May 20, 2013 · 2:51 pm

Crucify

There are three words that you will see over and over in this post. Those three words are not true. Not yet, anyway; it is my hope that they will someday become true. Maybe if I say them often enough, and loudly enough, and in front of enough people, they will become true. I hope to god that they someday become true.

Those words are I forgive myself.

forgive

When I was a freshman in college, I was in love with a boy who wasn’t in love with me and I nearly drove our friendship into the ground because I just couldn’t stop trying to be good enough for him.

I forgive myself.

When I was a sophomore in college I did run a friendship into the ground because I didn’t listen to the warnings of everyone who told me that you should never, ever be roommates with your best friend. Sometimes I miss ‘Gael so badly it hurts. Sometimes I catch a whiff of someone wearing the scented oil she used to wear, and I think I might lose my mind right there on the spot.

But I forgive myself.

When I was a junior in college, I fell in love with exactly the wrong boy, and my parents hated him, and I made them suffer through five years of dealing with him and then another two years of watching me pick up the pieces after he finally ran off with a 19-year-old voice major.

I forgave him, and I forgive myself.

My senior year of college didn’t happen for several more years, because I was busy working at–and then losing–the job at the daycare center to make ends meet, and then I took the job at the Last Place on Earth I Wanted to End Up In and worked there until a shift change opened up and I took it and went back to school and am now $25K in debt for a degree I’m not using; this is particularly poignant because when I went to school in the first place, I was on a full-ride scholarship, which vanished when I dropped out to support the guy in the preceding paragraph.

Moon Man, who is now paying that debt, forgives me, and I forgive myself.

I didn’t talk to my father for the better part of two years, aside from perfunctory three-sentence conversations, because I was so angry with him about my teenage years. To be fair, he was kind of a rat bastard for a while there; but we eventually made our peace and became friends and then became good friends and then he died and I would give anything to have those two years back.

But I forgive myself.

And speaking of Dad, the last time he was in the hospital, that last week he was in ICU and everything was going downhill fast, I realized I hadn’t seen the “Do Not Resuscitate” code on his door placard and I mentioned it to the nurse who told us we had to request it each time he came in–it didn’t carry over from hospital stay to hospital stay–so we told him that and he had them put the code back on the chart but two days earlier he had been crying, begging not to let him die, and three days later his heart flipped out and they couldn’t try to save him because I had told them about the missing DNR and so maybe it’s kind of my fault that he’s dead.

And it is absolutely not true that I forgive myself for that, and I might never forgive myself for that, but I feel obligated to try.

And then his funeral was nothing at all like he or I had hoped it would be but I was quiet because I didn’t want to make it harder on the other folks than it already was and I forgive myself for that

And I had started losing weight and trying to quit smoking before he died but then he died and I put on 80 more pounds and am still smoking and i forgive myself

and i know full well that it is unreasonable to try to be a “good woman” because that’s not even a well-defined concept but i keep trying and trying to be good enough for you and him and her and them and all of us and i forget to try to be good enough for myself but it doesn’t matter because it always always always feels like i am failing so i forgive myself

and i am not going to memorial day because i do not want go visit that goddamned box that holds the body that used to be my dad and mom is pretty pissed at me about it and i understand that but i just can’t force myself to do it because dad is in the wind chimes and in the flowers and in the clouds and in my dreams and not in the goddamned box that i might have put him in anyway and i forgive myself

and i’m not magazine-pretty and i never  did write that book of poetry and i quit my irish dance class because i was sick for three weeks and missed three classes in a row and my hair still needs trimmed and i snore and my shelves are dusty and i feel jealous at inopportune moments and i don’t think i’m living up to anyone’s expectations including my own and i’m nowhere near as interesting as people imply or at least i don’t think i am and all the funny stories in the world will not save my soul from this crushing boring lonely fear

and i forgive myself

because i have to forgive myself

because there is no one but me who is angry with me about these things

so i forgive myself

so that i can keep breathing

some days it is all i can do to just. keep. breathing.

so i forgive myself. i will try to forgive myself.

i have to forgive myself, because crucifying myself afresh every day is just. not. working. anymore.

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April 18, 2013 · 4:59 pm

Real Beauty Sketches

So there’s this article from Jazzy Little Drops making the rounds about that Dove clip that made the rounds yesterday.

(This Dove clip.)

