#it was at that point where there was so much fear about the opioid crisis and people being on too much medication

[david-watts]

there used to be this programme on sbs years back where it looked at whether certain homeopathic/natural/cultural medicine had actual benefits or not and I'm sure that programme did really good things in terms of legitimising genuine alternative treatments that have helped many people but what I mostly remember it doing was making my grandmother go 'see you don't need to be on medicine' and then not even allowing me to do the alternative medicine either. which was great

[pooopopop]

An Incredibly Important Topic Being Obscured by the Standom Phenomenon, And the Damaging Repercussions of the Self Help Industry. 

I originally started posting to this fandom out of spite and in defense of a friend I talk to privately, whose incredibly smart and thoughtful but has an anxiety in them born out of OCD and Clinical Depression, which keeps them from posting publicly themselves. In conjunction with that, this friend is disabled due to EDS and Chronic migraine, but in spite of (or maybe because of,) this friend is educated in Sociology and Religion. Over this weekend we watched a conversation go over in the fandom that frightened them and I feel inclined to address it, though even if I share their frustration I’m not as educated on this subject so I will be relaying their points as best as I can. Here is the discourse as portrayed by the loudest and most passionate users in the fandom:

Firstly, let’s get two things out of the way. A single person flushing a single bottle of pills is a non-issue, it’s ridiculous to say that it is a major contributor to the environment. Second, it’s outright evil and counterproductive to shame a person for addiction and substance abuse, not that Misha is even guilty of that. Now,

What Misha did was irresponsible and ill-advised, that is stopping your prescription cold turkey AND telling your audience, an audience admires you far too much for their own good, about how you did it as if it was a triumph. Being on an opioid (Hydrocodone or Oxycodone) for two weeks after a major invasive surgery like a hip replacement is not an addiction. It also isn’t withdrawal that caused black spots and suicidal thoughts. Withdrawal is not something that only lasts two days. I am not accusing Misha of lying, what we believe he is is a victim of scare tactics and the rhetoric of his surroundings, the withdrawal symptoms he felt were in all actuality most likely caused by rejecting the use of medication as prescribed by a doctor and suffering the physical pain of deciding to “grit and bare it” while you’re in recovery and the emotional pain experienced by telling yourself you are a failure for wanting the pain to stop bad enough to indulge in taking a pill. That being said, if you should fear that you are beginning to struggle with addiction, you should 100% CALL YOUR DOCTOR. Crisis calls and Crisis appointments are a real thing and you should never fear reaching out for help. Addiction is not illegal, being in possession of prescribed medication is not illegal, of course you will NOT BE ARRESTED FOR IT. What IS something we advise you to be cautious about it telling your doctor, nurse, or EMT that you are experiencing suicidal thoughts. Though it shouldn’t be this way, you could likely be put in a less than ideal situation, so you are better off never going cold turkey on any medication so that you can best avoid getting to that point. NEXT, It’s important to note that Misha never said he has a disability. What @THEEwinchesters is implying here is that Misha has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which is pure speculation on his part. You should not diagnose people you do not know, celebrities the least of which. My friend is forgiving and would like to say that he probably doesn’t want anybody to ask him to elaborate because it would put him in a triggering position where he will have to defend and prove the diagnosis which is a struggle you already have to go through with a doctor in your own journey to get yourself officially diagnosed, but I don’t think that’s an excuse- if anything I think he should know that’s why you DON’T simply decide things for yourself in regards to strangers. You can’t base a diagnosis on being able to relate to somebody you like, and vice versa. But on the other side, Addiction is an illness. Depression is an illness. Both of which, now, Misha has opened up about dealing with. He seems to us like the type of person who rejects the idea of being ashamed of sickness and disability (in theory, more on that later); in fact, he��d likely claim EDS if he had it, and wear it proudly as an act of raising awareness and get Gish or Stands involved in it somehow. Since the OP tells you not to ask, we have to assume he is basing his diagnosis on is the fact that Misha is very flexible, a symptom of EDS. However, you see, Misha’s brother is a fitness trainer and yoga teacher. Which is a helpful Segway to the main topic that my friend had so much to say about…

IN the episode where Misha plays Castiel as a hippie, he is characterized as a spiritual leader and Sex Therapist(?), or at the very least pretending to be while he is indulging in his humanity. The portrayal seems to be based on Misha himself and his brother, even has a little shrine to Buddha making a cameo.

BUT- while it’s weird and not Cas, the biggest vice he indulges in that is explicitly condemned by the meta is… prescriptions. He pops some pills and Dean takes a look at them, and they are prescription amphetamines, which are prescribed to treat ADD. Vyvanse and Adderall. This being a vice is explicit, and its no coincidence that Misha also considers taking painkillers after a surgery to be something he had to overcome. He’s opened up about self medicating, dropping acid, smoking weed, Vicki’s book calls ecstasy a tried-and-true drug for threesomes (to use with caution, after condescendingly referring to XR drugs as “designer”), and partakes in glamorizing our rampant drinking culture enthusiastically. What Misha is victim to, and what everybody surrounding him is victim to as well, is the Self Help industry. It’s a vile thing that capitalizes on the shame of physical and mental illness, poverty, and in doing that it villainizes our most vulnerable people telling them that it only takes hard work and discipline to feel good. It teaches you that wanting medication is taking the easy way out, and that suffering from ailments or circumstances is a moral failure.

You catch this? Of course, it IS a Buddhist proverb, but there’s a reason that using this proverb is something they have in common and it isn’t because Jared co-op’d it. He is an obvious victim of the Self-Help Industry too, take a look at who he follows on Instagram.

The Self Help industry deeply intertwines itself with religion, as yet another powerful motivator to shame it’s clientele. It’s almost a religion in itself, with it’s heavy promotion of following philosophies, spot lighting failures, moralizing personal wellness, and predatory tactics that are designed to appeal to you when you are at rock bottom. They incorporate Buddhism, Christianity, and secularism all wrapped up in this New-Age pseudo-spirituality centering a philosophy of personal empowerment. There’s an abundance of Prosperity Gospel Preachers, who have been under scrutiny for decades, exposed again and again as hypocrites and heretics, who are practically entirely responsible for creating the fundamental strategies for MLM schemes, and the ever enduring holistic/alternative medicine business. However, what goes less scrutinized are the abusive self-help speakers and communities that disguise themselves behind New-Age flower-y garble, “witchy”/occult aesthetics, and the current most prevalent (and imo most offensive) offenders, Orientalists. The overlap is inescapable for White, American Buddhists. Though OprahWinfrey identifies as a Christian, while she was the countries biggest pop culture icon she caused a tidal wave that flooded the country cooking American Christianity, New-Age paganism, and fortune cookie Buddhism in a fat pot of gruel She sold as “Umami”. White Buddhism went the way of prosperity gospel, white-washing the concepts of Karma and Dharma by ignoring their cultural roots (they are spiritual concepts born and bound to a caste system being in place), to turn them into profitable currency, and leverage for the argument that you are deserving of the suffering you experience, and traditional medication is not only lazy but it robs you of the opportunity to become a greater person by overcoming your suffering on your own merit. This is why Misha considered it a triumph throw out his RX and misidentified lingering recovery pains and bad frame of mind to withdrawal, because he considers pain medication to be an indulgence that he has to atone for. It’s why there’s no shame or significant repercussions you can blame on self-medicating/experimenting with illicit drugs + psychedelics. In contrast, the latter is a task he took upon himself and learn from, which makes it “kosher” so to speak. New Agers and Secularists were appealed by the same belief system when it was packaged and resold to the general public as Energy Exchange and the Law of Attraction when it was introduced to them by Oprah and her large scale promotion of the book, The Secret.

Joe Rogan laughs at it, but he went and reinvented the wheel, with what he’s coined as “The Winner and The Loser Mentality” and preaches to his audience. The pages Jared follows, ways2well, market their brand on Joe’s philosophy a ton, reposting clips from his podcast with a proud co-sign. On a post featuring Jared, they promoted another kind of anti-pharmaceutical pseudoscience movement, “Functional Medicine”.

Read about why that’s snake oil, here. The Self-Help industry exploits people and causes real, quantifiable harm. Oprah’s promotion of The Secret resulted in the death of a devout member of her viewership when she decided to stop treating her cancer with traditional medicine, because she had been sold on the idea that she had it within her to overcome it herself. I suppose, ultimately, she must have simply had a loser mentality. We recognize Misha and Jared as susceptible to their environment as anybody else can be, and we do truly sympathize with them, Jared in particular seems live in, what we will call… less compassionate surroundings, and suffers more for it if his public outbursts and on record emotional breakdowns are anything to speak of. (or… at least my friend does. Me, less so. Lmao) But it would be an absolute tragedy if any of you ended up hating yourself for needing medication to get through life, if any of you thought that having treatment resistant depression means something about you as a person. Medication is not a treat, it is not an indulgence, you aren’t at fault for your own pain and misery. You aren’t being punished. You aren’t any less valuable. You deserve to feel ok. You deserve help. Pills are not short cuts. Medication is not cheating. Please do not hold any of these men up so high that you think you need to trust their judgement and subscribe to their beliefs. You really do deserve better.

[videoplanchette]

Okay to avoid ranting to legitimately everyone on my discord contact lists. I am a pretty big Goosebumps fan. I'm not going to say the largest there was. But one of my first impulse purchases, when the pandemic started, was getting a bunch of assorted Goosebumps books from the original 90s run. Goosebumps were one of the first series of books to get me interested in reading aside from Guardians of Gahoole. I was always intimidated by the Fear Street novels as a kid bc they looked way too scary from the lens of a 3/4th grader. I never got the chance to read them. Now that I'm quite a bit older I hope to one day get all the way through the R.L Stine books in production order. All this to segue into the new Fear Street adaptation on Netflix.

I'm not the pickiest person when it comes to movies, I don't approach them with the mindset that I'm going to hate something. I'm rather the opposite, I find that approaching something with a positive attitude typically gives me positive results. That being said I have a weird relationship with these movies. I feel like this should be something I really enjoy. Anyone who knows me knows I love horror, I love the 90s/80s vhs nostalgia punk setting, I love R.L Stine's both whimsical and clever approach to writing horror (which this movie did borrow from in the last installment.) I don't want to say I hated it, because I didn't. I really enjoyed what it had to say and the commentary it had about the systemic inequality between both towns, even if it was a little basic. It borrows a lot from the pages of Wes Craven when it comes to saterization and critique of horror tropes. I love the attitude the films had. I loved the soundtrack. I loved the representation this gave to poc without making it solely into racial trauma. In that regard, it was a total breath of fresh air. I loved most of the performances and I loved the jittery editing style that was still comprehensive. The characters while starting off unlikeable did eventually grow on me.

I don't want to dissuade anyone from watching the films, I implore everyone to watch these movies and reach their own conclusion.

Personally, for me, these films range on the side of a strong 6-7 out of 10. I live in a town very similar to Shadyside, not as much murder obviously, but still written off as white trash drug-addicted criminals. And there's something almost kind of like wish fulfillment about "it's just a curse" or "its just one bad guy" conclusion the movie comes to, where it feels really immature. Like the movie clearly has a lot to say about systemic injustice but the thing about systemic injustice is that it doesn't suddenly become unwoven after a person of power dies.

and the thing about Sunnyvale is that despite those people profiting off of a curse they didn't know about, there is very little done in the way to make them sympathetic. I don't think the narrative of the movie wants us to come to that conclusion esp since Sam (the main love interest of the film) is relatively harmless and moreso used as just a prop character is supposed to be "good". She is unwillingly moved to Sunnyvale after her mother divorces her father, so I don't think her or her family is the rich single entity the movie wants us to seek vengeance against. Yet it feels messy. Really messy. I'm going to link to a video from the channel folding ideas talking about the book of henry to sort of better illustrate my point about framing versus actual direction.

The way the movie also sort of scoffs at drug use, especially marijuana almost seems out of character for a movie made in 2021. I feel like that could be its separate post. Like it feels in character for a horror movie in the 70s and 80s, but with the more educated perspective in 2021, I feel like we all know that most of the over-policing on drugs came from the US government actively flooding the ghettos with narcotics in order to police them better?

If you didn't know that I'm going to link to a couple informative videos. I suggest researching further of course. these just provide the broadest strokes as to why the "war on drugs" was largely used as xenophobic and homophobic propaganda.

But maybe that discrepancy was intentional? Like its baked in so many layers of irony, I just can't keep up with it? I dunno. Like it wants to say something about addiction, it wants to say something about the over-policing of drugs, it wants to say something about the opioid crisis-- but I couldn't tell you what it was. I legitimately couldn't tell you if this movie was on the side of addicts and drug dealers as the means of using any method you could for escaping poverty-- or actively finger-wagging at addicts for like... being addicts? And the self-harm thing in part two... I-- I genuinely don't know what to say about that other than it felt exploitive. like the ending of part two felt so... fucking weird? like it was funny in the way it just totally caught me off guard but it was out of keeping tonally with the rest of the work. I don't expect a horror movie of all things to get its commentary 100 percent correct-- that would make me an idiot. But I guess I am particularly tired of seeing this one trope repeatedly crop up. this post is getting a little out of hand so maybe next post I'll talk about the comparison between Fear Street, Goosebumps, and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

WIN A DATE WITH SPIDER-MAN!

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (explicit sexual content) Word count: 10,358 @spideychelleweek​

Spideychelle Week Day 4: Meeting Again After High School

Summary: The fact that MJ bought a ticket to this event doesn't mean she wants to be here. It's a favour for a friend, who is not the man someone in the room is about to win a date with. No, that guy isn't her friend, just a date-skipping, heart-breaking ex from high school. Whatever. She's out of here the second they draw the name. It better not be hers.

“If my name gets drawn, I’m going to murder you,” MJ informs Betty when her friend leans against the bar for a breather. She swallows the end of her drink. ���Just so you know.”

“You won’t get picked,” Betty assures her.

She isn’t looking at MJ, but at the rest of the people assembled in the hotel’s large event room, a space generously donated for the occasion. It better be one of them, MJ thinks. Anyone but her.

“I could.”

“You won’t,” Betty insists, turning and flagging the bartender to request a glass of cranberry juice.

“Daring,” MJ mutters.

“I’m working, remember? Anyway, look around. Entry was fifty dollars―”

“That I remember. You’re totally paying me back for doing this.”

Betty rolls her eyes and continues. “It was fifty dollars per entry and how many times do you think they put their names in?” she asks MJ, pointing a subtle finger at a clump of socialites.

“Jeeze, hope nobody blew their allowance,” MJ retorts sarcastically. She’s tempted to get another drink, but more alcohol in her system isn’t going to help her get through this. It may, however, help her get over it afterwards, when she’s back in her apartment.

“Well, one of them’s hoping to blow more than their allowance,” Betty says with a knowing little cock of her head.

“Yikes, Betty, you speak to your grandmother with that mouth?”

Betty ignores her and takes a sip of the cranberry juice the bartender sets before her. She places the glass back on the bar, staring at it for a minute, before she winces―pre-regret, is the emotion MJ’s learned to identify the look as―and asks the bartender to add a splash of vodka.

“I have a lot riding on this,” she tells MJ after a heartier swig of her newly-adult drink.

“I know you do,” MJ replies in a softer tone.

“The event was my big idea and I didn’t think my editor would go for it and now we’ve done so much promotion and if it doesn’t work out...” She turns sharply to her friend. “Do you think it won’t work out?”

“It’s already working out. You got a great turnout. Hell, you got me here.”

“You’re my emotional support though. You don’t count.”

“Ouch. Is that what you tell your fiancé when he comes to these things?”

“I wouldn’t have to. Ned would kill to be here. He’d be laughing his ass off. In, like, a supportive way,” Betty clarifies.

“Guess their friendship’s still strong then,” MJ mumbles. She frowns when the bartender removes her glass. Now she has nothing to do with her hands. She thumps her elbows onto the bar.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know it is. I know he’s still on your radar.”

“He is not. Besides his picture in your paper―”

“It’s not my paper,” Betty corrects, but she’s flattered. Tonight’s event should land her a promotion and that’s one step closer to the editor-in-chiefdom she’s striving to attain by 35. Though she’s still got six years to capture it, she loves to come in ahead of a deadline.

“―I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well, you’ll see him tonight.”

“Will I?” MJ glances sideways at Betty. “Is he even here yet?”

“Fashionably late,” is her friend’s positive spin. “But it’s fine because I built a twenty-minute buffer into the schedule just in case.”

“You’ll need it. He’s allergic to punctuality.”

Betty sighs so loudly that MJ sits bolt upright.

“Can’t you even say his name?” she snaps.

“Are you ok? Do you need me to find you a paper bag to breathe into?”

“Shut up. God, what time is it?” Suddenly frantic, Betty checks her watch, twisting it around her wrist. She glances up at the stage, where a man in a generic black suit is stepping out to scattered applause. “He’s not supposed to start his speech for another fifteen minutes! Sorry, I have to…”

“Go on,” MJ encourages. “Boss them around. Sort it out.”

“If you see Peter arrive…”

“You’ll be alerted by my loud screeches of aversion,” she promises. Betty hesitates at that, so MJ gives her a gentle shove.

When the back of her friend’s pale pink gown disappears through the crowd, MJ rotates on her stool to observe the room. She still hasn’t said his name and she wishes she wasn’t so aware of it. It’s come out of Betty’s mouth a hundred times today. Besides that, it’s printed on signs around the room, along with his face―unmasked, naturally, to help move tickets. Good looks are always for sale and the newspaper Betty works for isn’t above leveraging that. The money raised by this event is for a good cause though, MJ has to allow that much. Two new clinics to service the city’s vulnerable homeless population, one staffing mental health professionals and the other a safe injection site as NYC combats the opioid crisis. It’d just be nice to attend a fundraiser that wasn’t somehow all about him.

She slips from her stool and realizes cutting herself off at one drink was a good idea; she has unforgivingly-high heels on tonight, the kind that make grown men cry, and her balance is still intact. MJ’s not using the intimidating height the shoes give her to compensate for the secret fear being here inspires. She’s not. Smoothing the front of the silky material of her pants, she lets them fall back into place before circling the room. There’s an art to it, moving through the wealthy strangers without actually mingling, and MJ thinks she’s gotten pretty good at making people scared to meet her eye... until a lackey from the mayor’s office steps directly in front of her and presses a leaflet, featuring the evening’s itinerary, into her hands. MJ sighs and slaps it down on the first tall cocktail table she passes. She doesn’t mean to look, but the white letters on a red background catch her eye: WIN A DATE WITH SPIDER-MAN! No thanks, MJ thinks, walking quickly away in search of Betty. I try not to make the same mistake twice.

