of the upcoming Superman Vs. Batman [sic]: Dawn Of Justice, one that portrayed the Dark Knight as “an out-and-proud homosexual.” Naturally, Internet bigots treated the report with their typical level of caution and skepticism, going completely bat-shit over the bat-rumors.

There is no chance Warner Brothers would allow a script to be approved that had a gay Batman (which is a problem of its own, but not the subject of this piece), so the idea that a movie would be produced with a queer Batman is laughable.  Apparently some conservatives took it seriously:

You have to love the mindset that implies that if you support the idea of Batman and Superman being gay, you’re not a decent American.  There are  a lot of people who be up in arms about it if Supes and Bats were made into gay characters, but there would be many that wouldn’t mind it.  Some would even like it.  Fuckers like ‘S’, above don’t get to decide who is a decent American, thankfully.

 

 

This guy doesn’t want to see, nor hear about gay people. He wants things to go back to the way he likes.  When he was comfortable.  When the world catered to his desires.  When the media did portray OMG gay people.  When we were in the closet for fear of our fucking lives.  Not gonna happen buddy.  We’re not going out.  It may be an overused saying, but “We’re here. We’re queer. And we ain’t going anywhere.”

We have just as much right to exist as you do.  We aren’t asking for much.  We want the same rights as heterosexuals have.  We want to be represented just like heterosexuals have been for millenia.  We want to read books, watch movies, and listen to music that reflects us, just like heterosexuals have had for millenia.  As human beings we deserve that.  And we’re not even asking people to stop making material for heterosexuals. We just want to be included in that material. We want people to acknowledge that we exist, and that we have a right to be treated just as normal as anyone else.  We exist everywhere and we’re not here to harm anyone (god that makes us sound like an alien race infiltrating humanity for devious purposes, ala ‘V‘).  Conservatives that can’t stand their small worldview being shattered-those are the people with the problems.  You’re the people that can’d stand black people asking for rights and representation. You’re the people who can’t handle women demanding to have bodily autonomy and equal political representation.  You’re the one with the problem dealing with queers wanting to live openly without fear of harassment, job termination, or being murdered.  

You people need to deal with your problems and join the 21st century, because none of us is going away.

Change into better human beings and work alongside us to make the world a better place for everyone.  Or you can sit over there, whining and complaining, impotently, as the world passes you by and you fade into irrelevance.  The choice is yours.

 

Join the 21st Century

I miss you Micah

 

 

 

I’d forgotten how much I enjoy this song by The Script.

Trigger Warning: Death or a loved one
Emotional TL; DR (Too Long; Don’t Read-if you don’t like reading long comments)

Speaking of music from The Script, “If you ever come back” is one of my favorite songs. Unfortunately it’s also a song that hits me in the gut. I don’t relate to the song as it is likely intended (its a song about missing your partner, longing for them back in your life, and having a glimmer of hope that while they’re gone at the moment, they’ll come back). For me, this was a song that I listened to a lot after Micah passed away and part of the chorus resonates with me:

 

 

 

If you’re standing with your suitcase

But you can’t step on the train
Everything’s the way that you left it
I still haven’t slept yet

And if you’re covering your face now
But you just can’t hide the pain
Still setting two plates on the counter but eating without you

If the truth is you’re a liar
Then just say that you’re okay
I’m sleeping on your side of the bed
Goin’ out of my head now

And if you’re out there trying to move on
But something pulls you back again
I’m sitting here trying to persuade you like you’re in the same room

And I wish you could give me the cold shoulder
And I wish you could still give me a hard time
And I wish I could still wish it was over
But even if wishing is a waste of time
Even if I never cross your mind

I’ll leave the door on the latch
If you ever come back, if you ever come back
There’ll be a light in the hall and the key under the mat
If you ever come back

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/script/ifyouevercomeback.html
(bolding mine)
Those lines really tear me apart. I’m crying as I type this. Micah and I were never in a relationship (we very briefly experimented and I realized I didn’t care for him in that way), but in everything else, he was what I would call a soul mate (if I were religious and/or spiritual). We were both atheists and we shared many of the same tastes in music. We both liked movies. In fact he was a manager at one of the local movie theaters. I remember that we first met at one of the gay bars here in town. It was October 2007. I remember the month in part because Steve Niles’ movie ’30 Days of Night’ came out around the time we met. We bonded quickly over comic books. I remember we sat outside the bar for a while (hour or two I think) discussing comic books. He invited me to see the aforementioned horror movie for free (perk of being a manager) which I did and I quite enjoyed it. From then on, we were nearly inseparable. People saw us at the bar together so much they just assumed we were a couple (which got on our nerves for a while, bc people assumed they knew what type of relationship we had). We got so close that we’d finish each others’ sentences from time to time. We’d routinely think of the same things and tell one another to “get outta my head”.