If you can’t access the article for any reason, the short form is this: “The Dove ad is nice and presumably well-intended, but it reinforces the idea that being pretty is important and has a narrow definition; but screw pretty, because there are other more important things to be”. And I hear that, and I get that, and on a lot of levels, I agree with that; but as it happens, I loved the Dove spot. And so after reading the JLD article a couple of times now, I think I’ve figured out why it’s making me want to tell its author to go jump in a lake.

Here’s the deal: I started getting teased–which turned into “mocked” and eventually upgraded to “outright bullied” before mercifully fading out in high school–about my appearance when I was like seven. I was the “fat kid”; pictures from that time reveal that I was just ahead of the curve developmentally, so while I weighed more, I was also taller and had round bits starting to show ahead of schedule. But between the media and my peers, it was made abundantly clear that “pretty” was off the table for me.

So instead I focused on being the Smart Kid, which was also something that was true (and a source of bullying. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.) I was the Polite Kid. I was the Kind Kid, the Thoughtful Kid, the Helpful Kid. I was every “positive” character trait I could find…except the Pretty Kid. I suppose it was a sort of compensation tactic, and since it certainly did a lovely job of making people–mostly teachers and other grownups–like me, I just stuck with it. And I kept those traits as I got older–the Empathetic Woman, the Gracious Woman, the Considerate Woman, the Caring Woman. Everything except the Attractive Woman, which I was still being told daily was never going to be an option, because ZOMG SO FAT EW EW EW.

So y’know what, Blogger Who Is Probably a Very Nice Person Who Has Nonetheless Irked the Buffalo Today? I hear you. I get you. I see your point. Yes, there are more important things to be than “pretty”. But on behalf of myself and folks like me, who already know damned good and well that we are “so much more than beautiful” because beautiful was never an option for us, you can just go right ahead and shove it. Maybe you’ve had a healthy self-image this whole time, or maybe you’ve had some amazing self-love breakthrough, and for that, I congratulate you. But for those of us who haven’t–those of us who have been told in no uncertain terms, over and over, ad infinitum, by our peers, by the media, by the clothing manufacturers, that “pretty” was the one thing we could never, ever, ever be–the Dove ad was exactly the sort of message we needed. I needed to hear someone say that other people thought I was pretty even if I didn’t. I needed the reassurance that yes, maybe people might be capable of looking at me without becoming physically ill (for the record, lest you think I’m being overly dramatic, I was told exactly that on numerous occasions by various people. “You are so ugly it makes me puke”; alternately, “How can you even stand to look at yourself?”, and my personal favorite, “You can be as smart as you want to; nobody will ever care because look at you”). I needed to hear, from a complete stranger–y’know, so I couldn’t dismiss it as “you care about me. You have to tell me I’m not horrifying to behold”–that maybe the voice telling me I should invest in paper sacks or veils was coming entirely from within my own head, and that it was in fact totally possible that a stranger seeing me for the first time would notice my eyes or my dimples instead of my waistline or my weirdly pigmented lips.

And yes, I know the real takeaway from this ad was meant to be something like “Dove is an awesome company and I should buy their products because sure, I’m already beautiful, but that doesn’t mean it would kill me to try to get some more bounce in this limp hair”. Yes, I know that Dove is a corporate entity like any other and they shouldn’t be allowed to dictate–or indeed have any say whatsoever in–my self-image. Yes, I know that their messages and the messages of their parent company have not always been consistent or positive.

But I don’t care. For three minutes, I was told quite clearly that not only was “pretty” not off the table for me right now, but it had actually been there the whole time, regardless of what I’d come to believe.

And for a girl who learned how to be “so much more than beautiful” because she thought those were the only things she could be, that’s one helluva powerful message.

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April 4, 2013 · 10:16 am

Dancin’ Buffalo

First, you need to read (or re-read) William Morris’s beautiful blog post, “She Dances“. Trust me. You have five minutes to spare for that. Grab a tissue.

…/waits

…/hands out hankies

Are we all back? Have we dabbed our eyes and are ready to continue?

Now here’s why I had you read that (“I told you that story so I could tell you this one…”): that school that he talks about, the Driscoll School of Irish Dance? Well, they recently moved to a location close to my home; and since the Morrises are in our neck of the woods three times a week for classes, we’ve been trying to have a more-or-less weekly Extended Honorary Family Pizza Dinner with them on Fridays. And a couple of weeks ago, over pizza and bruschetta, Michelle–the Mom–mentioned that DSID was starting an adult class for ultra-beginners, and she’d signed up. She showed me the new shoes she’d gotten, and was excited if a little nervous, and I thought it was all terribly nifty and was appropriately excited for her.