Half an hour later, with the mayor’s long-winded speech running over before finally wrapping up, MJ watches her friend step up to the podium that’s just been vacated, clapping and beaming. It’s not her stressed smile either. Fuck. MJ exhales slowly. That smile says everything’s going smoothly, which tells her Peter’s here. Where is he? How did she miss him coming in? In spite of herself, she cranes her head around to look, not paying attention to Betty’s speech that thanks everyone for coming before shifting into introducing the guest of honour. She’s heard it before. Helped her friend practice. MJ was open to that kind of thing, weeks ago, before Betty pressganged-slash-guilted her into buying a ticket for the fucking Spider-Man lottery. She’s right though―they’ve sold thousands of tickets. She’ll never win. If she’s really lucky, Peter will never even know she was at this thing.

Which is definitely what she wants, MJ reminds herself, adjusting the lapels of the tightly tailored blazer she’s worn with no blouse underneath. For him to not notice her.

When Peter steps out from a side door with a big wave and a nervous smile, she’s deaf to the fanfare. Belatedly, she starts to clap, glancing around and dropping her hands when everyone else does. She doesn’t want to be the last idiot clapping. He’d spot her then for sure. As she watches him mount the low stage and let Betty guide him into position, MJ thinks he looks fairly anxious. Like, he looks nice, presentable, but unsure of himself. It’s the nicest suit she’s ever seen him wear, but his all-purpose one back in high school didn’t set a high bar.

He says a few words, voice coming out high at first as his eyes dart around the crowd (MJ steps slightly behind a very tall man and tells herself she isn’t hiding), then Betty takes over again, lightly touching his arm and eloquently rescuing him while keeping her event on track. She’s exceptional, MJ thinks. Distinguished master-of-ceremonies and gregarious gameshow host at the same time. MJ couldn’t do this job, which is why she switched from journalism to a literary agency three years ago. She’s better at negotiating than pleasing, better at handling people one-on-one. Except for him. She sees Peter step to the side and try to look excited as Betty holds a red pail (ok, a little lame―one of the interns failed in prop acquisition) for the mayor to submerge his hand into and pluck out a name. MJ had him one-on-one, looking only at her, with no sea of people. She was fifteen, unaware of his secret identity that still was secret at the time, and things didn’t work out. People think dating a superhero is such a fantasy. Disappointment was the boring reality.

A name’s drawn and MJ starts clapping along with everyone else. It takes almost half a minute for her to realize the name was hers.

They want to get her on stage, but she balks. Betty makes an excuse into the microphone, something about MJ not wanting to take attention away from the evening’s mission. The fact that landing a date with Spider-Man wasn’t the evening’s sole mission might come as a shock to some of the whining voices around her. Normally, she’d glare at them or make a sarcastic comment about their noble motivations, but she can’t. First of all, she won’t jeopardize the success of Betty’s event. Second, her human wall has stepped aside and Peter’s looking at her. And MJ’s looking back. Betty gracefully wraps things up on stage, her diamond engagement ring catching the light stunningly to add glamour to her showmanship, and then she, the mayor, and Spider-Man himself are descending into the crowd.

Does she flee? Is this MJ’s one chance to run?

But no, Betty weaves through to find her and grabs her hand like she knows what her friend’s plotting.

“You have to find someone else,” MJ says hurriedly. “Draw another name.”

“I can’t. You won fair and square.”

“I didn’t want to win.”

“I know.” Neither of them are looking at each other; they’re both looking in the direction Peter will inevitably approach from when he escapes the impromptu meet-and-greet.

“Tell them I’m sick.”

“Wouldn’t work,” Betty says. “The date’s not tonight.”

“Tell them it’s the beginning of a prolonged and ultimately fatal sickness.”

“Not very on-brand for Spider-Man to skip out on a date with someone terminally ill.”

“I’ll make it extremely clear that it was my decision. Would you take a last-minute opinion piece on why I hate Spider-Man and publish it tomorrow?”

“Babe, you don’t hate Spider-Man, you just don’t forgive the people who hurt you.”

Betty’s assessment is presented so casually that it startles MJ. It’s absolutely accurate, but she’s horrified that she’s been so easy to read. That’s the problem with having close friends. They know you and on top of that, they bully you into entering contests to date your high school ex. She’s never making a friend again.

“Yeah, I know,” MJ sighs, and then Peter appears, shaking one last hand, before turning their way.

“I owe you, I owe you, I owe you,” Betty hisses. “Please don’t make a scene.”

People are looking. Jealous weirdos.

“Hey, MJ,” he says, eyes catching hers. She breaks that shit off immediately, looking up and away from him.

“I go by Michelle now.”

“She doesn’t,” Betty cuts in.

“Oh... ok,” Peter says with obvious and understandable confusion. “So, you wanna...?”

He goes to put a hand on MJ’s back and she dodges it.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demands.

He glances uncertainly from her to Betty and back.

“Betty said they’d need to take a picture of me with the, uh, winner.”

MJ laughs bitterly.

“This just keeps getting better.”

Betty mutters a reminder: “No scene.”

So she acquiesces, following Betty over to the spot she previously decided on for the photo, next to one of the signs for the event. MJ doesn’t let Peter touch or guide her and he doesn’t try again. A photographer―signaled by Betty―approaches and she tactfully poses her friends to make them look friendly without physical contact. Betty gestures for her to smile and, for her, MJ manages a brief closed-lipped one, standing stiffly at Peter’s side. She’s a little curious about what his face is doing; is he being Spider-Man, beaming and happy to be here, or is he as uncomfortable as she is and just faking it until this evening is over?

After a dozen rapid clicks of the camera, the photographer and Betty walk away, Betty seeming to tell him what else she’d like shots of. Peter can return to his adoring fans, but he hasn’t yet and with Betty occupied, MJ’s floundering for a polite way to excuse herself. She makes the mistake of meeting Peter’s eye and he gives her a soft smile.

“You look so good.”

Heart seizing, she turns and marches for the exit, leaving him standing there.

―

“Thanks for taking the time to say goodbye,” Betty says over the phone, sarcasm perky and damning.

MJ groans. She stretches out on her couch and mutes the TV. It’s the morning after the event and she’s unproductive, not that it has anything to do with seeing Peter last night.

“I’m sorry. I had to get out of there.”

“You know, I think you’re the only person in this city, aside from criminals, who runs the other way at the sight of Spider-Man.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You didn’t stick around either. Peter could’ve used you there.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“Look, MJ,” Betty sighs, “I’m on your side, but do you really think it’s impossible that he’s grown a little since high school?”

“I haven’t seen any proof of that,” MJ huffs. “What I remember is him always showing up late, if he showed up at all, and let me remind you that he was late last night.”

“It’s the nature of his work.”

“Sounds like you’re defending him and therefore on his side.”

“The world is on his side and not all of us are stubborn enough to disagree with seven and a half billion people!” Betty exclaims. “Fine, I am on Spider-Man’s side, as an admirer of the good things he does, but as a friend, I’m on your side. A hundred percent.”

“You’re still making me go through with this date, aren’t you?”

“I have all the details right here in front of me, if you―”

MJ hangs up. Betty will forgive her.

―

The date takes place in the middle of the day in Central Park. It’s been two weeks since Peter allowed himself to be auctioned off, which has meant two weeks of MJ pleading with an immovable Betty to find a replacement and about two hours of stoic acceptance (just this morning). The time and location were selected for them based on what would result in the best pictures. Oh yeah, there’s a photographer here again, ready to spend the next three hours (three hours?) trailing them around the park to take candid shots of their afternoon. The paper’s planning a big image gallery for their website. According to Betty, this follow-up to her event will be their main photo story of the summer. Fucking excellent. All MJ could really do to prepare was wear comfortable white sneakers and a light denim jacket in case a wind came up or something. She’s already regretting that, with the sun right overhead in the sky and the air totally still around her. She moves her hair off her neck and turns to the photographer.

“He’ll probably be late,” MJ warns.

She, like the photographer, was early. Wanting to get today over with, she paid more attention to her willingness to participate (which might not last) than to showing up a full forty-five minutes ahead of the scheduled time. If this was a normal date, that might look like enthusiasm. Peter, in contrast, probably forgot this is happening today. He’s probably asleep or off somewhere being... Nope, here he comes, bounding up the path. Why did MJ wear the jacket? She’s so overheated.

“Hi,” Peter greets the photographer first, shaking her hand. Perennial people-pleaser, she thinks, but she did the same when she arrived. It just feels so natural to be judgemental towards him.

“And is it MJ or Michelle today?” he asks her.

Ooh, there was a little bite to that and MJ raises her eyebrows at it, though, if anything, she’s impressed that Peter’s developed some measure of a backbone.

“Michelle,” she says. She doesn’t offer her hand. He doesn’t reach for it.

The photographer’s probably great at her job, she wouldn’t have been given this assignment otherwise, but patience must be her next best quality; MJ knows she and Peter aren’t making today easy for her. Things are tense between them, their body language is awkward, their attempts at conversation are worse. She’s done a great job at keeping him out of her life, despite their best friends being engaged, and she really doesn’t want to ruin that by talking about her work, her hobbies, her family, her apartment, her aspirations. None of it. That doesn’t leave a lot and MJ isn’t encouraging Peter to share details of his life either. She’s spent such a long time striving to remain ignorant of everything Peter-related. Basically since they graduated high school.

The best photos of them will probably be at the pond, where they fed ducks and MJ felt her expression soften, if not quite break out into a smile. Then, there was the ice cream. There should be a few useable shots there, seeing as eating doesn’t require smiling, meaning MJ’s lack of a grin won’t seem odd. The best images will probably come from right after. MJ’s ice cream dripped on her jacket, which seemed like divine intervention at first―she finally had a reason to remove it that wouldn’t look like she was trying to get Peter to watch her take her clothes off―until he stealthily grabbed the jacket from her hand while she was trying not to dump the rest of her ice cream. He hasn’t given it back. Probably looks so fucking chivalrous, carrying it around for her and all MJ can do is feel exposed and too aware of her bare shoulders in her green tank top. The self-consciousness makes her grouchy and there’s still an hour of this date to go.

“Michelle, I know you don’t want to be here,” Peter informs her while the photographer’s a short distance away, changing out her memory card, “but this isn’t about you. You could at least try a little bit.”

Her face floods with angry heat.

“I don’t want to be here? Neither do you. You wish I was anybody else.”

His head jerks back.

“What? No, I don’t. If anything, I’m relieved.”

“Are you?” MJ’s suspicious.

“Well, I was when the mayor picked your name. I thought it might be nice to catch up with you rather than have to entertain some rich stranger. You don’t know how exhausting that is.”

She laughs and he spins towards her, clearly upset.

“Why do you have to react like that, like what I do is a joke?”

MJ holds up her hands.

“I’m sorry being with me is so tiring for you. I guess that’s why you were never around when we were supposed to be together.”

“We’re talking about high school now? You know why I missed dates.”

“Or showed up late, or left early,” she continues for him.

“Nobody knew then, dammit! I was all on my own, trying to be me and Spider-Man and, at the time, being him felt more important. Now, I can apologize for that, but I can’t fix it.”

MJ snorts.

“Would you even want to?”

“MJ,” he says, giving up on calling her by her full name, “we were fifteen.”

“And that means what? That it wasn’t a real relationship?”

A laugh bursts out of Peter that the photographer may have caught because MJ can hear her snapping photos of them again. Hopefully, she can’t see the wounded, incredulous look on MJ’s face from that angle.

“It means I was crazy about you and I had no idea what I was doing.”

“You could’ve told me about Spider-Man,” she says, lowering her voice and smoothing her expression as the photographer circles them.

“I kept trying to figure out how,” he admits. She studies his face in silence for a few seconds. “You dumped me before I could.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t very much fun being ignored.”

“I know. That’s been my life ever since.”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“Please. You aren’t ignored.”

“I meant by you.”

She opens her mouth but finds herself shaking her head instead of speaking.

“MJ...” Peter starts.

“Don’t,” she tells him. “Not... right now.”

MJ starts walking again, but not before seeing his eyes turn hopeful at the way she left things open. Peter skips to her side. They look sideways at each other and the atmosphere feels suddenly lighter. It’s been a long time, but also, maybe not so long. It pleases and terrifies her to see that he’s still Peter, even with the fame he’s gained over the years.

“Would you want to have dinner?” he asks quietly. “I think it’s pretty obvious that we have some things to sort out.”

She eyes him, wary.

“When?”

“Tonight?” Peter proposes. “Why not, right? I don’t know what these last two weeks have been like for you, but I don’t want to have to do that again. Sit around and wonder what you were thinking and how you could possibly still be so mad at me.”

MJ’s already told him she won’t get into that again at the moment, but now that he’s offering her an opportunity, she’s unsure if she wants to discuss their history at all. Maybe fourteen years later is still too soon.

“I’m wearing shorts,” she says, like that’s a feasible excuse. Peter looks down as if to confirm that.

“It’s not like I’ve never seen your bare legs before. MJ, come on,” he laughs when she strides away over the grass.

What is this looking like to the photographer? Playful? Adventurous? God, MJ doesn’t envy her or the person who’ll write the story, trying to weave a narrative out of this.

“You can go home first and change.”

“And where am I meeting you?” she asks, like she’s considering the idea.

“My place? Because it’s private,” he explains quickly at the look on her face. “I assumed you would’ve had enough of being watched for one day. If we went to a restaurant or something, everyone would stare.”

Ok, that’s reasonable, she supposes. She still doesn’t rush to agree.

“Just to talk?”

“Just to talk,” Peter confirms, jumping ahead of her and walking backwards so she’s forced to look at him. “I can make dinner too. What do you like? I have to buy groceries anyway.”

MJ halts.

“I’m not picky.”

“That means pasta, unless you say otherwise. Remember, I was raised by an Italian woman.”

“Fine.”

“Ok.”

Peter nods and gets out of her way so they can walk side by side again.

“By the way, all I meant by the leg thing was that I’ve seen you wear shorts before.”

He’s grinning. Such a little liar. MJ laughs loudly, surprising herself.

“Yeah, sure, Parker.”

They walk along in companionable silence for a few minutes, running down the clock on this date. Suddenly, Peter’s head tips towards her and he mumbles something. She asks him to repeat himself.

“Can I touch you now?”

“What?”

“Like, touch your back or hold your hand. Just so whoever puts this article together has something to work with.”

Yes, it’s the same thing she was thinking a little while ago, so she should agree to it, but she was also thinking that before he made another reference to her bare legs, and all the implication behind that comment. Would she say the fact that he brought it up surprises her? Yes. (Does that night still cross his mind?) Would she say there’s any sexual tension between them now because of it? Of course not. (Is she the only idiot here who just realized the feelings she swore she buried before junior year were in a very shallow grave?)

“Gimme my jacket back,” she says. When he does, she sighs and offers her hand in exchange.

―

“Theoretically,” MJ says, hunching and twisting to check her pinned-back hair in the bedroom mirror she hung a little low, “what would you wear to a first date at a guy’s apartment?”

Betty’s gasp comes across loud and clear on speakerphone.

“MJ, you have another date today? I know the one with Peter was technically fake, sorry to all the readers who are definitely going to ship the two of you, but don’t you pace yourself? I had no clue your dating life was so, um, active that you had to squeeze two in on the same day. And don’t tell me how that sounded. I hear it now.”

“None of that was advice.”

“You don’t really want my advice. I bet you’re already dressed. You just needed an excuse to call me because you’re nervous and too proud to ask me for a pep talk.”

“Ok, stop making me feel so fucking transparent!”

“Who’s the guy?” Betty wants to know. “What do we know about him? First date at his apartment, that’s―”

“It’s Peter.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say it’s Peter?”

“Yes, it’s Peter, so you don’t have to worry about me going over to his apartment.”

“But... how do you know where it is?” She can almost see her friend’s panicked expression.

“He texted it to me.”

“He has your phone number?”

“Why do you say that like it’s the most scandalous part of this situation? We exchanged numbers at the park this afternoon.” MJ steps back, still studying her reflection. She’s done the top half of her hair up and it looks pretty even.

“Right, at the park, on the date that you said would be the first and last time you cross paths this decade.”

“Maybe it’s like Cinderella and we get an unlimited number of meetings until midnight.”

“What if you stay later than midnight?”

“No reason to,” MJ assures her. “We’re just going to talk for a bit and eat, I don’t know, spaghetti or something.”

“Romantic.”

“Only if you’re a couple of dogs in a Disney movie.”

“Ok, now I’m curious,” Betty confesses. “What are you wearing to this absolutely not earth-shattering spaghetti dinner? If you say jeans, I’m staging an intervention.”

“Why not jeans?”

MJ says it to provoke her, reaching awkwardly around to fasten the hook at the top of her dress’s zipper.

“I love jeans,” her friend says, “but this isn’t a jeans occasion.”

“No?”

“MJ, quit it. Promise me you’re wearing something nice.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m wearing something nice.”

“Good. Put some condoms in your purse.”

“Betty!”

“Just one condom? MJ, it’s always better to be pre―”

MJ hangs up on her again. She’ll have to make up for this one.

―

His apartment isn’t what she was expecting. It isn’t a dump, but… Peter (or at least his alter ego) has to be one of the most renown living New Yorkers. MJ was picturing a space somewhere between ‘tasteful showroom of a modern furniture store’ and whatever the Spider-Man equivalent of Paris Hilton’s interior design sense is―red instead of pink and framed pictures of himself everywhere. This place isn’t any nicer than hers. Actually, it’s a little shabbier around the edges. She must have left her poker face at home because Peter (who, in her experience, is largely oblivious to her feelings) seems to know exactly what she’s thinking.

“I give most of it away,” he calls to her from the kitchen. He paused in his cooking to let her in, but he’s back at it while she tours his cramped living room.

“Give what away?”

He laughs.

“Whatever they try to give me. Free stuff, prize money for being chosen as Hero of the Year or something. I don’t know. I stopped paying attention. I just donate everything.”

“Are you trying to come off all noble and shit?” she accuses. She’s smirking though, with her back to the kitchen.

“No, just trying to guess at the questions you want answered. You don’t do much of your thinking out loud, you know that?”

“Why should I?”