 

In the beginning of our friendship, Micah was debating leaving Pensacola because he didn’t like living here. He had recently been discharged from the military and didn’t know what to do with his life. Shortly after we met, he changed his mind. He had a crush on me which was probably made more intense by our crazy chemistry. He also had some issues from the military that really disturbed him. He never elaborated on what they were and I never pressed. I figured that if he wanted to discuss them, he would. He drank. A lot. When he would get drunk, he’d often hit on me. It culminated one night when I took him home and he hit on me again, after puking at the bar from getting so drunk. I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I called a close friend of ours-a police officer (M). She stayed with him to ensure he got inside safe and didn’t try driving.

 

The next day I told him that I like him and care about him, but I didn’t want to date him. Moreover, I said that I want to keep partying with him, but I don’t want to feel like I’m responsible for him every time we go out (that’s how much he drank). I told him that if we were going to keep clubbing together that I didn’t want to deal with him being sloppy drunk. I couldn’t stop him from drinking, but I told him I would stop going out with him. He cut back a little bit on drinking, but the real impetus to stop was a car accident he got into two days after Xmas 07. He totaled his car (somehow he walked away from the accident completely fine–thankfully).

 

He stopped drinking for a long time. He also started trying to eat healthier. I think he weighed 240 lbs when we first met and he expressed a desire to lose weight and become a little more physically fit. I was working out pretty heavily at the time and he started coming to the gym with me. In about 6 months, he went from 240 to 180, which made him happier.

 

During this time, he often told me I could come up to the theater and see any movie I wanted any time. It took some time before I took him up on the offer. I felt like I’d be taking advantage of him, and free movies was not the reason I was his friend. We wound up establishing a fun Tuesday night routine called Supper Club. We invited a few friends to a restaurant on a Tuesday evening for a social gathering. At the end of the meal, someone would pick the restaurant for the next week, and we’d meet up there. Each week, someone new would pick the next weeks’ restaurant. This continued for months, with varying numbers of people. The first group was 6 or 7 of us. We got up to 16 one time. It was so much fun. Many times we’d go to the bar after dinner to play Tuesday night bingo, and follow that up with screening movies at his theater before they were released to the public. It was so awesome seeing movies in relative privacy. At most we’d have 15 people in the theater. Micah would have his employees save popcorn for us in a big trash bag, so we’d have something to much on.

 

Since we were close friends, and he was without a car, I wound up taking him to work or home frequently. He began staying the night at my house bc it was more convenient than driving halfway across town so often. A month or so after the accident, I started letting him borrow my car when I was at work. I’d often work 12 hour days at the bar, so obviously I wasn’t using the car during that time. I made him promise me not to drink if he was going to drive my car, which he agreed to. When he got done with work, he’d often come to the bar and hang out and wait for me to get off. He did that so frequently that the barstaff and many of the regulars got to know him (we had to deal with the whole “are you two together” all over again).

 

In time I offered to let him move in with me and my other roomie (whom I checked with first to get the ok from), so that’s what he did. That made transportation easier. He and I started taking trips out of town to Dallas, Atlanta, or New Orleans. We even traveled to Orlando where my parents live several times. During this time, my sister was living in South Korea and she was over there for years. Micah bought her car from my parents (it was really theirs, not hers). My parents liked him quite a bit. When my sister came back to the states briefly, I remember going out drinking with she and Micah in Jacksonville, FL. It’s still surreal to go to bars with my sister. She’s 8 years younger than I am (she turns 30 this August come to think of it).

