Today, as I walked into the grocery store, some solicitor was outside trying to get signatures or money. I don’t even know what his cause was, because the first thing he said to me as I got closer was, “You dropped your smile.”
There are very few things in the world that make my blood boil like being told by a strange man to smile. But I was very restrained and ignored him. I went about buying my groceries and forgot about it. Then, as I was leaving the store, he saw me and said, “You going to talk to me this time?”
I stopped. I turned. I said this, with a smile:
"I’m going to give you a tip. All women, everywhere, all of them, hate being told to smile. It implies that we owe you something, or it’s our job to be pleasant or ornamental. We don’t owe you anything, and it’s not our f*cking job to be pleasant or ornamental. If you want to help your cause, stop telling women to smile, because it makes them want to punch you in the face. Which I won’t do."
And then I walked away.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: You want to see a death panel, Mr. Halperin?
I’ll show you a letter on Anthem Blue Cross stationery I got back when Bush was still president and Obamacare was still Newt Gingrich’s plan that never happened.
It says “denial of benefits” on it, but what it is, when the only thing keeping you alive is a very expensive feeding tube, is a letter from a private, employer-provided insurance company’s Death Panel.
My doctor had no input in the decision. The experts providing care had no input in the decision. Just the insurance company’s reviewer, who decided that the continuing care was “not medically necessary”. Which, in context, was a euphemism for “You are too expensive to keep alive. Please die.” And if I hadn’t had enough money in the bank to deal with it myself, I would not be typing this today.
There’s your death panel, you ignorant shill. They exist. Private insurance companies have had them for years. Get sick enough, and if you’re unlucky, you might just hear from one. It isn’t fun. Oh, and you want to know what’s really funny? If I hadn’t been able to afford care by bleeding away my life savings, my other alternative would have been to move to Japan—where they have universal, government-supplied health care.
A commentator who goes by the username “Marc” in response to “Mark Halperin tells conservative host that death panels are ‘built in’ to Obamacare" | The Raw Story (via rabbleprochoice)
The Hunger Games Are Real
"Does the Hunger Games have hot guys in it? Big f*cking deal."
If you blame Native American communities for their poverty, remember that the entire continent was stolen from them.
If you blame Black American communities for their relative poverty, remember that Black Americans were stolen from a continent, trafficked, and enslaved for nearly 300 years.
Tell me again about how your family ‘started from nothing’ when they immigrated. Didn’t they start from whiteness? Seems like a pretty good start.
The American Dream required dual genocides, but tell me again about fairness and equal opportunity. Tell me about democracy, modeled after the Iroquois Confederacy. Tell me your proud heritage, and I will show you the violence that made it so.
It is entirely unacceptable to have “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” stuck in my head right now.
One manager at the apartment complex where I worked while in college told me, repeatedly, that she knew I was “Okay” because my little Nissan was clean. That I had worn a Jones of New York suit to the interview really sealed the deal. She could call the suit by name because she asked me about the label in the interview. Another hiring manager at my first professional job looked me up and down in the waiting room, cataloging my outfit, and later told me that she had decided I was too classy to be on the call center floor. I was hired as a trainer instead. The difference meant no shift work, greater prestige, better pay and a baseline salary for all my future employment.
I have about a half dozen other stories like this. What is remarkable is not that this happened. There is empirical evidence that women and people of color are judged by appearances differently and more harshly than are white men. What is remarkable is that these gatekeepers told me the story. They wanted me to know how I had properly signaled that I was not a typical black or a typical woman, two identities that in combination are almost always conflated with being poor.