She picks up a framed photo of Peter and Ned at the beach. When she sets it back down, she notices that the one beside it, clearly from the same day, is a shot of Peter and Betty doing a synchronized leap on the sand; Ned must be the photographer. What makes her almost knock it off the shelf is her jerky reaction to seeing Peter in nothing but swim trunks. With a surreptitious glance in Peter’s direction, MJ steadies the frame and steps away, face hot. Yeah, she’s seen his body before―when they were teenagers. Another decade and a half as a career ass-kicker and justice-bringer hasn’t exactly hurt his physique.

Ok, so he looks like a damn underwear model. Whatever. MJ can compartmentalize that and move on.

Joining him in the kitchen, she toys nervously with the box she brought. There’s a chocolate cake inside and she’s too wound up from nerves to be able to tell if it was the right thing to get. Is it too childish, like she sees this evening as some kind of Sixteen Candles throwback to the romance of their youth? Is it too decadent, like she’s trying to show up Peter’s cooking skills? God, she doesn’t know. MJ starts to wipe her clammy hands on her dress before spinning and hiding them behind her back instead as she leans backward into the counter to watch him.

She doubts this guy has experience cooking for an audience (and secretly, she’s relieved at the thought that there hasn’t been a parade of hookups through here). There’s food on his short-sleeved button-down, utensils gripped desperately in both hands, and his feet are bare. Not that it’s a problem, in his own home, it’s just weirdly vulnerable. Although, MJ’s are bare too. It’s summer and she wiggles her toes freely, anxiously, wanting to both have something to do and to stand here observing him without getting involved. Being in Peter’s apartment is already so involved.

“Can you grab the bowls for me?” he suddenly requests and MJ jerks, realizing she’s been staring at the way his shirt hugs his shoulders.

She does it without replying, retrieving the bowls from where Peter points and handing them off with a civil little nod. The closer she is to him, the quieter she seems to get. It feels wrong and like the complete opposite of what happened earlier today. This is her opportunity for closure, isn’t it? If this is really the end, like she told Betty it would be, then that’s why she’s here tonight; they’ll hash things out and spend the rest of their lives peacefully keeping their distance―as opposed to maintaining it irritatedly, the way MJ’s been doing. Why else would she have come?

“Aw man,” Peter sighs as he dishes up their food. He’s just noticed the stains on his shirt.

“Yeah, you were a bit of a hurricane in there.”

“Sorry,” he says, setting the bowls on his tiny kitchen table, “I’ll… I’ll just… You can start eating. I’ll be right back.”

MJ’s going to refuse for the sake of good manners, but her mouth closes almost as quickly as she opens it because Peter starts unbuttoning his shirt faster than he turns away. She almost knocks over her water glass. He might be the one with food on his clothes, but she’s a fucking mess tonight. Quickly, she averts her eyes as he stumbles to the door that must conceal his bedroom, presumably for a fresh shirt. She can only try to calm her heartrate and twist her bowl back and forth on its placemat in his absence. Conclusions. Endings. Closure. Renewed attraction, MJ thinks―staring down into the colourful splay of thin sauce, vibrant vegetables, and bright seafood―is not on the table.

And it really might have worked out the way she planned if Peter had redressed completely in his room, instead of walking out still pulling his t-shirt down. Instead of shuffling towards her as he tugged it into place. Instead of catching her staring at his naked stomach.

She’s flustered by being caught, hands fluttering over her silverware, and by the feeling of him looking at her. Why is he doing that? To make sure she knows he caught her? She’s embarrassed enough. When she reminds herself that she’s a successful, independent adult and not the teenage girl whose heart was broken gradually by neglect, she has the strength to glance up. He isn’t looking at her anymore. They eat dinner like regular people. If anything, they’re more courteous versions of themselves, skimming the details of the personal lives they didn’t discuss earlier in the day. He’s curious about her job; she asks after his aunt, her last memory of whom is a smiling face behind a camera on graduation day. This must be part one of how this goes: catching up.

Towards the end of dinner, when chewing has loosened MJ’s face enough to let the smiles slip out and the wine Peter eventually remembered to open has added more colour to his cheeks than their afternoon in the sun, they slide smoothly into part two: reminiscence. They’re not drunk, there’s just something awfully tempting about the freckles strewn across his nose. Self-policing the way she’s drawn to him makes MJ gawky and making conversation gets dicey. One minute it’s football games and decathlon practices, the next it’s the dates he missed and the passive-aggressive responses she gave him. He’s wounded, she’s flippant. He all but orders her to stay seated while he clears the table; she tosses her hair over her shoulder and swishes out of her chair to get the cake.

“You could’ve called me to say you weren’t coming,” MJ snaps, trying to unknot the ribbon securing the box. She presumed it was purely decorative; it turns out to be shockingly sturdy. “One of those times. Any of those times. But you just… never showed up.”

“I was preoccupied. I was saving people, on my own,” he retorts. She hears the dishes clatter into the sink. “I thought you were the one person I wouldn’t need to explain myself to.”

“I didn’t need a justification, Peter, but it would’ve been nice to know why you were never there.”

“Yeah, and it would’ve been nice if you could’ve been a little less selfish.”

His words land like a slap and she spins around. Likely spotting her movement from the corner of his eye, he turns from the sink opposite, bracing his hands behind him.

“I was selfish?” she echoes. “Because I was fifteen and naïve enough to think that when I finally let somebody in, they’d do the same and be there for me?”

“A lot of people needed me!” Peter insists. His chest is heaving.

“What have they ever given you in return?” she demands. “Money that you won’t take? Awards you can’t use? A date―” She laughs and gestures to herself, hands sweeping her body. “―you sure as hell never asked for?”

“That’s not nothing.”

“It is nothing! I gave you everything!” MJ shouts at him. The roar of it doesn’t stop her so much as convince her that she’s started something she can’t stop. “I went home with you after that party because your aunt wasn’t going to be there. Because you told her you were spending the night at Ned’s.” It’s controlled fury in her voice now and Peter doesn’t try to halt the recitation. “We were so shy with each other that we barely managed to hold hands in public, but I fucking felt something that night, so I got on your bed and said I was ready and when I woke up afterwards, you were gone.”

“There was an emergency,” Peter murmurs.

“Oh yeah?” Her voice isn’t loud, but it flicks out like a whip. “What was it? Can you remember? Do you remember it better than you remember us taking each other’s virginities because, honestly, Peter, I think my memory of realizing I’d been left all alone in that apartment is stronger than what happened before that.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“So it’s nice, actually,” she continues sarcastically, “if us having sex only comes in second place for you too.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.” Well, she hasn’t cried, so that’s something. She points beside him, hand shaking slightly, at the black block holding a selection of knives. “Pass me a knife.”

“What? No.”

“It’s to get the stupid cake box open. Pass me a fucking knife!”

Peter pushes away from the sink, hard, and holds her eye as he nudges her out of the way and snaps the ribbon with his hands. She’s breathing heavily.

“I don’t know if you like chocolate ca―”

“No,” he says firmly. “We’re not done talking about this. You hurt me. I never meant to leave you there, ok? I came back and you were gone and then the next day you dumped me. It tortured me that I left. It seemed like I was doing the right thing, going out to help people, but how could the right thing have made me lose you? I thought about that night constantly. Not the part where I walked out on you or you walked out on me, but the good part, and I felt guilty about that, like… like I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it? Because it must’ve been wrong since things went downhill for us so fast after that.”

“A mistake,” MJ summarizes. Voice flat. Dead, even. All these years she’s kept that memory and meanwhile, he’s been thinking it never should’ve happened.

“It wasn’t the mistake. I was.”

As mad as she is, she can’t let Peter put this on himself. It just wouldn’t be factual.

“You couldn’t be a mistake. It’s not in your DNA.”

“I never felt like that again,” he admits, offering her something in return for her reassurance. “The way I did the night we were together.”

“You haven’t had sex since then?”

“Oh, no, I have, it’s just never had the same…”

“I know,” she sighs and ignores the look he darts at her. She can’t stop him from replying though.

“Your sex life’s missing something too?”

“That is absolutely none of your fucking business.”

MJ flips the cake box open and crosses to the knife block, extracting a blade with a smug smile. She returns and slices the cake cleanly.

“Plates, please,” she instructs.

“You asked me first,” Peter points out.

“I didn’t make you answer.”

They are not talking about this, she will not talk about this. Not when she’s seen too much of his skin and they’ve finally dumped some of the baggage they’ve been lugging around this hellish airport of a somewhat-grown-up life. No, she’s far too attracted to him right now, with his glorious abs and his emotional intelligence. MJ is going to serve the cake and secure herself some goddamn closure.

“I just think it’s interesting,” Peter observes. He leans on the counter beside her. Sonofabitch, look at those forearms. “That neither of us has experienced anything like that with anybody else.”

With the flat of the blade, she lifts a slice and lays it on its side on the plate he lazily holds up for her.

“Probably just a numbers thing,” she says lightly.

“Meaning we are gonna have sex like that again?”

“Not with each other. Don’t get your hopes up, Parker.”

He grins and she realizes that, in the process of attempting to dissuade him, she might’ve just flirted with him. Completely by accident. MJ rolls her eyes and gets her own piece of cake. With a jerk of his head, Peter leads her over to his couch. When she sits at the far end, he doesn’t try to get too close, taking the other end. They spend a couple of minutes eating. She’s relieved that the cake’s good and that he seems to like it. He did a nice job on dinner.

“I’m a little embarrassed about the t-shirt,” Peter says eventually. She glances over and he looks down at his chest. The temperature’s changed again though; he isn’t being coy or suggestive, just genuinely humble. “I should own more dress clothes, but… I don’t really have an excuse.” He laughs. “I don’t really like them.”

“You’re fine. You’ve always been a t-shirt guy. Maybe this is an ‘if it ain’t broke’ situation.”

“You look really pretty.”

MJ blushes and feels silly about it. Her eyes drop to her plate and she watches herself push chocolate frosting around before piling it up on the cake she has left.

“I think I might be too old for ‘pretty.’”

“Bullshit.” Peter edges nearer and she looks up at him to see him pointing his fork at her. “You’re not too old to be called pretty and I’m not too old to be excited over chocolate cake.”

“It’s good, right?” she agrees with a smile.

“When you opened that box, I just about lost my mind.” He grins at her. “If we hadn’t been fighting when…”

MJ frowns when he trails off.

“What is it?” Her shoulders fall slightly. “Did you sense something? Do you have to go?”

“Unless there’s a meteor headed for Earth, I’m letting the cops handle things tonight,” he promises. “You just… you have chocolate on your lip.”

He traces the spot on his own face and she wipes at hers. Without Peter touching her to do it himself, this shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but the other thing he said won’t let her move on.

“Why should I believe that?” MJ asks. There’s no nastiness in her tone. She sets her empty plate aside and after the final bite of his cake, Peter copies her.

“Because I learned my lesson about priorities really, really well a long time ago.” He shifts closer again and she angles her knees towards him, heart clamoring.

“Are you sure?”

“I think so,” he tells her, face full of honesty. “I’ve never officially tested it because…” Peter shrugs. “…there was never another you.”

“She could be out there.”

“There’s only you,” he says softly, shaking his head. MJ didn’t quite notice when the space between them disappeared, but his hand is gentle on the side of her neck. “And you’re right here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just happen to take my fake dating responsibilities very seriously.”

“This one isn’t fake.” His fingers slide around to the back of her neck.

“I’ll have to update Betty,” MJ says with airy thoughtfulness as her gaze dips to Peter’s mouth.

“I think you might still have some frosting on your lip…”

Apparently, he can still be as much of a cheesy idiot as he was at fifteen and she’d smile if she wasn’t so terrified. Their lips brush lightly, then Peter seals them together, holding her fast. She cries out a little at his certainty. That’s what it feels like, but certainty in what? In his kissing abilities? In them, here together? MJ isn’t sure where she stands on that issue, only that it’s far from where she started this evening, with her self-delusions on closure and walking out of this apartment either more at peace or completely unchanged. So much for those possibilities. She hadn’t accounted for what their second first kiss would feel like.

They aren’t kids anymore, so she can skip the tentative shit.

MJ grabs his face with both hands, fingers curling beneath his jaw, and kisses him back with a greedy feverishness. There, let him see what she wants. If he rejects her, he rejects her. He’ll never do worse to her than he already has. But Peter doesn’t ease off, doesn’t try to backtrack to a scrubbed-clean Disney kiss that compresses romance to two dimensions. He lets go of her neck and grabs her by the hips, hauling her forward. She takes his shoulders and settles her knees on the couch on either side of him. Right away, he pulls her down and she doesn’t resist, grinding in his lap with her dress accordioned between them. Peter’s hand finds the edge of her skirt and snakes up her inner thigh to cup her over her underwear. In the same motion, he rubs his fingers against her through the lace. She breaks the kiss wetly and pants next to his ear.

“I wanna take you to my bedroom now,” he tells her, still rubbing while she rubs right back, seeking the friction with a jerk of her hips, “unless there’s some other way you want tonight to go.”

“No, I think we definitely better fuck.”

With that unambiguous assent, Peter hitches her hips against his and stands up with his hands secure beneath her ass and thigh. MJ wraps her legs around him and crosses her ankles.

So, this is Peter at 29. His feet slap the floor of his apartment and their mouths meet over and over with passion and imprecision. He makes it from the living room and into the kitchen without hitting anything; the air smells like dinner as they pass through and what wine the pasta in her belly hasn’t absorbed makes her press her abdomen against his cock while she’s still in his arms. He shoves her to the nearest wall and rocks hard between her thighs, squeezed close by her heels digging into his firm ass. At this point, MJ doesn’t particularly care if they do this on a horizontal surface. There’s a lot stoking this fire and while there wasn’t this much heat in their history (they had sex one time and it was gentle, caring, unhurried), the small flame’s kept burning all these years, ready to be fanned high at the first opportunity.

Peter gathers her against him and heads for his bedroom instead. His willpower’s something, with how fucking solid he is in the front of his jeans. (Jeans, Betty! MJ thinks. Goddamn double standard.) He doesn’t stop to turn on a light―taking her right to his bed and never letting her go as he lays her back―but the late summer sun provides a fading glow through his window and the door he didn’t shut behind them lets warm light spill in from the kitchen. MJ’s breathing hard as her hands, trembling with impatience, peel the t-shirt off of the adult boy she knew. Briefly, he hoists her hips to remove her underwear. She’s embarrassed when he draws them down her legs with a look of realization on his face and holds them up for the light to shine through the lace.

“Even with the denial, it didn’t seem impossible that we might end up here,” MJ offers before Peter can comment. She sighs and admits the rest. “I also have a condom in my purse.”

“We won’t need it.”

He dives down, kissing her neck as his hands smooth her dress up her thighs. With her knees bent, it doesn’t take much to make the material pool at her hips. But MJ pushes at his shoulders and Peter lifts his head.

“Like hell are we not using a condom.”

“No,” he says, expression earnest (there’s his face the first time he asked her out), “I just meant we won’t need the one you brought. I, uh, I didn’t only buy groceries before you came over.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?” Peter grins down at her. She nods.

“That means I’m not the only one who…” Felt something. Hoped for more. MJ can’t quite say that yet, so she shrugs and moves on. “Also means I don’t have to go get my purse.”

He agrees by returning his mouth to her throat, sucking until she gasps, then bucking his hips into hers to make her moan.

“Stay right here.”

“Mmm,” she consents, scraping her fingers through his hair.

Noticing him leaning into the sensation, MJ closes her hand into a fist and gives his hair a tug. Peter groans against her neck and wraps his arms around her. With his hands wedged under her back, she can feel him hunting for her dress’s zipper. She’s lying on top of it and there’s the little hook to fiddle with. It's not that she doesn’t think he can figure it out―it’s that she doesn’t want to wait that long.

“Let me do it,” she murmurs, tapping his arms this time to get him to lift off of her.

He looks dazed when he does, flinging himself to the side, which leaves MJ temporarily leaning back with her skirt up and no underwear on. This is completely not how she saw today turning out. It does make her pause and think for a second, to see if this feels wrong or thoughtless or otherwise emotionally harmful to the person she might go back to being when it’s over. Maybe if she waited longer, her inner voice would say something else, but there’s a consensus of tens from the judges (her brain, heart, and vagina) that she should absolutely nail Peter Parker. If they didn’t share this history and he was a guy she met through mutual friends or a dating app who held off on disappointing her long enough for them to get here, would she sleep with him? With those eyes and that ass, yeah, why not? Maybe the rockiness of their mutual past should make this feel worse, but, in this moment, it feels better. It feels like that thing from fourteen years ago. And this time around, she has a confidence in her body that she couldn’t even see on the horizon at fifteen.

MJ scrambles off the bed and turns to look at Peter. On his back with his shirt off in the dying light, he could be selling an expensive cologne. He’s probably been approached. The obvious bulge in the front of his jeans makes it a little racy for ads though. She’ll just have to appreciate it on behalf of Spider-Man fans everywhere. After all, she’s the one who won a date with him.

“The condoms are… where?”

Peter points to his nightstand and her hand hovers in front of the drawer with a second of hesitation. What if there’s some kind of raunchy sex toy in here and she’s about to find out that his bedroom escapades with other women are not something she’s prepared to compete with. Or what if there’s a photo of another ex-girlfriend? She hasn’t had the right to feel possessive of him for a small eternity, but seeing some other woman’s smiling face would be a blow. MJ opens the drawer. Besides the unopened box of condoms, she sees a travel pack of Kleenex, a cord for a cellphone or a tablet, and a couple loose aspirin that he should at bare minimum be keeping in a container, if not in a bathroom medicine cabinet. Overall, she’s relieved. It’s the sort of stuff she would’ve expected if she hadn’t spent the years since high school trying to hate him. She gets the box open and tosses him a condom that he’s alert enough to snatch out of the air. Then, MJ turns to face away from him as she reaches back to unfasten the hook.

“Wait,” he says when she starts on the zipper.

Somehow, she knows what he wants. She drops her hands and takes a step back towards the bed, drawing her hair over her shoulder and twisting it around her hand. Soon, Peter’s hands land on the middle of her back before he lowers the zipper. MJ can hear him breathing. With that done, she shuffles the straps off her shoulders and lets the dress slip to the floor like an exhale. She didn’t wear a bra.

She turns and climbs on top of him. Their kisses are sloppy and demanding and Peter’s got one hand between her legs with the other groping her breast in about a second flat. He discovers how wet she is―it’s wetter than she gets for just anybody―and plunges two fingers inside her, which is really distracting since she’s trying to get his jeans open. Giving in for a minute, MJ holds Peter by the back of his neck, lets her head fall back, and pumps up and down on his fingers while he swears like she’s never heard him swear. No, they never could’ve produced this at fifteen.