 

Unfortunately, Micah died of a drug related heart attack on January 7, 2010. I came home from work and discovered his body (had to crawl through the window bc his door was locked-an apparent habit from the military). I’ve never experienced loss of that caliber before. That was the most painful experience of my life. Grabbing his leg and feeling the stiffness was…there are no words. For months after, I would feel like I could feel his presence still in the house. I think that’s similar to ghost limbs. When I would listen to the above song by The Script those bolded lyrics really hit me, bc the sensation I kept having made it seem like he was still alive, but just not home. The idea of leaving the light on, and leaving the door on the latch resonated with me bc I really wanted him to come home.

 

Micah was one of the most thoughtful people I knew. He bought a concert ticket for a coworker out of the blue and worked for the guy one Friday night–just because. When he borrowed my car, he’d often text me to see if I needed anything while he was out getting groceries. Our other roomie, E, has long had financial problems, and Micah-without ever being asked, would cover bills for him. He wouldn’t ask for anything or even request a thank you. He would help care for my cats and the dogs without being asked too.

Another song that really, really gets me is How to save a life by The Fray.

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/fray/howtosavealife.html

The night before Micah died, we resolved an argument that had kept us pretty much ignoring each other out of frustration for a few weeks. We talked it out and forgave each other. Even so, there’s this part of me that wishes I would have stayed up all night with him, bc maybe then he’d have survived. From checking his laptop after he passed away, I saw that he was still active around 7 am on Thursday, January 7, 2010. He passed away sometime after that. I don’t know how long rigor mortis takes to settle in, but when I got home and found him it was around 11:30 pm that night. I don’t blame myself for his death, but I wish I’d have stayed up with him. Maybe then my best friend would still be alive.

Sorry for the Teal Deer ya’ll. It’s been a while since I thought this much about him, and part of me feels bad for that. Like, he was the best friend I ever had, and I don’t think about him that much. I know that’s not rational, but fuck. By FSM, I miss the living fuck out my lil buddy.

Continue reading “I miss you Micah”

I miss you Micah

Study on prenatal exposure to cocaine surprises researchers

“Drugs are bad”

“You’ll rot your brain if you use drugs”

“You’re a bad person if you use drugs”

Aside from the questionable wisdom of telling someone they’re a bad person for using drugs, I think society has pushed this message long enough that virtually everyone has gotten the memo.  Of course telling people that does nothing to affect the rate of drug usage.  People are going to use drugs, and some people will become habitual users.  Even pregnant women use drugs, which everyone knows causes horrible defects and problems with their babies, right?   Not so fast, say some researchers:

Jaimee Drakewood hurried in from the rain, eager to get to her final appointment at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.

Ever since her birth 23 years ago, a team of researchers has been tracking every aspect of her development – gauging her progress as an infant, measuring her IQ as a preschooler, even peering into her adolescent brain using an MRI machine.

Now, after nearly a quarter century, the federally funded study was ending, and the question the researchers had been asking was answered.

Did cocaine harm the long-term development of children like Jaimee, who were exposed to the drug in their mother’s womb?

The researchers had expected the answer would be a resounding yes. But it wasn’t. Another factor would prove far more critical.

A crack epidemic was raging in Philadelphia in 1989 when Hallam Hurt, then chair of neonatology at Albert Einstein Medical Center on North Broad Street, began a study to evaluate the effects of in-utero cocaine exposure on babies. In maternity wards in Philadelphia and elsewhere, caregivers were seeing more mothers hooked on cheap, smokable crack cocaine. A 1989 study in Philadelphia found that nearly one in six newborns at city hospitals had mothers who tested positive for cocaine.

Troubling stories were circulating about the so-called crack babies. They had small heads and were easily agitated and prone to tremors and bad muscle tone, according to reports, many of which were anecdotal. Worse, the babies seemed aloof and avoided eye contact. Some social workers predicted a lost generation – kids with a host of learning and emotional deficits who would overwhelm school systems and not be able to hold a job or form meaningful relationships. The “crack baby” image became symbolic of bad mothering, and some cocaine-using mothers had their babies taken from them or, in a few cases, were arrested.

It was amid that climate that Hurt organized a study of 224 near-term or full-term babies born at Einstein between 1989 and 1992 – half with mothers who used cocaine during pregnancy and half who were not exposed to the drug in utero. All the babies came from low-income families, and nearly all were African Americans.

Hurt hoped the study would inform doctors and nurses caring for cocaine-exposed babies and even guide policies for drug prevention, treatment, and follow-up interventions. But she never anticipated that the study, funded by the National Institute on Drug Abuse, would become one of the largest and longest-running studies of in-utero cocaine exposure.