And then I went home and thought about it. “I’ve never had a dance class,” I thought; “maybe I should consider signing up”.

‘Cause, y’know, what the world really needs is a buffalo hopping around like she thinks floors are sturdy enough for all that.

But the more I thought about it, the more appealing the idea seemed. I mean, really, what’s the worst-case scenario here–that I hate it? That I’m terrible at it? That I break my damnfool neck? It’s not like it’s a “dance flawlessly or the entire world gets nuked” situation; if it turned out not to be for me, then I could just, y’know, not do it anymore. No harm, no foul. So I signed up.

The first class was last night at 7:00, and because I’ve got some significant Trust issues and Change issues and “OMG NEW THING IN A NEW PLACE WITH NEW PEOPLE EVERYBODY PANIC” issues, I spent most of the afternoon in an increasing state of fear; by the time class actually rolled around, and I was there in my workout pants and my oh-god-it’s-too-bright-almost-lurid-isn’t-it turquoise t-shirt and my sneakers-but-oh-god-everyone-else-is-wearing-ghillies-and-I-am-the-weirdo-already, I was frankly considering running away and joining the circus while there was still time.

Michelle was gracious and enthusiastic (if also a bit nervous), and she introduced me to some of the other folks in the class, which helped–and Michelle, if you’re reading this, thank you. But you know what also helped? When I walked into the dance studio, Katie (the dancer from the blog post above) smiled and did a little finger-wave. And it reminded me of “She Dances”, and it all kinda settled in for me at once: this is a school that was completely and totally ok with having a student sit under the table for three weeks. The teacher wants you to learn and have fun, because she’s teaching something she loves and wants to spread that love around, and she is not even a little bit interested in being judgmental. Heck, she told us several times during the course of the first class that as long as your feet end up in more or less the right place at more or less the right time, you get to say you’re doing it right. Which is good, because that was about all that most of us could realistically muster.

So last night I went to my first-ever-in-life dance class. I did not die, I did not puke on anyone, I did not fall over or cause others to fall over, and I did not get all the steps right. I did not break through the floor, I did not shatter any mirrors, and I did not discover that I am immediately competition-ready with a bit of minor tweaking. I was a completely ordinary student–one wearing a larger shirt size than everyone else in the room, but otherwise ordinary in every way.

And y’know what? It was so much fun. Like, hordes of flocks of scads of fun. Like, I’m already looking forward to next week (my knee would like to express its dissent with that statement, but my knee can go jump in a lake).

And aside from a (very) basic knowledge of a few basic dance steps, I also came away from class with a renewed understanding that while I can’t deny the cattiness of Society at Large, when you shrink down and examine the microcosm the vast majority of the judgment you encounter comes entirely from within your own head. I talked with one of the other dancers about this after class; she said that she hoped nobody was watching her because she also was not an instant dance prodigy, and I told her that while I hoped it wasn’t offensive to hear this, during the class she completely fell off my radar except as a cylinder moving through space that I probably should try not to hit, kick, or otherwise damage. I was focused on myself, the teacher, and the mirror…and that was it. I didn’t have time to judge anyone else, because I was busy trying to hop-two-three and what-was-that-crap-crap-something-two-three-four in time with the music.

So today my plan is to hunt around online and see if I can find some good dance shoes, and maybe see if I can’t find some videos so I can practice during the week, and spend some quality time trying to really let the non-judgment lesson take hold.

‘Cause, y’know, really–if the teacher, who has been at this for a very long time, says I can do it, who am I to argue? Ain’t nobody judging me but me–and my inner demons can go jump in the lake with my knee.

In my head, I was all Riverdance all the time. The reality was probably something more like this. Which is totally ok--lookit how cute he is!

In my head, I was all Riverdance all the time. The reality was probably something more like this. Which is totally ok–lookit how cute he is!

 

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March 21, 2013 · 11:07 am

Silence Is the Voice of Complicity

I want to introduce you to what I am coming to believe is one of the most dangerous words in the English language. Got any guesses what it is?

Hint: it’s a short word. Very, very short.

The word I’m thinking of is “we”.