Forcing herself to remember that she could have his dick instead, she rides his fingers more shallowly and refocuses on his button and zipper. On the downside, he removes his hand to help her get his jeans and boxers off (Peter, she thinks, you still wear boxers?), but on the upside, those same hands get the condom on with speed and precision. Carefully, she removes the pins that have started to become snarled in her hair and tosses them backwards. Sounds like they skate across his nightstand and fall onto the floor. She isn’t concerned at the moment.

“You like being on top or do you wanna be on the bottom?” he asks, sagged back with his elbows propping him up and MJ perched on his thighs.

“Let’s not ask,” she suggests.

Normally, that isn’t what she’d say at all. She’s big on telling her partner what she does and does not like. Even if it’s someone she’s been with a few times, sex can be a bit of an interaction―you do this for me, I’ll do that for you―with the end goal of both parties walking away sexually satisfied. She wants more from Peter than an orgasm. Not being able to say that out loud doesn’t negate it. She trusts his intuition and, more than that, she trusts this thing between them. Whatever it is, MJ’s leaving everything to it. She’s surrendering control because the thought of cutting this up with questions to make it fit the mould of what sex is like with anyone else makes her sick. She takes a slow breath and speaks again.

“Let’s just… be here.”

He’s nodding so maybe she didn’t sound stupid, or just not stupid to him.

“Ok,” Peter agrees softly. “I’m not gonna fuck it up this time.”

She can’t ask whether that’s a promise to her or to himself because he sits up abruptly to meet her lips with his. As he fills her mouth with his tongue, she relaxes into him, draping her arms around his shoulders and shifting her hips forward. She can feel his cock, rigid and hot. MJ starts lifting up, hinting for Peter to slip inside her, but he flips her onto her back to continue blowing her mind with the desire in this French kiss. He holds his hips back to leave space for his hand to once again work two fingers into her, this time also using his thumb to play with her clit. She’s woozy with how good he makes her feel. Just when the kiss has her thinking they’re slowing things down (and the kiss is getting particularly dirty now, making her clench around his fingers), Peter brings her to climax by sneaking a third finger into her channel and curling all three in a sudden stab at her g-spot. Gasping against his mouth, MJ breaks the kiss, hips pitching onto his hand for almost a full minute from when the bliss first hits.

“Shit,” she breathes.

Peter laughs with disbelief as he draws back to look at her.

“That’s something I never thought I’d get to see again.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” MJ congratulates, smirking liquidly.

He seems ready to proceed beyond foreplay now, withdrawing his fingers and grasping her hip, but she decides to enjoy him a little more thoroughly first. She lets him settle between her legs without pressing inside and winds her fingers into his hair again as she nudges her mouth to his. Peter thrusts slowly along her wetness, making her legs quiver when he bumps her clit. Arching up, her chest skims his and she’s sure that, with a little bit of time, she could come a second time from the way he’s grinding against her and the rub of her nipples over the hard planes of his chest. Spider-Man looks good outside the suit.

When she tumbles him to the side, he goes willingly and matches her fleeting, sultry smile. MJ shifts her weight to encourage Peter all the way onto his back, then gets herself positioned on top of him, still riding his erection without taking him inside. She wonders what’s making her start to sweat―a failure of his air conditioning or the buzz that’s getting stronger with every pass along his sheathed erection. Bracing her hands on either side of his shoulders, she bends to kiss and lick across his chest, finding the same faint saltiness on his skin. He grabs her hips and guides her more forcefully along his cock. MJ’s moaning in short pants, Peter’s groaning brokenly. He rolls her onto her side and their legs tangle before he lifts her upper thigh to make room to fit his hips into the gap and, with their foreheads pressed together, push into her.

She has to close her eyes. Her body takes him in immediately, but her mind needs a little longer.

Peter doesn’t rush her, but he doesn’t back off entirely, the way he would’ve when they were a couple of kids hanging all their hopes on it turning out right. MJ’s not putting that kind of pressure on the sex this time around. Back then, part of how badly she wanted it was that she harboured this belief that being physical with him would fix things; it was finally a way to guarantee his focus was completely on her. For Peter, well, she can only guess, but maybe he needed to feel more grounded in himself when he was living so much of his life in secret as this whole other entity.

“You want me?” she asks him now, opening her eyes to observe his face, so close it’s blurry.

“Yeah, I want you.” Sensing her resolve, he thrusts harder and she makes her leg slack so he can hike it up onto his hip.

“You wanna be anywhere else?”

Peter shifts his head back and she becomes aware that they’re on the rumpled sheets of his unmade bed. It’s so familiar that her heart surges even before he stares her right in the eye.

“Nowhere else,” he swears.

She gives him a sharp nod before her tear ducts can get any ideas and kisses him fiercely, swinging her hips down to meet his upstroke. There’s a choked sound from Peter’s throat and he tips her onto her back with a mumbled, “Oh god, M.”

On her back, MJ reaches to grasp the edge of the mattress and Peter pounds into her. She’s tempted to shut her eyes and drown in the sensations, but she fights it to gaze at him. Initially, she thinks he’s like a machine; strong, efficient, accurate (fuck, he found her g-spot before and he’s hounding it ruthlessly now). On second thought, he is what he made himself; perceptive, considerate, real despite the persona that’s grown and grown and grown. The action figure it’d probably be easy to slink into the shadow of. It’s clear to her that he separates them better now and that somehow embracing his other identity is what allowed him to do that. And she wasn’t around for any of it. Has she just stepped back into his life now that it’s easier for her? MJ has to admit that, on some level, of course. That’s exactly what she’s done, but she didn’t plan it that way and the intervening years haven’t been smooth for her either―changing careers, struggling to stay present with partners, maintaining friendships only with the couple of people who wouldn’t let her dissolve from their lives. It seems to her that she’s ready to hang on at the very moment Peter’s ready to be hung onto. This already wasn’t supposed to happen. The draw she wasn’t supposed to win, the date that she tried to get Betty to find her a replacement for, the invitation to dinner, everything that spilled out between dinner and dessert, and finally, how they came together on his couch. Both of them making that choice.

MJ cries out, one hand dropping to grab his shoulder, then cup the back of his neck, her gaze roving the ceiling.

“You can shut your eyes,” Peter huffs, driving forward. “I’ve got you.”

She does. He has her. Twining her legs around the backs of his, MJ urges him forward blindly. Peter sucks her nipple, runs his mouth up the side of her neck until she shudders, then does it some more. His hand tilts her hips and he slides into her just that much better, striking the right spot with fiery fixation.

“Peter! Peterpeterpeter,” she chants. Her eyes open and his face is right above hers. She orgasms with a flinch that lifts her mouth to his. A new reflex―to kiss him.

His thrusts are short and quick as he finishes, humming against her mouth, a long M. She can’t believe she tried to make him call her by her full name. She’d rather hear ‘MJ’ from Peter, and she’s rather hear it just like this, his lips vibrating against hers, feeling all the years between them and yet, not feeling them at all.

[theculturedmarxist]

Yves here. Reader IM Doc, an internal medicine practitioner of 30 years, trained and worked in one of the top teaching hospitals in the US for most of his career before moving to a rural hospital in an affluent pocket of Flyover. He has been giving commentary from the front lines of the pandemic. Along with current and former colleagues, he is troubled by the PR-flier-level information presented to the public about the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines, at least prior to the release of an article in the New England Journal of Medicine on the Pfizer vaccine: Safety and Efficacy of the BNT162b2 mRNA Covid-19 Vaccine. However, he did not find the study to be reassuring. He has taken the trouble of writing up his reservations after discussing the article with his group of nine physicians that meets regularly to sanity check concerns and discuss the impact that articles will have on their practices.

By IM Doc, a internal medicine doctor working in a rural hospital in the heartlands

Right off the bat – I am as weary and concerned about this pandemic as anyone. What my little rural area has been through in the past three weeks or so has been nothing short of harrowing. This virus has the ability to render patients about as sick as I have ever seen in my life, while leaving more than half the population with minimal if any symptoms. The patients who are sick are often very sick. And instead of slow and steady improvement like we normally experience, most of these patients are assigned to a long and hard slog. Multiple complications arise. This leads to very diminished throughput in the hospital. The patients literally stack up and we have nowhere to put the new ones coming in who themselves will be there for days or weeks. On top of that are the constant donning and doffing of PPE and intense emotional experiences for the staff, who are themselves becoming patients or in this small town have grandma or Aunt Gertrude as a patient.

To put it bluntly, I want this pandemic over. And now. But I do not want an equal or even worse problem added onto the tragedy. And that is my greatest fear right now. And medical history has demonstrated conclusively over and over again: brash, poorly-thought-out, emotion-laden decisions regarding interventions in a time of crisis can exponentially increase the scale of pain and lead to even worse disasters.

I am not an anti-vaxxer. I have given tens of thousands of safe and tested vaccines over my lifetime. I am very familiar with side effects and safety problems associated with all of them. That is why I can administer them with confidence. I am also an optimist, so all of the cautions I discuss below are the result of experience and the information made public about the Pfizer vaccine, not a temperamental predisposition to see the glass as half empty.

I know this piece is long, but I wanted to completely dissect the landmark New England Journal of Medicine (from now on NEJM) publication of the first Pfizer vaccine paper. I am replicating the method of my mentor in Internal Medicine, a tall figure in 20th Century medicine. He was an internationally recognized authority and his name is on one of the foundational textbooks in his specialty. He was a master and he taught me very well, including the fundamentals of scientific inquiry and philosophy, telltale signs of sloppy or dishonest work, the order in which you should dissect someone’s work, and the statistics involved.

When I have a new medical student doing rotations with me, I give them a collection of reading. At the very top is Drug Companies & Doctors: A Story of Corruption from the New York Review of Books in 2009 by Marcia Angell, MD. She was the editor-in-chief of the NEJM, the very journal that published this Pfizer vaccine paper.

Dr. Angell’s article is the Cliffs Notes version of much longer discussions she had about corruption, corporatism, managerialism, profiteering, greed, and deception in in the medical profession. Patient care and patient concerns and indeed patient lives in her mind have been absolutely overcome by all of these other things. It is a landmark paper, and should be read by anyone who is going to interact with the medical community, because alas, this is the way it is now. I view this paper the exact same way I view Eisenhower’s speech about the military industrial complex. What she said is exactly true, and has only become orders of magnitude worse since 2009.

And now the paper.

Unfortunately, this study from Pfizer in the latest NEJM, and indeed this whole vaccine rollout, are case studies in the pathology Agnell described. There are more red flags in this paper and related events than present on any May Day in downtown Beijing. Yet all anyone hears from our media, our medical elites, and our politicians are loud hosannas and complete unquestioning acceptance of this new technique. And lately, ridicule and spite for anyone who dares to raise questions.

I have learned over thirty years as a primary care provider that Big Pharma deserves nothing from me but complete and total skepticism and the assumption that anything they put forth is pure deception until proven otherwise. Why so harsh? Well, to put it bluntly, Big Pharma has covered my psyche with 30 years of scars:

• As a very young doctor, I treated an extraordinary middle-aged woman who had contracted polio as a toddler from a poorly tested polio vaccine rolled out in an “emergency.” Tens of thousands of American kids shared her fate1 • The eight patients I took care of until they died from congestive heart failure that had been induced by a diabetes drug called Actos. The drug company knew full well heart failure was a risk during their trials. When it became obvious after the rollout, they did everything they could to obfuscate. Actos now carries a black box warning about increased risk of heart failure • The three women who I took care of who had been made widows as their husbands died of completely unexpected heart attacks while on Vioxx. I have no proof the Vioxx did this. But when Vioxx was finally removed from the market, the mortality rate in the US fell that year by a measurable amount, inconsistent with recent trends and forecasts. Merck knew from their trials that Vioxx had a significant risk of cardiovascular events and stroke, and did absolutely nothing to relay that danger in any way. Worse, they did everything they could to muddle information and evade responsibility once the truth started to come out • The dozens upon dozens of twenty and thirty-something patients who have been rendered emotional and spiritual zombies by the SSRIs, antipsychotics and amphetamines they have been taking since childhood. Their brain never learned what emotions were, much less how to process them and we are left with empty husks where people never developed. The SSRIs and antipsychotics were NEVER approved for anyone under 18. EVER. While there are some validated uses for stimulants in children, they are obviously overprescribed, as confirmed by long-standing media reports of their routine use as a study/performance aid. It is all about the lucre. • The hundreds and hundreds of 40-60 year olds who have been hollowed out from the legal prescribing of opioids. All the while the docs were resisting this assault, the drug companies and the paid-off academics and medical elites were changing the rules to make physicians who did not treat any pain at all with opiates into evil Satan-worshippers. And they paid for media appearances to drive across the point: OPIATES ARE GOOD. WE HAVE MADE THEM SO YOU CANNOT GET ADDICTED. And here we are now with entire states taking more opioids than in the waning days of the Chinese Empire, and we all know how that story ended. All this misery so a family of billionaires can laugh its way to the bank.

I carry all these people and more with me daily. I would not be doing a service to their memory if I allowed myself to be duped into writing another blind prescription that was going to add yet another scar.

I will dissect the important parts of this paper exactly as my mentor described above taught me. He performed years of seminal research. He was a nationally-known expert in his field.

In medicine, especially in top-tier journals like NEJM, landmark papers are always accompanied by an editorial. These editorials are written by a national expert who almost always has “peer-reviewed” the source material as well. This is how the reader knows that an expert in the field has looked over the source material and that it supports the conclusions in the paper. My mentor did this all the time. The binders all over his office were the actual underlying data that he scrutinized to confirm the findings. There is no way on earth to print and publish the voluminous source material. Editorial review was one sure way all to assure that someone independent, with appropriate experience, confirmed the findings. This was onerous work, but he and thousands of others did it because this is the very essence of science. He was scrupulous in his editorials about findings, problems, and conclusions. It was after all his reputation as well.

My first lesson from him: READ THE EDITORIAL FIRST. It gets the problems in your head before you read the statistics and methods, etc. in the actual paper. It gives you the context of the study in history. It often includes a vigorous discussion of why the study is important.

Admittedly, over the past generation, as the corporatism and dollar-counting has taken over my profession and its ethics, this function of editorial authoring has become at times increasingly bizarre and too-obviously predisposed to conclude with glad tidings of joy, especially if pharmaceuticals are involved.

So I read the editorial first. You can find it on the NEJM webpage, in the top right corner.

And, amazingly, it is basically a recitation of the same whiz-bang Pfizer puffery that we have all been reading for the past few weeks. There really is not much new. Furthermore, it is filled with words like “triumph” and “dramatic success”. Those accolades have yet to be earned. This vaccine has not yet even been released. Surely, “triumph” is a bit premature. Those words would NEVER have been used by my mentor or similar researchers in his generation. They would have been focused on the good, the bad and the ugly. A generation ago, editorial reviewers saw their job as informing the reader and making certain the clinicians that were reading knew of any limitations or problems.

In quite frankly unprecedented fashion, two different events that were carefully reported occurred almost simultaneously with the release of both the paper and the editorial. Both of these events contradict and contravene data and conclusions reported in both the paper and the editorial and I believe they deserve immediate attention. They both belie the assertions of the editorial writers that [emphasis mine] “the (safety) pattern appears to be similar to that of other viral vaccines and does not arouse specific concern”.

First, a critical issue for any clinician is “exclusion criteria”. This refers in general to groups of subjects that were not allowed into the trial prima facie. Common examples would include over 70, patients on chemotherapy and other immunosuppressed patients, children, diabetics, etc.. This issue is important because I do not want to give my patient this vaccine (available apparently next week) to any patient that is in an excluded group. Those patients really ought to wait until more information is available – FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY. And not to mention, exclusion criteria exist because the subjects in them are usually considered more vulnerable to mayhem than average subjects. From my reading of this paper, and the accompanying editorial, one would assume there were no exclusion criteria. They certainly are never mentioned.

I reiterate, the paper is silent on this question of exclusion criteria, as is the editorial. Had my mentor seen something like “exclusion criteria” in the source material, and realized that it was not in the final paper, he would have absolutely included a notice in his editorial. This would have been after calling the principal investigator and directly questioning why there was no mention in the original paper. Patient safety should be foremost on everyone’s mind at all times in clinical research and its presentation to practitioners.

And now we know there were exclusion criteria, not because of anything Pfizer, the investigators, or the NEJM did but because of stunning news out of the UK. UPDATE: I will address this at greater length, but an alert reader did find the study protocol, which were not referenced in any way that any of the nine members in my review group could find, nor were they mentioned in the text of paper or editorial, as one would expect for a medication intended for the public at large. I apologize for the oversight, but this information was not easy to find from the article, not mentioned or linked to from the text of the article, the text of the editorial, in the “Figures/Media,” or in a supplemental document.

In the UK on day 1 of the rollout, two nurses with severe allergies experienced anaphylaxis, a life-threatening reaction to this vaccine. Only after world-wide coverage did Pfizer admit that there was an exclusion criterion for severe allergies in their study.

Ummm, Pfizer, since we are now getting ready to give this to possibly millions of people in the next few weeks – ARE THERE ANY OTHER EXCLUSION CRITERIA? Should I, as a physician, specifically not be giving this to patients with conditions that you have excluded?

Furthermore, NEJM, since you published this trial, have you bothered to at least put a correction on this trial on your website that it should NOT be given to people with severe allergies? I certainly see nothing like this.

Should someone from the NEJM or the FDA be all over Pfizer to ascertain the existence of other exclusion groups so we do not accidentally harm or kill someone over the next two weeks?

Unfortunately, Americans, you have your answer from the FDA about severe allergic reactions right from a press conference in which Dr. Peter Marks, the director of FDA’s Center for Biologics Evaluation and Research is quoted as saying:

Even people who’ve had a severe allergic reaction to food or to something in the environment in the past should be OK to get the shot….1.6% of the population has had a severe allergic reaction to a food or something in the environment. We would really not like to have that many people not be able to receive the vaccine.

Are you serious? Dr. Marks, have you ever seen an anaphylactic reaction? I live in a very rural area. Many patients live 30 minutes or more from the hospital. What if one of them had an anaphylactic reaction to this vaccine hours after administration, had no epi-pen and had to travel a half hour to get to the nearest hospital? There is a very high likelihood that a good outcome would not occur. Sometimes, as a physician, I simply cannot believe what I am hearing out of the mouths of our so-called medical leaders.