One mother who signed up was Jaimee’s mom, Karen Drakewood. She was on an all-night crack binge in a drug house near her home in the city’s West Oak Lane section when she went into labor. Jaimee was born Jan. 13, 1990, weighing an even 7 pounds.

“Jaimee was beautiful when she was born. A head full of hair. She looked like a porcelain doll,” Karen Drakewood, now 51, said recently in her Overbrook kitchen. “She was perfect.”

But Drakewood knew looks could be deceiving.

“My worst fear was that Jaimee would be slow, mentally retarded, or something like that because of me doing drugs,” she said. She agreed to enroll her baby in the cocaine study at Einstein. Drakewood promised herself that she would turn her life around for the sake of Jaimee and her older daughter, but she soon went back to smoking crack.

Hurt arrived early at Children’s Hospital one morning in June to give a talk on her team’s findings to coworkers. After nearly 25 years of studying the effects of cocaine and publishing or presenting dozens of findings, it wasn’t easy to summarize it in a PowerPoint presentation. The study received nearly $7.9 million in federal funding over the years, as well as $130,000 from the Einstein Society.

Hurt, who had taken her team from Einstein to Children’s in 2003, began her lecture with quotations from the media around the time the study began. A social worker on TV predicted that a crack baby would grow up to “have an IQ of perhaps 50.” A print article quoted a psychologist as saying “crack was interfering with the central core of what it is to be human,” and yet another article predicted that crack babies were “doomed to a life of uncertain suffering, of probable deviance, of permanent inferiority.”

Hurt, who is also a professor of pediatrics at the University of Pennsylvania, is always quick to point out that cocaine can have devastating effects on pregnancy. The drug can cause a problematic rise in a pregnant woman’s blood pressure, trigger premature labor, and may be linked to a dangerous condition in which the placenta tears away from the uterine wall. Babies born prematurely, no matter the cause, are at risk for a host of medical and developmental problems. On top of that, a parent’s drug use can create a chaotic home life for a child.

Hurt’s study enrolled only full-term babies so the possible effects of prematurity did not skew the results. The babies were then evaluated periodically, beginning at six months and then every six or 12 months on through young adulthood. Their mothers agreed to be tested for drug use throughout the study.

The researchers consistently found no significant differences between the cocaine-exposed children and the controls. At age 4, for instance, the average IQ of the cocaine-exposed children was 79.0 and the average IQ for the nonexposed children was 81.9. Both numbers are well below the average of 90 to 109 for U.S. children in the same age group. When it came to school readiness at age 6, about 25 percent of children in each group scored in the abnormal range on tests for math and letter and word recognition.

“We went looking for the effects of cocaine,” Hurt said. But after a time “we began to ask, ‘Was there something else going on?’ ”

While the cocaine-exposed children and a group of nonexposed controls performed about the same on tests, both groups lagged on developmental and intellectual measures compared to the norm. Hurt and her team began to think the “something else” was poverty.

 

The rest is here.

 

Study on prenatal exposure to cocaine surprises researchers

It’s not a joke, even though it looks that way

So a guy walks into a bar one day and he can’t believe his eyes. There, in the corner, there’s this one-foot-tall man, in a little tuxedo, playing a tiny grand piano.

So the guy asks the bartender, “Where’d he come from?”

And the bartender’s, like, “There’s a genie in the men’s room who grants wishes.”

So the guy runs into the men’s room and, sure enough, there’s this genie. And the genie’s, like, “Your wish is my command.” So the guy’s, like, “O.K., I wish for world peace.” And there’s this big cloud of smoke—and then the room fills up with geese.

So the guy walks out of the men’s room and he’s, like, “Hey, bartender, I think your genie might be hard of hearing.”

And the bartender’s, like, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inchpianist?”

So the guy processes this. And he’s, like, “Does that mean you wished for a twelve-inch penis?”

And the bartender’s, like, “Yeah. Why, what did you wish for?”

And the guy’s, like, “World peace.”

So the bartender is understandably ashamed.

And the guy orders a beer, like everything is normal, but it’s obvious that something has changed between him and the bartender.

And the bartender’s, like, “I feel like I should explain myself further.”

And the guy’s, like, “You don’t have to.”