Since that damned dirty mess in Steubenville happened, I’m seeing more and more blog posts/articles/etc about how we as a society could–and must–do more to shut down the rape culture. This is the same language I’ve seen historically about bullying–we must do everything we can to stop bullying–and about animal cruelty and about child abuse and about voter fraud and about pretty much everything Monsanto ever does and about how it’s a pain in the butt to find plus-sized clothing that doesn’t look like a potato sack or come with a ludicrous price tag. “We have to change things”, we all say; “we have to put an end to _____”, and “we have to empower people to ______”, and “we need to keep _____ in the spotlight until society sees what’s really going on”.

But here’s the problem with that: I read these articles, and I nod along, and not for one second do I believe that I’m alone here when I say that if I really, truly search my soul, I discover that I’m mentally translating “we” to “y’all”. ‘Cause, y’know, I’m not raping anybody, so I have nothing to change. I’m a beautiful and unique snowflake, and it’s all y’all vile slimebuckets out there who have some changin’ to do. Ditto for ending the use of “retarded” as a slang term for “not a great idea”, or “gay” for “uncool”, or putting an end to fat shaming or skinny slamming or the melting of the polar ice caps. I never describe an idea as “retarded”; therefore, I am absolved of all blame, and y’all need to get y’all’s act together. Sheesh.

And that’s where the problem comes in: we see the word “we”, we read it as the word “y’all”, and then we go on complacently with our lives. And for the most part, that’s actually kinda ok–I actually don’t advocate deciding that every day is Make a New Picket Line Day. I don’t advocate adding your voice to whatever clamor happens to be popular at the moment. I don’t advocate condensing all your beliefs to ten-second sound clips (just in case you ever get on the news, y’know) and then running through the streets, shrieking them at the top of your lungs.

IT’S NOT OKAY TO SAY “THAT’S GAY!”

SAVE THE BABY POLAR BEARS!

WHAT DO WE WANT? AFFORDABLE, CUTE PLUS-SIZED CLOTHING! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!

What I do advocate is acknowledging that “we” by default includes “I”, and taking on the mantle of very real, very concrete personal responsibility for changing the world around you through your direct action (or inaction–refusal to participate totally counts in advancing some causes). I very strongly advocate using your voice. And I absolutely advocate taking ownership of the space around you.

Here’s what I mean:

At a party, an acquaintance makes a rape joke (for the record, I think “rape joke” is an oxymoron). You have the right to say “I’m not ok with perpetuating rape culture” and walk away. You don’t have to explain yourself; you don’t have to engage with them (unless you really want to); you’re under no obligation, social or otherwise, to just roll with it. Parties are for having fun with people you like. If you’re not having fun, you’re actually kind of obligated to do something about it, lest you be everyone’s killjoy. (If opting out of that conversation is what makes you the killjoy, then I highly recommend leaving the party altogether and rethinking the type of friends you keep.)

Another scenario: you’re out to dinner with a dear friend, and he describes a movie he recently saw as “retarded”. You have the right to wince at that word. You can be more vocal if you want to–you’re allowed to say “I’m not cool with using that word in that way”, or something similar–but whatever response you choose, you are allowed to express your displeasure. You don’t have to beat him about the head with it–you don’t need to be a jerk here–but you are completely within your rights to say “not cool, bro” and roll on.

Scenario #3: It’s Thanksgiving, and Asinine Aunt Amelia (I don’t know any Amelias personally, so please know that if that’s your name, I’m really, truly not aiming this at you) has had a couple of glasses of tongue-loosening wine and has started spouting off about how gay people will be the ruination of this country so they should all be rounded up and sterilized. You have the right to buck protocol and hijack the conversation at the first available opportunity. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to interrupt your elders, and ok, fine, I’ll let her finish her sentence. But sooner or later she’s going to have to pause for a breath, and that’s when you leap in with “I love you, Aunt Amelia, but I think your opinions are antiquated and I’m not comfortable with you saying things like that in front of my kids. So instead we’re going to talk about books. I just read this really great one, called Code Name Verity, about spies and pilots in World War Two. Anyone else here read it? No? Well, here’s the gist….”

Look, folks, the bottom line is this: “we” is made up of a whole lot of “I”s, not a whole lot of “you”s. If “we” want society to change, then I have to take personal responsibility for changing it. I don’t have to be a jerk about it, and I don’t have to be confrontational or loud or pushy. We all know those people who  are apparently incapable of talking about anything but the cause du jour, and those people are incredibly boring and no fun to be around. I don’t have to be that person.