To the writers of the editorial accompanying this research:

Did you actually look at the source material? The existence of at least one exclusion criterion for severe allergic reactions had to be in there somewhere. If you did look at the source material, are there others that the physicians of America need to know about? If they were not in the source material, after the events in the UK, has anyone bothered to follow up with Pfizer about this omission?

Does anyone at NEJM or Pfizer or FDA plan to fully inform the physicians of America? Does ANYONE at NEJM or Pfizer or FDA care about patient safety?

Now for the second story that got my attention this week, an article from JAMA Internal Medicine, a subsidiary of JAMA, The Journal of the American Medical Association.

JAMA, like NEJM, is one of America’s landmark medical journals. I will assure you that JAMA is not the National Enquirer. This piece was written by a nursing researcher. It is very likely she is well-versed in all aspects of American medical research.

In her story, she details her recruitment and her experience in the Pfizer COVID trial, the same one we are dissecting here. She describes in detail her experience with the vaccine and the fact that she is concerned that many patients are likely going to feel very sick after the injection. She wrote up her own reactions, and included a very troubling one. About 15 hours after her second injection, she developed a fever of 104.9. She explained that she called her reaction to the Research Nurse promptly the next morning. The recounted the response of the Research Nurse to her information as “A lot of people have reactions after the second injection. Keep monitoring your symptoms and call us if anything changes.”

Thankfully, it appears this nurse has completely recovered. From the best I can tell, this encounter occurred in late August and early September, putting it well within the trial’s recruitment of arms as detailed in the paper.

This JAMA article impinges directly on Figure 2 on page 7 of the paper, a graphic that that lays out all the major side effects during in the trial.

It is very important to note that based on the trial’s own data, conveniently laid out on the very top of the figure in green, blue, orange and red, a temperature of 104.9F or 40.5 C is described as a Grade 4 event. The definition of a Grade 4 event is anything that is life-threatening or disabling. A fever of 104.9 can have grave consequences for any adult and is absolutely a Grade 4 event.

By law, a grade 4 event must immediately be reported to the FDA, and to the Institutional Review Board (the entity charged with overseeing the safety of the subjects) and to the original investigators. THERE IS NO EXCEPTION. One would think that would also be reported in the research paper to at least alert clinicians to be on the lookout.

I could not find any mention of this event in the text of the paper. NOT ONE. Let’s take a closer look at Figure 2 on page 7 where adverse events are reported in a table form. Please note: this is a very busy image, and in the browser version, with very low resolution graphics that are profoundly difficult to read (they are a bit clearer if you download the PDF). This is a time-tested pharmaceutical company tactic to obscure findings that they do not want you to see. My mentor warned me about ruses like these years ago, and finding one raises the possibility that deception is in play.

The area for the reporting of this Grade 4 reaction would be on the 2nd row down at the left of the set called B, titled systemic events and use of medication. The area of concern would be where the graph is marked with the number 16. Do you see a red line there? It would be at the very top. I have blown this up 4 times on my computer and see no red there. I am left to assume that this Grade 4 “Life Threatening or Disabling” event that was clearly within the time parameters of this trial was not reported in this study.

To those who say that I am making way too much out of one patient with a severe fever, let’s do a little math. There are 37,706 participants in the “Main Safety Population” (from Table 1), of which 18.860 received the vaccine.2 Let us assume that this individual was the only one that had a GRADE 4 reaction. Let us also assume that the end goal is to vaccinate every American a total of 330,000,000 people. So if we extrapolate this 1 out of 18,860 into all 330,000,000 of us, it suggest that roughly 17,500 could have this kind of fever. Now assume a 70% vaccination rate, and you get that would be approximately 12,250. I hope you now understand that in clinical medicine related to trials like this – a whole lot of nothing can turn into a whole lot of something quickly when you extrapolate to the entire targeted group. Does anyone not think that the clinicians of America should be prepared for anything like this that may be coming?

A couple more questions for NEJM and the editorial writers:

Were you ever made aware that this Grade 4 reaction occurred? Now that we have a reliable report that it occurred, has there been any attempt to investigate?

Did the Research Nurse actually report this event? If not, was she just simply not trained or was there deliberate efforts to conceal such reactions? How many more reactions were reported anywhere this trial was conducted and that did not make it to the FDA, the IRB or possibly the investigators? Is that not a cause for concern?

As if this is not enough, there is so much more wrong with this editorial. Now we are going to talk about corruption.

I want to reiterate my concern that over the past generation, as my profession has lost its way, its medical journals have turned into cheering sections for Big Pharma rather than referees and safety monitors. We all should relish the great things medical science is doing, but we should be doing EVERYTHING we can to minimize injury and death. Too often our journals have become enablers of Big Pharma deceiving our physicians and the public. Unfortunately, this paper and its editorial look troublingly like a case study of this development.

To provide context, I looked over the last month of the NEJM, the issues from November 12, 19 and 26th and December 3rd. Based on having read the NEJM over the years, I believe these four weeks are representative.

During this period, there were 15 original articles published in the fields of Oncology, General Surgery, Infectious Disease, Endocrinology, Renal, Cardiology, Pulmonary and Ear Nose & Throat. Of these 15 articles, the editors thought that eight were important enough to have an editorial from an acknowledged expert. I have read every one of these studies and the editorials as I do every week. All eight in the past month were indeed by leading experts in the field of the underlying studies. They included a COVID vaccine overview reviewed by an leading figure in vaccinology, and two COVID papers about Plaquenil and other approaches discussed by top infectious disease experts.

It was unlikely that those papers were going to get national media attention. All medical stuff.

But here we have our Pfizer vaccine paper. We have 300,000 fatalities in the USA alone and millions of cases. We have whacked our economy, we are in the depths of a national emergency. And we have a paper, the first, that may offer a glimpse of hope. Certainly this would be a landmark paper, and certainly it was treated in that manner? Right?

One would think that the doctors of America would have this study explained to them by a world-known vaccinologist? NOPE…..Maybe a virologist? NOPE….. Maybe a leading government official? Dr. Fauci? Dr. Birx? Dr. Osterholm? NOPE…..Maybe an expert in coronaviruses? NOPE…

We get the Pfizer ad glossy editorial treatment from Eric Rubin MD, the editor-in-chief of the NEJM. And Dr, Longo, an associate editor. Dr. Longo is an oncologist. Dr. Rubin is at least a recognized infectious disease doctor, but his specialty based on my Google search is mycobacterium, not virology. Again, one would normally anticipate for a paper of this importance, the editorial would be from someone with directly on point expertise.

Why would this fact been important to my mentor? (and I had the privilege of hearing him trash a paper in an open forum about a very similar issue, a paper introducing a drug to the world that later was the disaster of the decade, Vioxx) Why is this important to me and all the other physicians in my review group here in flyover country yesterday?

Because the choice of authorship of the editorial leads you to one of only several conclusions:

• Pfizer would not release the source data because of proprietary corporate concerns and no self-respecting expert would review without it • Pfizer knew there are problems and did not want anyone with expertise to find out and publicize them • The editors could not find a real expert willing to put their name on a discussion • Drs. Rubin and Longo are on some kind of journey to Vanity Fair and wanted their names on an “article for the ages” • This is a rush job, and no one had time to do anything properly, and so we just threw it all together in a flash

Readers, pick your poison. If anyone can think of a sound reason, please let me know. I am all ears.

But let’s open up the can of worms a bit more. Pfizer supports NEJM. Just a brief swipe through of recent editions yielded several Pfizer ads. A Pfizer ad appeared on my NEJM website this AM. I do not know how much they pay in advertising but appears to be quite a bit.

Americans, have we devolved so far in our grift that it is now appropriate for the EDITOR-IN-CHIEF of our landmark medical journal to be personally authoring “rah rah” editorials about a product of a client that supports his journal with ad dollars? And he has the gall to not present this conflict on his disclosure form? Really? Am I the only one worried about this type of thing?

Now we travel from the can of worms to the sewer. And this impacts every single one of us. I want you to Google the names of the people on the FDA committee that voted 17-4-1 two days ago to proceed with the Emergency Use Declaration. Go ahead – Google it. On that list, you will find the name Eric Rubin, MD. Why yes indeed, that is the very same Eric Rubin MD who wrote this editorial. Who is the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM. A publication that certainly takes ad dollars from Pfizer. And he was one of the 17 to vote for the Pfizer product to be immediately used in an emergency fashion. Oh yes, oh yes he was.

Am I the only one who can recognize that Pfizer and other pharma companies may have some influence on Dr. Rubin thanks continued support of his employer, the NEJM? Am I the only one concerned that Dr. Rubin’s “rah rah” editorial may have been influenced by Pfizer? Is anyone else troubled that the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM, supported by Big Pharma advertising dollars, is sitting on an FDA board to decide the fate of any pharmaceutical product? Is this not the very definition of corruption? Or at least a severe conflict of interest? I strongly suspect that a thorough evaluation of members of that committee will reveal other problems. As my grandmother always used to say, “There is never just one roach under a refrigerator.”

I looked in vain all day today for media discussions of conflicts of interest with Dr. Rubin or anyone else in a position of authority. I found nothing.

What I did find was the Boston NPR affiliate WBUR discussing Dr. Rubin’s Yes vote. You can listen yourself:

This interview left me much more concerned about Dr. Rubin’s role and what exactly he read in the raw data from Pfizer. In this interview, he admits that he as an FDA advisory member has seen no data from the Moderna trial coming up for a vote this week:

These two vaccines are fairly similar to one another, so I am hoping the data will look good, but we haven’t seen the data yet, so I reserve judgement.

Excuse me, but should not the members already have the data and be mulling over it to ask intelligent questions?

These statements left me more worried about the issues I have already brought up with the Pfizer vaccine:

We don’t know if there are particular groups that should or should not get the vaccine…We do not know what will happen to safety over the longer term.

When finally asked specifically about the UK allergic reactions and if they came up in the FDA meeting (emphasis mine):

It did come up and this was a bit of a surprise because in the trial, that trial was limited to specific kinds of participants, there were apparently no incidents like that, nevertheless this suggests it is something we are going to have to look out for.

There is absolutely not a word in the published data to suggest there was a limit to SPECIFIC PARTICIPANTS – what on earth is he talking about? Are there limited specific kinds of patients that we as physicians should be looking to vaccinate?

In a fine finish, toward the end of the interview Dr. Rubin states he is a bit relieved that low risk patients will be getting the vaccine later after we know more about the side effects with the first patients. I am really not trying to be a jerk – but are you kidding me? I thought this vaccine was a triumph with minimal side effects.

Dr. Rubin, kind sir, I really feel that you owe a clarification about your statements in the WBUR interview to the patients and caregivers of America. We are the ones with lives on the line.

First, I have the privilege of sitting on an Institutional Review Board (an independent entity that protects patient safety) and I know something about Grade 4 side effects. Just for 1 Grade 4 side effect in one subject, the accompanying documentation would often be a half a ream of paper. Because I agreed to do that job, it was my obligation to look through that documentation. That half a ream was for one side effect in one trial. Yet, you state unequivocally in this interview, that you, as a sitting member of the FDA committee that oversees the safety of the nation in this affair, have not seen any of the Moderna documentation for that upcoming meeting this week.

For readers to fully understand what I am saying, this Moderna documentation is going to be reams and reams of documents that need to be evaluated carefully to ask the right questions. And you have not yet studied this? For a meeting in just a few days? I find this deeply troubling. Your statements create the appearance the committee you are sitting on is nothing more than a rubber stamp for a decision that has already been made. This would be an absolute tragedy.

Second, Dr. Rubin, you in your position as the Editor-in-Chief of the NEJM and the editorial writer for this research, may be one of the few people on earth that have seen the original Pfizer research. Despite calling this a triumph, you state in the interview that you are relieved that younger people less likely to get the vaccine early so you will have time to wait to see if complications develop in the first patients. You have stated, despite your assertion in the editorial that the side effects were consistent with other vaccines, that “we don’t know if there are particular groups that should or should not get the vaccine”. Have you seen something in that “triumph” research that is concerning enough to you to make such statements? As a physician, I would really like a clarification on this statement, given that the shots are already rolling out today.

Now that we are past the editorial, a few words about the nuts and bolts of the paper.

I look for very specific red flags – usually making the data difficult to interpret. This study did not disappoint.

On page 5, in Table 1, the Demographic Description of the participants, go down to the AGE GROUP area. Note it is divided into only two cohorts 16-55 and >55. This is a real problem. My mentor said an honest paper should never deploy such a tactic.

You see, more than half of my patients are over 70. Why is this kind of obfuscation a real problem for my ability to trust the vaccine? Well, the intro papers to many pharmaceuticals that have gone down the drain in recent years have used this very same device. It is their way of hiding the fact that they did not put many older patients in the trial, certainly not representative of the population, and certainly not representative of who is seemingly going to get this vaccine in the first round. Do I know that 90% of the >55 group is actually between 55-58? I don’t. How hard would it be for them to do a breakdown in decades? 16-25 26-35 36-45 46-55 56-65 66-75 76-85? We have lots of computers in this country and the population breakdown is done this way on studies I read all the time. Why not do provide this information on a study that is this critically important, particularly one where elderly patients will be near the head of the line?

What are they trying to do here? Unfortunately, too often drugmakers resort to this practice to hide their failure to test their drug on the elderly to an appropriate or safe degree, knowing there would likely be lots of problems. Because of their past behavior, I ALWAYS assume this is true until proven otherwise and act accordingly with my elderly patients.

That is the world these companies have made for themselves.

Now for the tables on pages 6 and 7 about immediate side effects.

Just a brief look shows that local soreness and tenderness is very common, up to 75% with this vaccine. That is a bit high, but not that far out of range from my experience with other vaccines.

The tables on page 7 are the whoppers.

Headaches, fatigue, chills, muscle pain and joint pain appear to be very common, way more common than other vaccines I am used to, as in an order of magnitude higher. It is very clear from this table that about half the patients, especially the younger ones, are going to feel bad after this vaccine. That is extraordinary.

We are told nothing about how long these symptoms last or the amount of time at work lost. The “minimal side effects comparable with other viral vaccines” in the editorial and press releases is just not consistent at all with my experience of 30 years as a primary care physician. There was universal agreement with this assessment among my MD colleagues. They had great concern about this as a matter of fact: great concern that it will cause bad publicity and decrease administration and great concern that given this already high side effect profile, it may be much worse when it gets out to the public.

Given the fact that this virus is largely asymptomatic in more than half the people infected, what exactly are we doing here?

Furthermore, unlike other pharmaceutical papers that try to explain variances in symptoms like this, there is not a word offered about possible underlying causes of these outcomes.

The numbers of COVID cases in the placebo group vs the vaccine group have been widely publicized, from 162 cases in the placebo group down to 8 in the vaccine group, giving a relative reduction of 95%. It seemed to all of us in our review group that we do not have nearly enough patients to really make assessments. That is not a criticism. The researchers have done admirably in my opinion to get this many patients this quickly. That is still the problem: they are going to be using the first million patients or so in the general public to get a real gauge on numbers and side effects.

Another issue of grave concern to us all on Friday was the asymptomatic cases. The only subjects counted in the 162 and the 8 numbers above were patients with symptoms. Who knows how many in each cohort were asymptomatic.

This to me leads to the most important question of all, and it was again completely untouched….. How many asymptomatic patients are there? And how many who were vaccinated are still able to spread the virus? Not even an attempt to answer that question. This is critical, and is one of the ways a vaccine can backfire. If a vaccine does not provide sterilizing immunity, ie stop transmission, it is of limited use for disease control. It is great for the individual, but if they can remain without symptoms and still spread it all around it does not help from a public health standpoint.

I have described my concerns and red flags about this study. I would like to add one more thing. Pharmaceuticals that go bad rarely do so in the first few weeks or months. Rather, the adverse effects take months or years. It is a known unknown of not just vaccines but any kind of drug. Our pharma companies have become notorious for having inklings or indeed full knowledge that there is a problem early on, and saying nothing until many are maimed or killed. I will assume that this is the case in this class of drugs until proven otherwise. They are such deceivers I have no choice.

Due to sense of urgency my colleagues and Ifeel about this vaccine rollout, we had an ad hoc meeting of our Journal Club to discuss the NEJM article. Of the nine physicians at the meeting, three have already had very mild cases of COVID. Of the nine, only one is enthusiastic about these vaccines. I have a wait and see stance. I will not be taking it myself. I have too many scars, too many staring at me from the grave to take any other approach.

My patients’ feeeback on the COVID vaccine has been very different than the polls finding that 60% are ready to take it. About half my patients are in the professional/managerial classes and feature a higher level of the 0.1% than the US overall. They tend to be more blue. Most prefer to wait and thankful that health care workers were getting it first. The other half who are working class, more red, and they feel the whole thing is a hoax. They will not be getting the vaccine – likely ever.

The only enthusiasts I would call elderly Rachel Maddow fans. That really makes no sense to me at all since Operation Warp Speed was a Trump project and even Kamala Harris said she would not take a vaccine that Trump recommended.

I would say AT BEST 25% of my patients will be getting this vaccine shortly after being available. There is widespread skepticism that is not being acknowledged by our media. The pharmaceutical industry has worked tirelessly to earn every bit of that disrespect.

Please look at Dr. Angell’s seminal article from 2009. She predicted in her works, all of this and more. My profession has been captured by a cabal of corporatist MBA clones, rapacious and unethical pharmaceutical entities, and an academic elite addicted to credentialism and cronyism. They have over the years bought off and infiltrated all of our government health care regulating agencies and our public health system. And they are completely incestuous. I believe where we are now to be worse than Dr. Angell could have ever dreamed. Even more depressing, I see no way out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1 As a special homage to the polio patient described above, a truly exceptional woman, let me underscore that the disastrous rollout of the this polio vaccine came at a time similar to ours. Panic and malaise were in the air. The children of America and the world were being stricken with polio at an alarming rate. Dr. Alton Ochsner, a leading figure in medicine of the day, vaccinated both of his grandchildren in public in an attempt to bolster confidence in the vaccines. Within 8 days his grandson was dead of bulbar polio. All the celebrities and politicians lining up to take this vaccine on national TV should remember this tragedy. “Stupid human tricks” like this have no place in this kind of situation, and can backfire in unexpected ways. Unlike that era’s polio vaccine, there is no way on earth this vaccine can transmit COVID. However, there are those of us in the medical profession who treat the plan to make population-wide use of messenger RNA, which before these trials had been repeatedly investigated but never reached the human trial stage save in a small scale Zika vaccine study. This is no time for machismo. This is also no time for anything less than complete transparency on the part of everyone involved in the quest for safe and effective vaccines. To behave in any other way is an affront to patients like mine who have suffered and died in the past.