But the bartender continues, in a hushed tone. And he’s, like, “I have what’s known as penile dysmorphic disorder. Basically, what that means is I fixate on my size. It’s not that I’m small down there. I’m actually within the normal range. Whenever I see it, though, I feel inadequate.”

And the guy feels sorry for him. So he’s, like, “Where do you think that comes from?”

And the bartender’s, like, “I don’t know. My dad and I had a tense relationship. He used to cheat on my mom, and I knew it was going on, but I didn’t tell her. I think it’s wrapped up in that somehow.”

And the guy’s, like, “Have you ever seen anyone about this?”

And the bartender’s, like, “Oh, yeah, I started seeing a therapist four years ago. But she says we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

So, at around this point, the twelve-inch pianist finishes up his sonata. And he walks over to the bar and climbs onto one of the stools. And he’s, like, “Listen, I couldn’t help but overhear the end of your conversation. I never told anyone this before, but my dad and I didn’t speak the last ten years of his life.”

And the bartender’s, like, “Tell me more about that.” And he pours the pianist a tiny glass of whiskey.

And the twelve-inch pianist is, like, “He was a total monster. Beat us all. Told me once I was an accident.”

And the bartender’s, like, “That’s horrible.”

And the twelve-inch pianist shrugs. And he’s, like, “You know what? I’m over it. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything, because of my height? Well, now look at me. I’m a professional musician!”

And the pianist starts to laugh, but it’s a forced kind of laughter, and you can see the pain behind it. And then he’s, like, “When he was in the hospital, he had one of the nurses call me. I was going to go see him. Bought a plane ticket and everything. But before I could make it back to Tampa . . .”

And then he starts to cry. And he’s, like, “I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to my old man.”

And all of a sudden there’s this big cloud of smoke—and a beat-up Plymouth Voyager appears!

And the pianist is, like, “I said ‘old man,’ not ‘old van’!”

And everybody laughs. And the pianist is, like, “Your genie’s hard of hearing.”

And the bartender says, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inchpianist?”

And as soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. Because the pianist is, like, “Oh, my God. You didn’t really want me.”

And the bartender’s, like, “No, it’s not like that.” You know, trying to backpedal.

And the pianist smiles ruefully and says, “Once an accident, always an accident.” And he drinks all of his whiskey.

And the bartender’s, like, “Brian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

And the pianist smashes his whiskey glass against the wall and says, “Well, I didn’t mean that.”

And the bartender’s, like, “Whoa, calm down.”

And the pianist is, like, “Fuck you!” And he’s really drunk, because he’s only one foot tall and so his tolerance for alcohol is extremely low. And he’s, like, “Fuck you, asshole! Fuck you!”

And he starts throwing punches, but he’s too small to do any real damage, and eventually he just collapses in the bartender’s arms.

And suddenly he has this revelation. And he’s, like, “My God, I’m just like him. I’m just like him.” And he starts weeping.

And the bartender’s, like, “No, you’re not. You’re better than he was.”

And the pianist is, like, “That’s not true. I’m worthless!”

And the bartender grabs the pianist by the shoulders and says, “Damn it, Brian, listen to me! My life was hell before you entered it. Now I look forward to every day. You’re so talented and kind and you light up this whole bar. Hell, you light up my whole life. If I had a second wish, you know what it would be? It would be for you to realize how beautiful you are.”

And the bartender kisses the pianist on the lips.

So the guy, who’s been watching all this, is surprised, because he didn’t know the bartender was gay. It doesn’t bother him; it just catches him off guard, you know? So he goes to the bathroom, to give them a little privacy. And there’s the genie.

So the guy’s, like, “Hey, genie, you need to get your ears fixed.”

And the genie’s, like, “Who says they’re broken?” And he opens the door, revealing the happy couple, who are kissing and gaining strength from each other.

And the guy’s, like, “Well done.”

And then the genie says, “That bartender’s tiny penis is going to seem huge from the perspective of his one-foot-tall boyfriend.”

And the graphic nature of the comment kind of kills the moment.

And the genie’s, like, “I’m sorry. I should’ve left that part unsaid. I always do that. I take things too far.”

And the guy’s, like, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just grab a beer. It’s on me.” 

 

(source: thenewyorker, via pharyngula)

It’s not a joke, even though it looks that way