But I do have to be willing to stand up and say “No”, and I have to be willing to follow that up with “‘No’ means NO”. I have to take responsibility for my actions, my words, and my life; and if I’m going to declare that the space around me is a traveling Safe Space, then I have to be in charge of keeping it that way.

And maybe if I and you and the rest of us “I”s and “you”s band together, we’ll create enough Safe Spaces to cover the world.

Preach on, Brother O.

Preach on, Brother O.

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March 19, 2013 · 12:31 pm

Poor Rodney

First I want you to read this article about Rodney Knight, Jr. . Go ahead; I’ll wait.

/checks email

/browses Facebook

Did you go read it? It was from NBCNews.com, so I reckon most employers/etc won’t have blocked it; but in case you couldn’t access it for some reason, here are the key points:

  • Rodney Knight, Jr., a 19-year-old, broke into a house in Washington, D.C., in 2010, and helped himself to a laptop, iPod, savings bonds, cash, and a new coat.
  • While he was at it, he took a picture of himself wearing the coat and holding the cash, and posted it to Facebook.
  • He was eventually apprehended, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to 44 months in prison for it.

And it really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone that he became a punchline almost immediately…I mean, what burglar in their right mind posts a picture of himself with the stolen loot on Facebook, fer cryin’ out loud?

But y’know what? I think poor Rodney didn’t get a fair shake. He was just 19–a teenager, barely past being a child–with his whole life stretching out in front of him. The media hasn’t said anything about his talents or skills, or what he wanted to do with his life; maybe he was a tech-savvy fellow with a promising future in computer science. Maybe he was an amateur magician, who would have used his gymnastic skills to become the next Houdini. Maybe he had some entirely unrelated skill that we’re just not talking about–maybe he was incredibly gifted in science, or comparative literature, or music, and we don’t know about it because we’re too busy vilifying him…and now that he’ll carry the label of “convict” with him for the rest of his life, maybe we’ll never know what greatness he could’ve gone on to accomplish.

And y’know what else? I think it’s just b.s. that we aren’t talking about the culpability of the homeowner in all this. If you don’t want people to take your stuff, maybe you should consider investing in better home security. Have an alarm, or a dog, or some bars on the window or something. But noooo, they left all their electronics lying out, along with piles of cash and bonds and things, and just expected that nobody would take it? How is that even reasonable? If you’re going to flaunt your stuff, guys, you don’t get to be surprised when you attract the “wrong” kind of people to your door, is all I’m sayin’. I mean, c’mon, look at the coat you picked. What kind of message did you think it was sending?

So now, thanks to you and your Getting All Bent Out of Shape About Something That Was Your Own Fault Anyway If You Actually Think About It, poor Rodney’s life is ruined forever. We’ll never know what he might have become…and whatever else he is or might have been, we know for sure that he is someone’s son, someone’s friend, someone’s neighbor; and now he is also a convict, and that is entirely your fault. Thanks for that. Jerks.

…Actually, no. Strike all that. I forgot one other thing that he is: he’s an idiot.

He’s a damn fool who made a series of damned stupid decisions, including, but by no means limited to, breaking the damned law and then posting about it on the damned internet.

Let me say that again, in case you are the one person in North America who is missing the parallel here:

Rodney Knight, Jr., posted a picture of himself online via social media–in this case, Facebook. In that picture, he was committing a crime. He was eventually convicted of this crime, and everyone in the free world laughed at him for being a big ol’ dolt.

/ahem

I’ve been reading about Mr. Knight for the better part of the last hour, doing research for this post, and you know what I haven’t found? I haven’t found a public outcry about how unfairly people thought he was treated. I haven’t found anything at all saying that folks thought it was a damned shame how his future wasn’t taken into consideration, or how the victims deserved what they got. This is because he is, as previously mentioned, a damnfool who made some damned stupid decisions, and in fact, deserved exactly what he got.

As opposed to, say, the response to the Steubenville rape case, which has been somewhere between “not entirely ok” and “PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE KIDDING. LIE IF YOU HAVE TO” on the scale of appropriate human responses (pro tip: you will want to have a few bracing slugs of whiskey before clicking on that “tell me you are kidding” link. It might also help if you can get a friend to keep you locked in the house so you don’t hulk out on rage and go start burning the world). Because apparently, for reasons I flatly refuse to understand, burglary is all the burglar’s fault, but rape is the victim’s fault; and when a thief is sentenced to jail time, we all applaud and have a good laugh at his expense, but when rapists are sentenced, we bemoan the thought that now they might not go on to be pro football players.