2 If you read the paper, you might well have wondered about that 18,860 number and even checked Table 1 to make sure it’s accurate (it is), since the third paragraph of the Abstract, under the headline “Results,” has very different figures:

A total of 43,548 participants underwent randomization, of whom 43,448 received injections: 21,720 with BNT162b2 and 21,728 with placebo.

So how did the researchers get from 21,720 injected with the vaccine to the 18,860 in the “Main Safety Population”? This sort of thing confirms the impression that this is a very incomplete or sloppy study. It is really not clear where the difference between the 37,706 and the 43,548, or for that matter, the 36,520 total subjects in the Tables 2 and 3 (Efficacy) come from. I used the 37,706 and hence the 18,860 that went with it from Table because it gave slightly smaller numbers than using the Table 2 and 3 figures, but they would be close to each other.

My concern here is the 6000ish discrepancy between the figures in the main text compared to the tables. Were they excluded? If so, why? I could not make heads or tails out of this, and accordingly kept it out of the body of this post. This kind of inconsistency really needs to be hashed out with the actual source data in hand, and should have been explained in the article, even if just in footnotes.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Hi! Do you have any links or information about what the NDP will do for LGBTQA and mentally ill folks? thanks so much!

Upholding LGBTQI2S+ rights

Although Canada has made important strides in upholding LGBTQI2S+ rights, there is more work to be done to improve the lives of LGBTQI2S+ Canadians and make Canada a country where everyone can live free from hate and bias.

One of the most significant setbacks of recent years is the Liberals’ decision to maintain the discriminatory ban on blood donation by men who have sex with anyone assigned male at birth. We need behaviour-based screening rather than policies that discriminate against an entire sexual orientation. A New Democrat government will end the discriminatory blood ban and put in place policies based in public health evidence to secure the blood supply.

When it comes to sexual orientation and gender expression, damaging practices such as so-called “conversion therapy” have no place in Canada. We will develop a national action plan to ban conversion therapy for minors in Canada, and work with provinces and territories to support eliminating this practice in all parts of the country.

Access to gender confirming procedures and medication can be life-saving for some transgender people. New Democrats will work with the provinces to make sure that there is equal access to gender confirming surgery across the country, and that these procedures and medications are covered by public health plans.

New Democrats believe that Canada has a unique and important role to play in helping LGBTQI2S+ refugees around the world. We will establish a clear and permanent path for resettlement of LGBTQI2S+ refugees in Canada to replace the current piecemeal approach that only deals with emergency cases as they arise.

We can also do more to end employment discrimination faced by members of the LGBTQI2S+ community. A New Democrat government will add sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression to the Employment Equity Act in order to address the disadvantages experienced by the LGBTGQ2+ community – and particularly transgender people – in finding work.

And:

[…]Our vision of Canada is one where women’s organizations have stable funding so that women can access the support and advocacy they need, when they need it. We’ll develop a National Action Plan to end gender-based violence, backed by funding to ensure that shelter services and other programs are available in all regions of the country, especially areas that have traditionally been underserved. New Democrats will promote domestic violence leave policies in workplaces, improve police training on sexual assault, and require universities to develop plans to end sexual violence on campus. And we’ll address violence against Indigenous women, girls, and LGBTQI2S+ people by working with Indigenous peoples to implement the Calls for Justice of the National Inquiry.

And:

Extending Medicare to cover services you need

[…]

There’s a lot more to do to modernize our health system for today’s needs. Mental health support is an enormous unmet need across the country; a third of Canadians struggling with mental health challenges who have expressed a need for counselling weren’t able to get it. Eye check-ups are important for preventing vision loss and identifying other health issues – yet many, particularly children and seniors, don’t get regular eye care, or struggle to pay for the glasses that they need to function.

New Democrats believe that we need to work towards health care that covers us from head to toe. Mental health care should be available at no cost for people who need it, and everyone should be able to get regular eye care and hearing care. Canadians struggling with infertility should also have access to the procedures and care they need, no matter which province or territory they live in.

The long-term path to providing public coverage for these services will require strong federal re-investment in our health system with the knowledge that investing in preventative health services will ultimately save money and give Canadians the care they need to live healthy, full lives.

And:

[…]Mental health matters, and too many Canadian farmers are living with high levels of stress, anxiety, and depression. We can do more to provide targeted help. A New Democrat government will bring together farmers and the provinces to develop a national strategy to address mental health challenges facing farmers and to ensure that farmers can get the help they need, when they need it.

And:

[…]Poor health and poverty are linked and a national pharmacare program will mean that all Canadians can access the prescription medicine they need, regardless of their income, or address. Better access to mental health and addictions support will also form a key part of our approach to tackling poverty.

And:

[…]A New Democrat government will make mental health support for members and their families a priority. No member or veteran of the Canadian Forces should ever feel that they are all alone in dealing with the impact of their experiences or in transitioning to civilian life. They – and their families – need to know that their country and their government has their back, during their service and for the rest of their lives.

And:

[…]We will make sure that people can get the treatment they need in their community through investments in Indigenous health care infrastructure and diagnostic equipment. We will work in partnership with Indigenous communities to improve access to mental health and addiction treatment services – including an evidence-based action plan to prevent suicide, backed by dedicated federal resources, fully implementing the New Democrat motion on suicide prevention passed by the House of Commons.

And:

Confronting the opioid public health emergency

Across Canada, eleven Canadians die every day from opioid-related causes. Tens of thousands of families have tragically lost parents, partners, siblings, and children to the out-of-control opioid crisis. Every part of the country has been impacted by these highly addictive and dangerous drugs, from our busiest downtown neighbourhoods to the most remote communities. And too often, the impacts are even worse for the most vulnerable and marginalized people.

Despite the obvious harm that these drugs are causing and the shocking death toll that they’ve caused, over the last four years the Liberal government has failed to mobilize an effective response. They have not declared a public health emergency, nor taken any steps to investigate the role that drug companies may have played in fuelling the crisis. The federal government is lagging behind the urgent action being taken by provinces like British Columbia.

New Democrats believe that there is much more we can do to save lives and support those struggling with opioids. In government, we will declare a public health emergency and commit to working with all levels of government, experts, and Canadians to end the criminalization and stigma of drug addiction, so that people struggling with addiction can get the help they need without fear of arrest, while getting tough on the real criminals - those who traffic in and profit from illegal drugs. We’ll work with the provinces to support overdose prevention sites and expand access to treatment on demand for people struggling with addiction. We will also launch an investigation into the role drug companies may have played in fueling the opioid crisis, and seek meaningful financial compensation from them for the public costs of this crisis.

And:

[…]New Democrats believe that we must do better. Just as our party led the fight to establish universal public health care for all Canadians, we are leading the fight to expand Medicare – to include quality prescription drug coverage for everyone, regardless of your job, where you live, your age, your health status, or how much money you make.

We will begin working with the provinces right away to target a late 2020 start date, with an annual federal investment of $10 billion.That means access to necessary medicines in the same way that we have access to medical and hospital care – free at the point of care, financed by a public insurance system that covers everyone. It means that you’ll need your health card – not your credit card – at the pharmacy till. And it puts an end to costly co-payments, deductibles and premiums that cost families hundreds and even thousands a year.

Our plan will guarantee that every Canadian can get the medication they need. And it will mean big savings for employers who currently pay for employee benefits, helping to reward good employers and boost economic growth. It will also cost our system less overall as a result of pooling the purchasing power of the entire country.

Most importantly, our pharmacare plan will mean a healthier Canada where no one has to make the impossible choice between the medicine they need and other essentials, like rent and food.

From:

https://www.ndp.ca/commitments

[side-effect-of-the-meds]

Merry Christmas! May I present (hah) to you, SoC Au Part 2!

It was noon before Kaz finally reemerged from the basement. With great difficulty, he dragged himself up the three flights of stairs and rinsed the blood from his body. Squeezing between the two dogs that now occupied his bed, Kaz let his exhaustion drag him under. He had school tomorrow. Missing school was the least of Kaz’s worries but if he wanted to keep playing Exy, he knew he had to keep up both his grades and his attendance. 

Sleeping through the remainder of the day and the entire night, Kaz managed to recover some of his strength. Waking early Monday morning Kaz managed to snag his cane. Nothing looked any different from the way he’d left it. He prayed that neither Lola nor Romero had entered the office while he slept. Kaz turned the dogs loose in the backyard before grabbing a quick breakfast and headed to school. All day long, Kaz was out of it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from straying back to the box in the safe. Now that he knew exactly who the man was, Kaz knew he’d be able to find something, anything, to point him in the right direction. 

Standing in his goal, Kaz watched the scrimmage, his thoughts drifting. Every member of Edison High’s Exy team had been handpicked by Kaz. None of them had been very good when they’d began. Half of them hadn’t even known the rules. Looking at them now, Kaz felt a small swell of pride in his chest that he squashed almost immediately. They’re just an investment, he told himself. 

Before Kaz, none of these kids had had anything to live for. Their lives were rendered barren and loveless by the opioids running rampant on the streets. Guidance counselors and motivational speakers were brought in each year, preaching about how life would get better. For many of them, it never did. Most kids on the streets of Baltimore grew up and fell into one of two categories: drug dealers or drug addicts. Sure, some made it out, but there weren’t nearly enough. It wasn’t that they didn’t want a way out. It was that they didn’t have one. 

Unlike many of the adults in their lives, Kaz didn’t go around spouting that bullshit. He knew his words would offer no comfort to the souls of the grieving. He knew the biting pain of being cold and alone and desperate on the brutal streets of Baltimore. He knew that it stole the will to live right out of you and making you cling fiercely to every scrap of kindness someone threw your way, no matter how cruel and unkind that person might be to others. He knew that it made people easy to manipulate and eager to please. 

Seeing an opportunity, Kaz jumped at the chance to build his own army. It took a great deal of bargaining but Kaz managed to convince Nathan to give him bigger, better jobs. The more dangerous the job, the greater the risk but with it came greater rewards. Building his reputation as Dirty Hands, Kaz racked up enough money to purchase the dilapidated hotel a few blocks down from the school. Kaz managed to finance the renovations with a loan from Nathan and opened it up to anyone that made the cut for the Exy team. 

With three meals a day, a roof over their heads, and a bed a little softer than the concrete walkways, Kaz's offer was hard to turn down. With such a big pool of applicants, there were a few kids that were already half-decent. Kids like that had no place on the lineup. Kaz didn't need a good team, he needed a desperate one. 

And they were. Every time Kaz stepped off the court he saw the ravenous glint in their eyes and it made Kaz smile. Not so long ago, they’d been the worst team in the district. Everywhere Kaz went, he heard the laughter of skeptics. 

“Poor Brekker,” Van said from his seat atop the desk in Kaz’s office. “You’ve really scraped the bottom of the barrel with this sorry excuse of a team.” 

“Look at them, Van,” Kaz said. He heard Van hop off the desk. Joining him at the window, the two of them watched the kids dragging their meager belongings up the walk.“When was the last time you saw Hutchinson smile? Or heard Cooper laugh? I’ll bet fifty bucks that today is the first time you witnessed either of those.” Kaz smiled when he saw the way Van’s expression soured. “So what if they’re the bottom of the barrel? They’ll play until their bones break and their lungs give out. So long as their hearts beat, they will fight. Do you know why?” Kaz asked.

“Greed?” Van replied, his own lips curving in a knowing smile. 

“Greed,” Kaz assented. These kids had fought tooth and nail for their place on his team. They knew, if they failed, it wasn’t just the game they lost. It was their home, their food, their whole life was on the line. Offering these kids Exy made them his. By breathing life back into the empty husks they’d been, that life was his to control.

“No one will ever believe in them. They’re the worst of the worst, Kaz. They’re those things you find at the bottom of a teacup. The…” Van scrunched his face up as he looked for the right word. “The dregs! That’s it.” After a moment’s consideration, he added. “You know that doesn’t sound half bad.” 

“The Dregs,” Kaz echoed, feeling the word roll across his tongue. Van was right, the name wasn’t half bad at all. 

The buzzer at the other end of the goal sounded, leaving the score 7-1 in Kaz’s favor. Filing off the court behind his team, Kaz let himself get dragged into a conversation about plays for Friday’s game. They had to win. If The Dregs had any chance of getting recruited for college, they were going to have to prove they were worth it. Kaz had promised his Dregs a future free of their demons and Exy was their ticket to it. 

In all honesty, Kaz’s Dregs weren’t much better of than their families had been. Anyone who knew an addict knew that their drugs were the center of their world. It was their solace, their safe haven, from the horror and misery of day to day life. Wasn’t Exy the same for the Dregs? Exy was their salvation. Exy was their solace. Exy was their everything. The Dregs were just junkies chasing a high, only better off than their drug-addicted relatives for their dependency gave them a future. Now that Kaz thought about it, no matter where he started or who he looked at, every one of the Dregs’ problems stemmed from the opioid crisis. Kaz would have to remember to thank Romero for handing him a team like this before he put him in the ground. 

Late at night, Kaz continued to hunt through the files in search of something, anything, about Romero in Nathan’s files. It wasn’t until late Saturday night that Kaz found anything. Kaz had originally decided to work backward from his arrival at the Wesninski house and found nothing. After some research, Kaz found that there had been an exponential increase in opioid users in 1984. Kaz decided to start there. He hadn’t known what exactly he’d expected to find in the files but it wasn’t this. 

There was a single unmarked drive in the subsection. Inserting it into the computer, Kaz found that it had multiple layers of encryption. Kaz slipped his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and called the only person that could help him. 

“Kaz, honey, it’s three in the morning.” Kaz could hear Van struggling to hold his temper.  

“I’m aware but it’s urgent.” On the other end, Kaz heard the sultry voice of a woman calling Van back to bed. Oh. “If you’re busy, though-” 

“What do you need, Kaz?” Before his luck could run out, Kaz explained his predicament. Half an hour later, Kaz opened the door to find Van standing at the door. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes. Shoving a cup of coffee into Kaz’s hand, Van moved past him and marched up the stairs. A small part of Kaz wanted to apologize. 

Van wasn’t like the rest of Kaz’s associates. Unlike them, Van wasn’t bound to him. There were so many things in Kaz’s life that he had no control over and it drove him mad. What if scenarios played through his head and hurled him into bouts of self-doubt that sent him careening to the brink of death. Having control over the lives of others distracted Kaz from his own growing worries. Being able to orchestrate incredible schemes, riddled with twists and turns that easily blindsided his prey reassured him of his abilities. Still, he wouldn’t be able to do it without information. For the longest time, Kaz had assumed that all he needed was information on the target: who they were, their habits, their appearance. He’d been wrong. Cons weren’t like pickpocketing. They weren’t one-off things. Kaz had found that if you wanted to be a successful con man you needed to be a bit of a renaissance man too. 

Lucky for Kaz, picking up new skills wasn’t hard. Fueled by vengeance and spite, there was very little that Kaz couldn’t teach himself how to do. Despite being a jack of many trades, coding just wasn’t something Kaz could do. He’d tried his hand at it multiple times but he simply didn’t have the knack for it. It hadn’t stopped him from trying to hack into the school’s database to dig up some dirt on his prospective teachers. Kaz never knew who he’d have to blackmail to do what but teachers seemed like people who’d need some extra convincing to get what he needed. Kaz’s own grades weren’t a problem. His team’s were. Enter Van. 

Kaz had never heard the name in his life nor could he conceive what kind of parents would name their kid that. As such, when Van first showed up in Kaz’s room uninvited, he’d rightfully lost his shit. Putting a knife to his throat and pinning him to the wall, Kaz had expected to see fear flood the boy’s eyes. To his infinite horror, Van had only pushed close until the tip of the blade bit into his flesh. Kaz watched in awe as a stream of blood trickled down from the point of his blade. 

A lazy smile stretched across Van’s face. A manic light danced in his eyes. In an all too friendly tone, he offered to help breach the school’s firewall and dig up dirt on every member of Edison High’s staff. When asked why he’d help, Van had only shrugged. 

“Why not?” he’d countered. “It’ll be fun.” Kaz had been skeptical but allowed Van to try his hand anyway. It had taken him no more than a few hours to dredge the deepest, darkest parts of the internet and find something on each and every member of, not only the school’s faculty, but their families, and the entire board of education. Kaz couldn’t refuse that kind of help. Van became Kaz’s biggest asset and, along the way, someone he’d come to lean on far more than he’d meant too. 

It wasn’t often that Kaz went anywhere without Van. Kaz didn’t actively seek the boy out. No, Van just had a habit of appearing wherever Kaz went. It irked him to not know how Van kept managing to follow him without getting detected. Not knowing his motives or being able to control him, scared Kaz far more. 

Kaz tried not to stare at Van as he worked. Nestled on the floor on a bed of sheets, surrounded by the dogs, Van seemed to genuinely relax. Kaz knew that Van’s usual laid-back attitude was a facade, but he’d never quite figured out what it was Van was trying to hide. On the list of problems in Kaz’s life, Van ranked just beneath his vengeance for Romero. Van had never done anything to harm Kaz. Not yet at least, but Kaz couldn’t help but fear that one of these days, Van was going to flip on him. 

“Why don’t you give up?” Van asked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His voice startled Kaz from his thoughts and he floundered for an answer. “You’re never going to solve me.” Kaz scowled. Van looked over then and smiled. It was the same lazy smile he’d given him when Kaz had pressed that knife to his throat. “Ask me.” For the last two years, Kaz had hunted for something, anything, that might have given him a clue as to who Van might be. Questioning people had come up empty. Few people knew he existed. Even fewer knew what he looked like. Van was a ghost. Kaz couldn’t even find his name in the Social Security database. Van was a nickname, short for God knew what, and every attempt to find his last name had hit a wall. 

“What’s your last name?” Kaz asked, knowing very well he wouldn’t get a straight answer. 

“Don’t have one. Maybe you could give me yours.” Van winked at him. Kaz wadded up a scrap sheet of paper and chucked it at his head. “It was worth a try,” Van said as he passed the laptop back over. He’d done it. Of course, he had. Kaz had yet to find a firewall that Van couldn’t breach nor a system he couldn’t hack. Kaz would have to find a way to put a leash on this kid and soon. 

