Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.
"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"
There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”
When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.
We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”
I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.
Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.
"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"
"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."
I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.
At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.
I am this cabdriver’s daughter.
Here’s the dirty little secret about this though: there is no such thing as withholding sex because there is no situation in which you owe another human being sex. Ever. Your body is 100% your own and you get to consent or not consent to other people doing things to or with your body for whatever the hell reason you would like. This includes because you’re pissed off at the person, because they did something you didn’t like, because you just don’t fucking feel like it, because you’re tired, because you don’t feel attractive, because you’d rather read a book…any of the above. And not wanting to have sex with someone because you have negative feelings towards them at a given moment is not in fact punishment. It’s actually a very natural human feeling not to want to be physically intimate with someone when you’re annoyed/angry/hurt/sad with them. Oddly enough letting someone be close to your body when you don’t feel emotionally close to them doesn’t always feel great (if that’s your thing then go for it, but for those who don’t like it then there is no fucking reason to apologize).
But the idea that you can pull some sort of power play in a relationship by not giving the other person something which you don’t owe to them in the first place makes no sense. It would be like telling your partner that you’re going to punish them by not baking them chocolate chip cookies every day: sure, maybe they would like those cookies but in no way are you obligated to bake them cookies anyway, so they should probably be just fine getting along without it. The idea that you should feel as if the only way you can express that you’re angry or upset or unhappy in your relationship is by taking ownership over your body in a way that is so basic it should never have been a question is somewhat disgusting. If your partner has you so convinced that you owe them sex, no wonder you feel a little angry or vindictive towards them.
Just filled out my health insurance forms!
yeah!!! fucking around with health insurance forms!!!!
I hate when people complain about “oh health forms are stupid they want my biological sex instead of my gender!!!!” or “they only have male or female!!!”
There’s a reason for that, you dumb fucks, and they’re referring to biological sex
Different health risks are present in different sexes, and whatever gender is in your head does not change the fact that if you were born female, you have a higher risk for certain cancers and osteoporosis, and if you were born male you have a higher risk for heart disease and often a shorter lifespan than a female.
In other words, your biological sex is an important factor in health and health insurance, and your special snowflake status doesn’t change that.
Coulda said it nicer but it’s true; it’s about health.
No. There gets a point where nice doesn’t work. There’s too many stupid ass angsty teens on here that are gonna get themselves seriously hurt or sick because they wanna be a special fucking snowflake. Lemme tell you a thing. Doctors don’t give a flying fuck what you identify as. All they want to know is do you have two X chromosomes or an XY? Because cancer and lupus and certain medicines don’t give a flying fuck what pronouns you use. This is about your fucking LIFE. stop being angsty for TWELVE SECONDS because when you’re in an ambulance or going into cardiac arrest or whatever the situation may be, it’s ESSENTIAL that you get your head out of your ass long enough to tell them your BIOLOGICAL SEX that you were BORN WITH. It literally may save your life.
this is all very violent imo
it’s not but ok lol
hi im one of those doctors you idiots keep using as an excuse to yell at trans people
every single thing you’ve said is incorrect, and you do not know what you are talking about
I may need to know what organs a patient does or does not have, their hormonal status and history of exposure, and even their karyotype. Ideas like “biological sex” can often imply a lot of this. In medicine, that isn’t good enough. We have to be able to catch exceptions, side-effects, sequelae, and anomalies that might affect only one in a million patients. Exceptions to any one or more elements of the “biological sex” paradigm are much, much, much, much more common than that.
You genuinely do not know a patient’s chromosomes until you’ve run an expensive test, and even then, who knows! they could be a mosaic. Whether this information is important, and when, and why, depends. It all completely depends. A gender/sex/whatever marker on a form is not and never will be important. No matter how you cut it, is and always will be a miniscule source of information. Frankly, by disclosing a trans background on this form, the OP has made it more diagnostically useful to a clinician than that form has ever been before - we trans people are statistically very uncommon and tend to encounter distinct hardships and challenges that are highly relevant to our medical needs. Even then, it would still be no substitute for actually interviewing the patient.
So that’s the other thing you House addicts don’t have a clue about. Good doctors do “give a flying fuck” about how the patient identifies, because a patient’s background is absolutely key to their health. Knowing a patient’s basic demographics can help me think about what may be more or less likely in terms of their care needs.
More importantly, it helps me treat my patient with respect. This is both the decent thing to do and an absolute minimum requirement for being able to get damn near anything done. You sneering choads couldn’t cure a side of beef.