(Side note: being a damnfool convicted criminal does not, apparently, stop one from being a pro football player. There’s a special place in hell for you, Michael Vick.)

So what’s the takeaway from all this? Hell if I know. The obvious takeaway is that society is deeply, deeply flawed, but we knew that; and there are a hundred bazillion articles and images and infographics out there about how what we really need to do is raise our sons not to be rapists and stop perpetuating rape culture (google either of those two phrases, and you’ll have reading material for days). And there’s a second takeaway in the idea that perhaps we should take some time to reflect on double standards, and how some things are apparently more criminal than others, and when it is or isn’t ok to mock someone for the damnfool things they’ve done.

But I think the biggest takeaway, at least for me, is that no matter how jaded and cynical I think I’ve become, people always find a way to surprise me. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing; all I know for sure is that I’m thinking again about canceling our cable service, because no amount of Project Runway can make up for having to watch the major news outlets utterly fail to mention the impact of this whole thing on the Steubenville victim’s life.

Damnfools, the lot of ‘em.

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March 18, 2013 · 5:59 pm

Correlation Does Not Equal Causation

About a week ago, an image came across my desk (via Facebook, if we’re going to be honest here), and since that time I have been trying very, very hard to think of polite ways to phrase my thoughts about it. Tactful ways. Respectful, caring, supportive ways that do not belittle or mock.

I got nothin’.

So here’s some fair warning, ‘Tracters: today you are going to see me be rude, today you are going to see me be all rage-y, and today you are going to read a tirade. There will almost definitely be some pottymouth involved. Those of you who do not wish to participate in my tantrum are welcome to go check out Buzzfeed’s roundup of Red Pandas Who Are Delighted to See You instead.

To those of you who are still here, I present the image which has inspired such vitriol in my icy little heart:

This makes my eye twitch flare up.

This makes my eye twitch flare up.

Some of you may have seen that before, or something similar, and in fact, a good friend of mine posted her own tirade about this topic not terribly long ago. But for those of you who are new to the party, let me condense its message for you:

“Children are receiving more vaccines nowadays. Also, there are more diagnosed cases of autism. Therefore, OMG IF YOU LET YOUR KIDS GET SHOTS THEY WILL GET AUTISM”.

/suppresses twitch

Let me start with a very, very basic math lesson. Actually, no, I’m not even going to call it that, because we’re not going to do any math, though technically this was discussed in that Statistics class I took in college. There’s this principle, see, and I need you to pay very close attention to it; it states that

CORRELATION DOES NOT EQUAL CAUSATION.

Those are some big words. Let’s simplify.

Correlation means that you have these two things, and you notice that sometimes they happen together. This is how things like the “lucky underpants” phenomenon arise. For example, you might notice that every blessed time you get your hair done, it rains, because the Universe thinks it’s funny when you cry. You could say, then, that your trips to the hairdresser seem to be correlated to flargin’ blargin’ rainstorms. We know your hairdresser does not control the weather; it just happens to be the case that the two occur concurrently often enough to make you think about buzzing it all off and wearing hats forever.

Causation, on the other hand, means that one thing directly causes the next. The child drops her bowl of cereal; the floor gets all milky and cereal-y. The sun rises; the temperature goes up. It’s measurable, it’s repeatable, it’s verifiable, and–here’s the important part–it is not the same as correlation. These words are not synonyms. They do not mean the same thing. They describe similar phenomena–you observe one thing, then you observe another thing, and the two things seem to go hand-in-hand–but one is a real live honest-to-goodness association, and the other is quite possibly a figment of your imagination (I hate to break it to you, but it’s the “being a great date” that is getting you laid, not your “lucky” underpants with the little ducks on ‘em).

Now, it is entirely possible that somewhere down the road, I will eat my words and feel very guilty for daring to imply that autism rates and vaccinations were a relationship of correlation rather than causation. I am open to that possibility.

But in the meantime, all you have are numbers in columns that indicate a correlation between the two…and as a result of that correlation (here’s some causation for you), a lot of parents are freaking out and deciding that they would rather risk having their child die of a completely preventable illness than permitting any possibility that their child will be autistic.

‘Cause, y’know, “Better dead than autistic“.

/suppresses twitch again

In the interest of science, I did a bit of digging of my own. You know what I found?