Gathering the blankets up from beneath him, Van threw them over himself before curling up between the dogs. With a groggy ‘good-morning’, he fell asleep. Turning his attention to the screen, Kaz felt a thrill go down his spine. This was it. He was finally going to find the proof he needed to nail Romero. He could feel it in his bones. Romero would be sent to prison in disgrace only to be found dead in his cell days later. A wicked smile curled the edges of Kaz’s lips as he thought of all the things he would do to him. Romero’s death would not be quick or easy. No, Kaz had to pay him back for ten years worth of suffering. Opening the drive, Kaz found a single folder. Lenimen Parem, it read.

Of all of Kaz’s ridiculous obsessions, learning dead languages was his hardest to defend. Sure, knowing Greek and Latin roots gave him a deeper understanding of words but he’d yet to find a use for it. Until now. Lenimen Parem. 

“Better solace,” Kaz whispered. Feeling infinitely more pleased with himself than he should, Kaz navigated to the folder to inspect its contents. In it, he found scanned copies of handwritten chemists’ notes. Fractions were scrawled beside barely legible elements. Compounds were labeled in the order in which they’d been mixed. Scrutinizing the notes written beside each failed attempt, Kaz struggled to discern the purpose of these experiments. Slowly but surely, the sun’s rays snuck up between the shafts of the blinds and spilled through the curtains hung over the windows. Sleep threatened to drag Kaz under, lulling him with sweet words and seducing him with assurances of rest. After all, the drive could wait until tomorrow couldn’t it?

“Sleep, Kasimir,” Jordie cooed. “Tomorrow, I’ve got to run a little errand and then I’ll take you to the pier. How does that sound, lieve schatje?” 

“M’kay,” Kaz mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut. They were only closed for a few seconds before Kaz jolted awake. They’d never gone to the pier. They’d made it halfway there before Jordie and his friends caved and found a little alleyway where they’d be safe from prying eyes. A greedy light had danced in their eyes as they dug out their needles and their newest bottles. Kaz had begged Jordie not to do it. Jordie had shoved him away before inserting his needle into the soft cork of his bottle. Pain at the memories of their past life had driven Jordie to opioids. He’d sought solace in them. 

Lenimen Parem. Better solace. Kaz felt his heart stutter. Opioids. Nathan had been creating a new strain of opioids. Frantically, Kaz searched through the labels and formulas listed. The final listing was for a strain called Jurda. Reading through the notes beside it, Kaz felt his chest tighten with every passing sentence. By the end, he could barely breathe. 

Nathan’s purpose in Lenimen Parem had not been to simply heighten the experience of the drug. It was to heighten the addictive properties of it too. And he’d done it. Nathan had managed to manufacture a drug that produced the desired effects and compel the user to actively seek more. The downfall of the project had been the fact that an unknown impurity in the batch. Unable to discern the impurity that had made the drug so efficient and, Nathan had no choice but to abandon the project, settling for selling a less efficient strain. 

Warehouses were burnt down. A hit list of all the chemists involved in the creation of the drug was compiled. The only evidence left was the test subjects themselves. Anyone involved in the testing would have to be eliminated. Hundreds upon hundreds of names were compiled in the list, a number and a date by each. Dated 11.21.94 were seven names that Kaz recognized. Bishop Clark - 14. Sarah Hendriks -17. Inna Bethesda - 16. Roy Sanders - 16. Meena Reyes - 19. And finally, Jordan & Kasimir Rietveld - 10 & 6. 

[endangered-justice-seeker]

'I Work 3 Jobs And Donate Blood Plasma to Pay the Bills.' This Is What It’s Like to Be a Teacher in America

Hope Brown can make $60 donating plasma from her blood cells twice in one week, and a little more if she sells some of her clothes at a consignment store. It’s usually just enough to cover an electric bill or a car payment. This financial juggling is now a part of her everyday life—something she never expected almost two decades ago when she earned a master’s degree in secondary education and became a high school history teacher. Brown often works from 5 a.m. to 4 p.m. at her school in Versailles, Ky., then goes to a second job manning the metal detectors and wrangling rowdy guests at Lexington’s Rupp Arena. With her husband, she also runs a historical tour company for extra money.

“I truly love teaching,” says the 52-year-old. “But we are not paid for the work that we do.”

That has become the rallying cry of many of America’s public-school teachers, who have staged walkouts and marches on six state capitols this year. From Arizona to Oklahoma, in states blue, red and purple, teachers have risen up to demand increases in salaries, benefits and funding for public education. Their outrage has struck a chord, reviving a national debate over the role and value of teachers and the future of public education.

For many teachers, this year’s uprising is decades in the making. The country’s roughly 3.2 million full-time public-school teachers (kindergarten through high school) are experiencing some of the worst wage stagnation of any profession, earning less on average, in inflation-­adjusted dollars, than they did in 1990, according to Department of Education (DOE) data.

Meanwhile, the pay gap between teachers and other comparably educated professionals is now the largest on record. In 1994, public-school teachers in the U.S. earned 1.8% less per week than comparable workers, according to the Economic Policy Institute (EPI), a left-leaning think tank. By last year, they made 18.7% less. The situation is particularly grim in states such as Oklahoma, where teachers’ inflation-adjusted salaries actually decreased by about $8,000 in the last decade, to an average of $45,245 in 2016, according to DOE data. In Arizona, teachers’ average inflation-adjusted annual wages are down $5,000.

The decline in education funding is not limited to salaries. Twenty-nine states were still spending less per student in 2015, adjusted for inflation, than they did before the Great Recession, according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, leaving many public schools dilapidated, overcrowded and reliant on outdated textbooks and threadbare supplies.

To many teachers, these trends are a result of a decades-long and bipartisan war on public education, born of frustration with teachers’ unions, a desire to standardize curricula and a professed commitment to fiscal austerity. This has led to a widespread expansion of charter schools, which are publicly funded but privately operated, and actions such as a move in the Wisconsin legislature in 2011 to strip teachers’ pensions and roll back collective bargaining rights. This year, Colorado lawmakers voted to raise teachers’ retirement age and cut benefits.

As states tightened the reins on teacher benefits, many also enacted new benchmarks for student achievement, with corresponding standardized tests, curricula changes and evaluations of teacher performance. The loss of control over their classrooms combined with the direct hit to their pocketbooks was too much for many teachers to bear.

The wave began in West Virginia, where in February and March some 20,000 teachers walked out across the state. Educators there—who made an average of $45,701 in 2016, according to the DOE­—refused to enter their classrooms until the state met their demands to fully fund insurance benefits and increase salaries. Instead, they marched on the capitol, passed out bag lunches for low-income students who normally rely on free school meals and watched as public support flooded their way. After nine school days, lawmakers caved and approved a 5% wage increase. Weeks later, the specter of a similar strike led Oklahoma lawmakers to pass the state’s first major tax increase in nearly 30 years to fund raises for teachers who still walked out for more funding. Teachers in Kentucky and Arizona—both GOP-leaning states—followed their lead.

But teachers faced opposition at times from state and federal leaders. In April, Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos criticized striking teachers, suggesting they were failing to serve their students and urging them to “keep adult disagreements” out of the classroom.

And when school was out for the summer, the teachers’ momentum was blunted. In June, the Supreme Court ruled that public­-sector unions can’t mandate fees from nonmembers—a decision that experts estimate could cost influential teachers’ unions money and clout. And in August, the Arizona supreme court blocked a ballot initiative that would have added $690 million annually to state education funding.

Teachers are out to regain the upper hand. Some have already gone on strike in Washington State, and others are threatening to do so in Los Angeles and Virginia. And they promise to turn out in force for November’s midterm elections, where hundreds of teachers are running for office on platforms that promise more support for public schools. They have also sought to remind the public that they are on the front lines of America’s frayed social safety net, dealing with children affected by the opioid crisis, living in poverty and fearful of the next school shooting.

Read more about what it’s like to survive on a teacher’s salary

Recent polling suggests teachers have the public on their side. Nearly 60% of people in a Ipsos/USA Today survey released Sept. 12 think teachers are underpaid, while a majority of both Republicans and Democrats believe they have the right to strike.

“We have to organize even harder and even broader,” says Los Angeles teacher Rosa Jimenez. “People are fired up.”

When Elaine Hutchison’s mother started teaching in Oklahoma in 1970, she made about $7,000 a year. In 2018 dollars, that’s roughly $45,000—nearly the same salary Hutchison, Oklahoma’s 2013 Teacher of the Year, now makes after a quarter-century on the job. Hutchison, 48, is a fourth-generation educator whose daughter also plans to become a teacher. She says she never got into teaching for the money, but, “I do want to be paid what I’m worth.”

Since the first U.S. public-school system was established in Massachusetts in 1647, many localities have struggled to pay teachers and searched for people willing to do the job for less. In the mid-1800s, California superintendent of public instruction John Swett lamented that the work of teachers was not “as well-paid as the brain labor of the lawyer, the physician, the clergyman, the editor.”

“They ought not to be expected to break mental bread to the children of others and feed their own with stones,” Swett wrote in 1865, foreshadowing arguments still made by teachers today.

Teaching has long been dominated by women, and experts say the roots of its relatively low pay lie in sexism. “The ‘hidden subsidy of public education’ is the fact that teachers for many years were necessarily working at suppressed wage levels because they really had no options other than teaching,” says Susan Moore Johnson, a professor of education at Harvard and an expert in teacher policy.

In 1960, teaching was more lucrative than other comparable careers for women, according to the EPI, but that was because of limited opportunity, not high pay. As women were admitted to other professions in wider numbers, choosing teaching carried a cost. For example registered nurses—another career historically dominated by women—make far more than teachers today, earning an average annual wage of $73,550 in 2017, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Nursing shortages in some parts of the U.S. have led to signing bonuses, free housing, tuition reimbursement and other perks, while teacher shortages have contributed to some states increasing class sizes, shortening school weeks and enacting emergency certification for people who aren’t trained as educators.

Nationwide, the estimated average public-school teacher’s salary is now $58,950, according to the National Center for Education Statistics—a respectable income in many locales, but actual wages vary widely by state, and often do not track with costs of living. When compared to professions with similar education levels, teacher pay tends to pale. In 2016, for instance, the average teacher’s starting salary was $38,617—20% lower than that of other professions requiring a college degree.

The public response to the teachers’ protests shows signs of a shift in the perception of the profession. Even in conservative states, many voters backed tax increases to support public education, and called on lawmakers to stop cutting school budgets. State funding for public schools fell off a cliff 10 years ago, when recession-­wracked states slashed education budgets and cut taxes. The uprising in West Virginia seemed to mark a turning point in public support for refilling the coffers.

But like most stories, the fight over teacher pay has many shades of gray. Generous retirement and health-benefits packages negotiated by teachers’ unions in flusher times are a drain on many states. Those who believe most teachers are fairly paid point to those benefits, along with their summer break, to make their case.

Teachers, however, say those apparent perks often disappear upon inspection. Many regularly work over the summer, planning curricula, taking continuing education and professional development courses, and running summer programs at their schools, making it a year-round job. Indeed, teachers—about 40% of whom are not covered by Social Security because of states’ reliance on pension plans—must stay in the same state to collect their pensions. Studies have shown that the majority of new teachers don’t stay in the same district long enough to qualify for pensions. Even for those who do stand to gain, it can be hard to find reassurance in distant retirement benefits when salaries haven’t kept pace with the cost of living.

“Utility companies do not care that you had a great day with one of your students. They don’t care that you’re coaching the soccer team. They want you to pay for the services that they provide you,” says NaShonda Cooke, a teacher and single mother of two in Raleigh, N.C. “I can’t tell you how many letters I got this summer that said final notice.” Cooke, who makes about $69,000, often skips doctor’s appointments to save the co-pay and worries about paying for her eldest daughter’s college education. “It’s not about wanting a pay raise or extra income,” she says. “It’s just about wanting a livable wage.”

Stagnant wages are one reason teachers believe school districts across the country are facing hiring crises. This year in Oklahoma, a record number of teachers were given emergency teaching certifications, despite no traditional training. In Arizona, school districts began recruiting overseas to fill their shortfall. Last year, U.S. public schools hired 2,800 foreign teachers on special visas, up from 1,500 in 2012, according to federal data.

The pipeline, meanwhile, is drying up. Between 2008 and 2016, the number of new educators completing preparatory programs fell by 23%, according to the American Association of Colleges for Teacher Education. And once ­teachers make it to the classroom, attrition is high: at least 17% leave the profession within the first five years, a 2015 study found.

Hutchison says her daughter has plans to continue the family teaching tradition, but it’s becoming a harder path for a middle-­class kid. Hutchison’s sibling—an attorney, engineer and physical therapist—all earned graduate degrees, but now she makes half of what they do. “My younger brother who’s an engineer—his bonus is more than my salary,” she says.

As the new school year gets under way, many are picking up where the spring protests left off. In L.A., teachers voted in August to authorize a strike if negotiations continue to stall over issues including teacher pay and class sizes. In Washington, teachers in several districts are already on strike, calling for pay raises to come out of newly allocated education funding. In Virginia, teachers are floating the possibility of a statewide walkout.

Brown, the Kentucky teacher, says the fight needs to happen now or never. If budget cuts and school privatization efforts continue, she warns, teaching will cease to be a viable career for educated, engaged and ambitious people. She talks about what she does not as a job but as a calling. “I’m not necessarily a religious person, but I do believe I was put here to be a teacher,” she says. “I just want to be able to financially do that.”

But to Brown, it’s not only about what she and her fellow teachers are worth, because they’re not in the classroom alone. If the public is on their side, they say, it’s ultimately because of the kids.

—With reporting by Haley Sweetland Edwards/New York

EVERY CANDIDATE running for office should be forced to address this issue. And we need to stop have these sorry ass folks moderating candidate debates who refuse to ask about this and other education issues. Why don’t they? Their kids are in private school with well paid teachers.

[mercuryismygenius]

Book Review: ‘Dreamland’

Dreamland: The True Tale of America’s Opiate Epidemic by Sam Quinones

In Dreamland, Sam Quinones tackles the current opioid crisis in the United States with impressive thoroughness. His goal in researching the epidemic was The Big Picture---unfortunately, such comprehensiveness may not be possible. Nonetheless, he does an admirable job, making Dreamland one of the few should-reads for contemporary America.

There is a lot in this book. Broadly speaking, the material can be divided into two basic categories: the legal, and the illegal (specifically represented by Oxycontin, and Black Tar heroin, respectively). Broadly speaking.

On the legal side, Quinones interviews doctors, researchers, nurses, clinicians, patients-cum-addicts, Oxycontin dealers, and families of the lost; he has chapters on the poppy plant, opium, and morphine; he discusses Arthur Sackler and the rise of pharmaceutical marketing, which included the wooing of doctors; and he traces the history of pain treatment---the medical treatment of pain being one of the largest enablers of the opium epidemic.

It’s hard to call what occurred in the medical establishment an overt conspiracy since, outside Big Pharma, most intention was good. Most. 

It began because opium derivatives are pain killers---and the pain-killing properties of opium are ancient news. Also well-known was the fact that opioids are addictive, and use was restricted and monitored. Cancer changed that, with doctors advocating the use of morphine, etc. for end-stage cancer patients who were dying in horrible pain. At that point, it was a quality-of-life issue, and the campaign was successful.

Unfortunately, around the same time that pharmaceutical companies were honing their marketing skills, and developing opium-derivatives, medicine decided to extend the quality-of-life logic to all forms of pain. Injured? Opioid. Chronic back pain because you don’t lift with your legs? Opioid. Whatever the pharmaceutical company had, that was the solution.

And as for that habit-forming problem of opium-derivatives? Turns out, according to an infamous “study” referred to as Porter and Jick, opioids aren’t really that addictive after all. That Porter and Jick was really just a letter to the editor noting one pattern in a limited pool of data either didn’t matter, or, more probably, was never known by the people who cited it (a couple of whom Quinones interviews). Yes, bad science became a major contributor to our opioid crisis. No one checked the “study” that was repeated ad nauseam, and few paid attention to the data at hand concerning the high rates of addiction in patients who were prescribed Oxycontin.

Insurance companies didn’t help matters. They’d pay for prescription medication, but not for physical therapy, psychotherapy, nutritionists, or holistic/ multidisciplinary approaches to pain treatment. So doctors who wanted to use those non-pill approaches were put out of business.

But that’s just the legal opioids. On the illegal side, Quinones focuses on Black Tar Heroin, a viscous, dark-colored substance that’s as pure as heroin can get. He interviews cops, dealers, DEA agents, addicts, lawyers, and community organizers. And because he follows the Black Tar, he discusses Xaliso, a city in the state of Narayit in Mexico, where the heroin was grown.

Black Tar heroin dealers changed the game. Just about everything about them confounded police. The dealers didn’t carry guns, didn’t fight turf wars, and feared local gangs. They didn’t use, and they didn’t adulterate their product by cutting it---they didn’t need to as there was no multilevel distribution line. They delivered to their customers, carrying a minimum of heroin, so if caught, D.A.s rarely felt they were worth the time, and they were just deported.

Deportation was not a deterrent. The Xalisco Boys, as Quinones calls them, dealt heroin in order to make money and be the Big Man struttin’ around town back home. In the United States, their lives were spartan---the point was to go back home to their sugarcane-farming town, having struck it rich. Unfortunately, the dealers spent too lavishly, didn’t invest or save, so money ran out, and they had to return to the U.S.

The system the Xalisco Boys had was capitalism at its finest. No corporate headquarters, no cartel bigwigs, just small entrepreneurs competing in an open market. They had excellent customer service. Not only did they deliver like pizza, they offered samples, and deals. Addicts would get extra heroin for introducing a new customer. The Xalisco Boys would pay (in heroin) for an addict to hand out samples at the local methadone clinic. They’d exchange drugs for your name on an apartment or car lease. And when word got back to Narayit of ripe territory, a gold-rush mentality set in, and more cells would show up in town to compete for the same customers. Prices dropped.

Besides being non-violent in general, in Xalisco, the culture included webs of long-standing family feuds that few wanted to challenge. Because if anything untoward happened in the U.S., it *would* get back to Mexico.

Thus the more adventurous dealers would strike out for new territory. If an addict happened to know of another possibly-lucrative town, they’d introduce the Boys. 

One dealer Quinones interviews, called The Man, was actually born in the U.S., and entered the Xalisco system from the outside. Of Mexican descent, he spoke English and Spanish, and recognized the relevance of Oxycontin to heroin sales (most of the Xalisco Boys didn’t bother learning more than functional English, so didn’t see the bonanza). He was arrested before he could really pave the way, but others did so after him.