In 1983 (the same year as in the graphic above) kids got 10 vaccines, the rate of autism was 1/10K, and “Benjamin” was the 32nd most popular name for boys.

In 2008 kids got 36 vaccines, the rate of autism was 1/150, and Benjamin was the 23rd most popular name.

In 2013 they got 46 vaccines, the autism rate was 1/88, and while it’s too early to call the name data yet, as of 2012 Benjamin had jumped to #11.

In other words, OH MY GOD VACCINES CAUSE BENJAMINS.

WHAT IS NEXT, PEOPLE? WHEN WILL IT STOP? WHEN WILL WE SEE WHAT WE HAVE WROUGHT?!? WHAT WILL SAVE OUR SONS FROM A WORLD WHERE THEY ARE ALL BENJAMINS?!? GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

/ahem

/smooths down skirt, pats hair back into place

See, that right there is what a hysteria born of a correlation looks like. It’s also why I don’t trust pretty much any statistic anyone ever throws onto a screen nowadays, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that if you’re going to make choices which could directly impact the health of your children and of the children around you (thank you in advance for not letting your measles-bearin’ toddler anywhere near my brand new infant great-nephew, and I’ll ask your forgiveness in advance if I find out that your little plague-bearer–who is THANK GOD NOT AUTISTIC HEAVEN FORBID–has breathed on said great-nephew’s wee tiny no-real-immune-system-yet self and I go upside your head with a kitchen chair or baseball bat or maybe a car), then the least you can damned well do is base your decisions on causation rather than correlation. Y’know, use your damned brain. It’s not just a placeholder in your damned skull. Dammit.

Damn.

I also have some exceedingly strong opinions about the “better dead than autistic” issue, but I think the nice folks over at Left Brain Right Brain have already handled that for me, and far more succinctly (and with fewer naughty words) than I could manage. So we’ll leave that to them, and I’m going to go take some deep breaths and see if I can’t get this twitching under control.

Before I go, though, let me tie this all up with a neat bow and your official takeaway:

EVERY TIME YOU MAKE STUPID HEALTHCARE DECISIONS BASED ON WHAT SOMEONE YOU KNOW LIKES-’N'-SHARES ON FACEBOOK, BABY JESUS KILLS A KITTEN.

Though really, it’s just correlation at this point. We’ll see if we can prove causation later.

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March 13, 2013 · 9:22 am

Let Me Tell You That I Love You

There is something that I need you to help me with.

I need you to go to your Facebook wall right now and post the following message:

Hey, you.

The one reading this.

Yes, you.

I love you.

I just thought you should know.

You can copy/paste that if you want to. It makes life a little simpler. If you’re not on Facebook, you can email it. Or text it. Or call. Or write a letter. Or hire a skywriter, if you’ve got the cash for that sort of thing. Any medium works–just get the message out there.

Here’s the thing: two years ago today, at 11:11 a.m., we lost my father. I learned a lot of things on that day–that sometimes nurses cry when they lose a patient, that all my previous “worst days ever” were really only inconveniences at best, that friends will materialize out of the woodwork to come sit and cry with you–but the biggest thing I learned is that there is never, ever, ever enough time. There is always supposed to be one more day. There is always supposed to be time for one more conversation. There is always supposed to be an opportunity to say “I love you” one more time.

Until their heart stops, and the clock stops, and the world stops, and the story ends, and there isn’t any time, anymore, ever.

And what that means, at the core of it, is that we only ever really have this exact moment. You are living and breathing right this second, and the people you love are living and breathing right this second, and that’s the only guarantee you get–nobody’s promising anything about what will happen in the next second, or the second after that, so you’d better take advantage of this one.

Which means that this is an excellent time–no, it’s the perfect time–to tell your loved ones how you feel about them.

You can riff on the theme if you want to; you can embellish, or clarify, or specify. You can tailor the message so that it fits the circumstances of your particular relationship with a given person (“I know we haven’t talked in a while, but wanted you to know that I love you”, for instance; or “Don’t panic–this isn’t a marriage proposal or anything. It’s just me, saying that I love you because you deserve to know that you are loved”), but man, don’t let the moment pass without saying anything. Don’t put it off until after your coffee break, or after lunch, or on the next major holiday.

All you ever have is this moment right now, and in that moment is always–always–the opportunity to let people know that they are loved.

Don’t let that chance slip away.

opportunities

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