Part One of the book ends with the arrest of numerous dealers in multiple states in one of the largest, most coordinated operations in drug-enforcement history. But the insidiousness of the Xalisco system is that it’s self-renewing. Arrest one guy, someone else will take his place. As long as there’s demand.

As I stated above, there is a lot in this book. Quinones manages this plethora of information by “braiding” or “juggling” it: he tells the story of the family of a young man who od’d; introduces a dealer called Enrique; moves to Dr. Herschel Jick wondering about rates of narcotic addiction in patients at his hospital; reveals how Dr. David Proctor came to Portsmouth, OH (he wasn’t able to interview Proctor in person); Enrique again; a cop in Denver; the morphine molecule; Proctor; Enrique; a cop in Idaho; Xalisco culture---this is not the actual order he goes in, but it is the gist of his technique. He touches base with each thread, showing how they interweave. It’s an interesting approach that I think works well for the material, but it did get difficult sometimes to remember who was who. I’d use the index in those cases.

Two limits before I end this already long review. First, the heroin angle is limited to the Black Tar out of Xalisco. Other heroin dealers, gangs, cartels, etc. are mentioned only when relevant to Black Tar and the Xalisco system. So, for example, the Xalisco Boys avoided New York City like the plague, so not much about the presence of heroin there in Dreamland.

Second, racism is prevalent throughout, but not explicitly explored (this is a limit, not a detraction). The Xalisco Boys would not deal to blacks if they could help it---mostly out of fear derived from prejudice. But the far more subtle forms of racism, especially in the predominantly white middle-American towns exist like smog---it’s there, it’s not good, but those immersed in it stopped noticing. Quinones points it out a couple of times, but the degree to which it’s relevant is up to the reader (since his topic isn't the various connections between racism and drugs, he may have decided to just let instances of racism stink up the background and not turn Dreamland into a doorstop).

Highly recommend this book.

[junesmusings]

Having an Invisible Chronic Illness: Idiopathic Arthritis

In my nearly 15 years of being diagnosed with a chronic illness, I’ve had a few people, perhaps concerned, perhaps in morbid curiosity, ask what it’s like to navigate this illness. Some background: One day when I was 12 years old, I woke up feeling feverish, achy all over, and with just a general feeling of malaise. Days and weeks went by and the pain got worse, my joints began to swell and lose range of motion.

Even worse though was the barrage of clueless doctors and endless tests to endure as my family and me tried to figure out what was happening to me. After about six months of confusion and little answers (not to mention, excruciating pain), I was finally referred to a rheumatologist for children who diagnosed me with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis (now called Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis) of the polyarticular type (meaning many joints are affected, not just one or two like in most cases). In the time it took finding my diagnosis, I had lost most of my mobility, independence and ability to care for myself. After my diagnosis, it was about 7 months before I was able to regain my mobility and independence, due to medication and intensive therapy. The arthritis went into remission for about 15 years. Things were pretty good. Not completely back to how I was before, but much more bearable.

Then, late 2017, without warning, I started to experience pain, swelling, and loss of mobility in my joints again. And I’ve been fighting this flare up ever since. It’s just now reaching a point where it’s barely manageable, as my team of medical professionals haven’t yet found the right regimen of medication to get the arthritis back in remission. And I’m not going to lie. It’s an everyday struggle. I never know what each day will bring, which joints will be affected day-to-day, or just how much of my mobility may be lost that day.

As you might imagine, this makes for a pretty unpredictable and tumultuous life. So I wanted to outline what’s it’s like living with a (mostly) invisible illness on a daily basis.

Physical

It hurts pretty much all of the time which makes it harder for me to work or do what I like to call “normal people activities”. On good days it’s a nagging or aching pain that I usually can ignore or manage with over-the-counter painkillers. On bad days, the pain becomes more persistent or the swelling and stiffness more pronounced, in which case, I lose my independence. My family is pretty great about assisting me when I need it, but it can sometimes be embarrassing to have to depend on someone for things most toddlers can do.

I guess the closest thing I can compare arthritis pain to is having screws twisted into your joints. Sometimes it feels like a constant jackhammering. Once the pain gets to the point where I’m questioning the point of living (oh yeah, suicidal thoughts happen), that’s usually when I go to the ER.

Medical Perception

While the pain and swelling can be debilitating, even more devastating is the loss of agency. Perhaps it’s the realization that maybe I never had much agency to begin with especially as a Black woman. Black women are the most likely to be ignored, dismissed or mistreated by medical professionals, all across pay grades and economic backgrounds. My 15-year spanning relationship with hospitals and medical personnel is nothing if not a testament to that fact. We’re the most likely to be seen as drug-seeking and the most likely to have our pain ignored.

So you see how it can get complicated going to the ER for unbearable pain. The Opioid Crisis/Panic has made it much harder for people with chronic pain to have their pain managed. Oftentimes a doctor will find a medication that actually works for me, only to switch it out for something else to reduce the likeliness of addiction, something else which may or may not work to reduce the pain. Even worse I may not be believed at all and turned away. This has happened before and is usually followed by a few days of agony until I can get in to see my primary doctor. Not fun.

Emotional repercussions

Sometimes it’s like watching from a half-life, witnessing others deal in blessed mundanity, not having to worry for this medication or that appointment, and most of all just getting up and without thinking, planning, just executing.

It’s always having it in the back of your mind in case someone asks for something you can’t deliver on, it’s like always being on edge, the constant hanging fear not only that you’re lazy and worthless, and that others will realize it too-- thoughts brought to you by our great capitalist you’re only worth what you can provide society.

It’s saying yes to things knowing all too well the repercussions that will come with overextending yourself. It’s planning double and triple, backwards and forwards because you can’t walk that well and you have to be prepared for anything. It’s mostly like having a child to constantly nurture, and plan for and around, but no one else can see this child and even worse, many even doubt the child’s existence.

It’s censoring the things you say, smoldering the fires of truth to protect your space, compromising passion for safety. It’s unwillingness to show vulnerability, and immense shame and embarrassment when it cannot be contained.

And no one fully understands, is the worst part. Sometimes it really feels this journey must be felt for tentatively bit by bit in the terrifying dark.

Whoa, that got morbid. Ha. But seriously.

Oddly enough, it’s hasn’t been all bad. Having this illness has transformed me into an extremely empathetic and compassionate person. I’ve met and had great conversations with people from many different backgrounds and perspectives that I may not have encountered otherwise. And I know it might sound cliche but it’s also taught me to slow down and really experience life. Sometimes “good days” can be few and far between, so when I am having a good day I savor it. I soak it all in. I impress every memory into my mind like a footprint, saving them up for those days when I’m convinced that nothing exists but me and pain.

[wellesleyunderground]

Wellesley in Politics: Interview with Lindsey Boylan ‘06 (@LindseyBoylan), Candidate for NY’s 10th Congressional District

While the much of focus on the 2020 national election has been on the presidential race, there will also be Congressional races taking place across the country in just over a year. Lindsey Boylan ‘06 is one candidate on the ballot for the House of Representatives and is running in the Democratic primary in New York’s 10th Congressional District against long term Congressman Rep. Jerry Nadler. A former College Government President, Boylan received an MBA from Columbia Business School after graduating from Wellesley and previously served as the Director for Business Affairs for Bryant Park as well as the Deputy Secretary for Economic Development and Special Advisor to the Governor for New York State under the Cuomo administration. We reached out to Lindsey to hear more about her campaign and why she is running for Congress. 

Thank you for agreeing to chat with Wellesley Underground! Tell us a little bit about yourself and your career trajectory after graduating from Wellesley in 2006. Who is Lindsey Boylan?

First of all, it’s no exaggeration to say that Wellesley changed the trajectory of my life. I’m deeply proud of my parents who endured all kinds of struggles and gave me the gift of believing in limitless possibilities. My mother would have loved to attend Wellesley herself, but that opportunity wasn’t available to her when she became a single mother at 16, with the birth of my older sister. She really overcame so much over the years. My mom was working multiple jobs, still unable to get by without the help of food stamps when she met my dad, a Marine from Queens. Eventually she went back to school and became an accountant when I was a teenager. She recognized that Wellesley would open the world to me, and it did in so many ways.

The year that I graduated, the activist Jane Jacobs died. Because I read about her life’s work and her book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, I fell in love with urban planning and decided to move to New York City. I moved to the Upper West side of Manhattan with no job and less $100 in my bank account, like so many young women who come to this city--- basically not sure how it will all work out, but completely confident that we’ll find a way.

My first job in the city was with urban planner Alex Garvin. I read that he had worked with Jane Jacobs, so I reached out him and basically pestered him until he hired me. From there I went on to oversee Bryant Park. I later got my MBA from Columbia Business School while working full time. That led me to working for New York State, where I served the state as deputy secretary of economic development and special advisor to the governor. I’m very proud of my work for New York State. It’s where I helped secure hundreds of millions of dollars for underfunded public housing in New York and was instrumental in creating new job growth in the state. I was a strong advocate for passing Paid Family Leave; I helped lead the fight for a $15 minimum wage in New York; and I led the state’s efforts to provide assistance for Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria.

In declaring your candidacy for New York’s 10th Congressional district, you would be running against long-term incumbent Rep. Jerry Nadler in the Democratic primary. What is motivating you to run for Congress now and what would you say differentiates you from the incumbent?

Our experiences couldn’t be more different. Jerry originally won his seat in Congress, nearly 30 years ago, when Ted Weiss died the day before the primary election. Nadler was nominated to replace him. As part of “the machine” of New York politics, he hasn’t faced a serious primary challenger because the establishment uses its full force to protect the status quo. He's one of the least productive members of Congress. In almost 30 years in the House, he’s only passed 3 pieces of his own legislation into law — one of which was the renaming of a federal building.

While I’ve pledged not to take a dime of corporate PAC or fossil-fuel industry contributions, corporations fuel Jerry Nadler’s campaign. He operates on the hundreds of thousands of dollars in PAC money from the very industries he regulates in Congress. He’s checked the progressive box on his votes, but actually has little to show for his decades in office. He has not been a leading voice on issues that impact the everyday well-being of New Yorkers. He hasn’t been a champion for mental health, affordable housing, or reducing maternal mortality. There has been no action on climate change despite the fact that a large part of our district is at risk of devastating flooding from storm surges. 

Obviously, in last year’s election we saw both Rep. Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez and Rep. Ayanna Pressley defeat long-term Congressmen. How much were you influenced by their campaign victories in making the decision to run for the 10th Congressional district seat?

I think we all were inspired by their historic wins. Women, especially women of color, are constantly degraded and pushed to the sidelines, while others make decisions about their lives. Women are sick and tired of others speaking for us. What we need is more seats at the table. For women of all experiences. For mothers too. Representatives Ocasio-Cortez and Pressley’s wins showed us that, despite what the establishment tells us, our time is now. I have been told repeatedly that there’s no point in even running against Jerry Nadler, as if he’s somehow entitled to his seat in Congress. That’s not how democracy works. Women are often told that it’s not the right place or the right time for us. We know that we can’t wait politely for our turn, because if we do, our turn will never come. It reminds me of my favorite quote from Nora Ephron, who said in her 1996 Wellesley commencement address, “Whatever you choose, however many roads you travel, I hope that you choose not to be a lady. I hope you will find some way to break the rules and make a little trouble out there. And I also hope that you will choose to make some of that trouble on behalf of women."

You previously were featured in an article about the growing sentiment that the Democratic party is attempting to crackdown on challengers to incumbents. What do you think your biggest hurdle will be in next year’s election?

Any time you’re running against an intrenched incumbent, it’s really a campaign against “the machine.” Naturally I don’t have the name recognition that Jerry does. The biggest hurdle will be ensuring that my platform and my ideas reach voters. I won’t rest until I’ve met every single person in New York’s 10th District, so they know that this time they have a choice.

Most of New York City is so overwhelmingly Dem that the primary is everything. As long as Democrats fear taking on the establishment, New Yorkers won’t have real options. Being a challenger means that you don’t have access to the financial resources and institutional support of an establishment that will fight with all its power to maintain the status quo. I expect it’s going to be an incredibly hard fight, but I’m a Wellesley woman. I’m prepared.

There will no doubt be a significant amount of attention focused on the 2020 election. How do you plan to effectively share your vision and get voters energized about your campaign during a time when many may be more focused on the presidential election?

I am just as interested in the 2020 presidential campaign - how can I not be? But change can’t happen in this country without the joint effort of the legislative and executive branches. The real impact happens when Congress and the President work together. It’s fantastic when we have a new leader who is passionate, but, as we saw with Obama’s second term, we need fighters in Congress, too, and I plan to be one of New York’s fighters in Congress.

Speaking a little about the issues that matter to you - what would you say are your top three issues of concern? Are you of the opinion that the key issues differ for those living in the Manhattan part of the 10th District compared to those living in Brooklyn?

My priority is to treat housing, healthcare, and education as basic human rights. The district obviously can’t be addressed as a monolith, but all people living in the 10th district, and across America, deserve to live productive, meaningful, and dignified lives. We're facing numerous urgent challenges that need immediate action, among them the climate crisis, gun violence, and the opioid epidemic. Not to mention the assault on our democracy by Trump. One issue which is very important to me, which I don’t hear elected speak about, is mental health. I don’t know anyone whose family hasn’t been affected by mental illness. It’s well past time for mental health to be an equal part of the conversation when we talk about health care. We desperately need to address it on a national level.

As you launch your Congressional campaign, what do you want potential voters to know about the type of leadership you would bring to Congress, if elected?

In Congress, I’ll be guided by my core values as I have been during a life of public service. I will honor my oath without fear of the political ramifications. I won’t just be fighting for the future of my daughter’s generation, but for my mother’s generation and everyone in between.

What advice do you have for Wellesley alums thinking about running for public office either at the very local or national level?

I’d say that when you enter the arena, you’re going to experience what it means to be a Wellesley woman on a new level. You will be overwhelmed by the support from alums, as well as current students--- we have an amazing group of campaign fellows. They’re all very talented and I can’t wait to see them run for office themselves.

One bit of advice that I’ll offer is to develop a strong “kitchen cabinet”, or circle of trusted advisors. You have to trust your gut when you know something is right, but it’s also important to check in with people you hold in high esteem, who challenge your assumptions. If you haven’t read Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin, it’s a great read.

Also, remember to take care of yourself, especially when it seems like there’s no time for that. You are going to want to “yes, and” everything and everyone, but you can’t work 25 hours every day.

Speaking about mental health, particularly as you continue campaigning over the next year, what is your self-care philosophy?

I recommend therapy for everyone, which unfortunately is sometimes easier said than done. There is so much work to be done so that everyone can access quality mental health care. At minimum, create boundaries around what you can and can’t allow to consume your attention. Also know what recharges your battery. Everyone is different. For me, it’s quiet time with my 5-year-old daughter. She’s everything to me. I’m 100% committed to bringing transformative change to New York’s 10th Congressional District, but sometimes you have to take a meeting inside a princess fort. 

__________

For more information about Lindsey, check out her campaign’s website, follow her on Twitter @LindseyBoylan and keep up with her campaign on Instagram @LindseyBoylanNY. 

Interview by Cleo Hereford ‘09

[theliberaltony]

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

More women are running for president than ever. But there’s no one way to do it. This is the first in a series exploring the way that the women candidates in the 2020 race are navigating questions of identity, sexism and public critique.

“I fully intend to win this election” is the kind of line that seems a bit redundant coming from a person running for president.

But when Sen. Kamala Harris said it only a minute or so into her stump speech in Keene, New Hampshire, in late April, it felt like a polite retort to the question of whether she would be “electable” in a head-to-head contest against President Trump. America hasn’t seen too many women run for president, let alone a mixed-race woman, and Harris finds herself dealing with a powerful political irritant: answering the incessant question of whether the nation is ready for a president “like” her.

For months, polls have found that Democratic primary voters value a candidate’s ability to beat Trump regardless of whether they share that candidate’s ideology. And polls have found that former Vice President Joe Biden is perceived as having the best chance to beat Trump, even among those who don’t support Biden’s candidacy. Harris has remained in the top tier of candidates, with strong fundraising and decent small donor contributions, and her standing in the polls has remained steady. Since Trump was elected, though, narratives in the popular media have focused on the idea that Democrats must win back the Obama-Trump voter, giving outsize attention to white, male candidates. In such an environment, Harris’s race and gender are eyed as both a prize — another candidate could try to leverage her identity by naming Harris as his running mate, trying to capture the large number of black and brown women who tend to vote for Democrats — and a liability.

The 2020 race is not the first time that Harris has had to confront the “electability” question. And she’s responding to it now as she ever has: by emphasizing her policy and career bona fides above all else.

Identity is a well-worn line of questioning for Harris, and she sometimes seems to have little patience for overly personal tangents about her personal travails as a mixed-race woman in America.

In a 2017 interview with Harris, David Axelrod, a former adviser to President Barack Obama, interjected as the newly elected senator talked about her decision to become a prosecutor: “I want to get to that and your career in the law, but I just want to hear a little more about your folks and about the sort of cross-cultural upbringing and how that helped shape you,” he said, referring to Harris’s mother, who was Indian, and her father, who is Jamaican. Harris replied:

Well, you know, it’s funny, David. … But in my career, when I was district attorney of San Francisco, attorney general of California and even now as a United States senator, in each position, I was ‘the first.’ And in particular when I was DA and AG, reporters would come up to me and ask me this really original question, put a microphone in front of my face: ‘So what’s it like to be the first woman — fill in the blank, DA, AG. And I’d look at them not knowing how to answer that question, and I would tell them, ‘I really don’t know how to answer that question because, you see, I’ve always been a woman, but I’m sure a man could do the job just as well.’

You can almost see the trademark narrowing of Harris’s eyes in her answer. Her take on the personal as political often manifests itself as a recitation of past accomplishments and future plans rather than a fixation on her autobiography. Harris wants you to know she’s a doer, not a dweller. Her autobiography, “The Truths We Hold,” dispenses with the retelling of her childhood, adolescence and college years in a matter of 24 pages. The book is more the story of a career, albeit a remarkable one. It is very much a vehicle for introducing Harris’s policy thinking and her pristine résumé. Even the affecting words she writes about her mother’s death and legacy are relatively sparse — she pivots rather quickly to the problems of the American health care system, the opioid crisis and racial disparities in patient care.

When Harris ran for attorney general in California, she confronted some of the same electability questions she’s being forced to respond to in her 2020 presidential campaign.

Al Seib / Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

Longtime friend Debbie Mesloh, who worked with Harris during her time as district attorney and on her Senate campaign, said Harris’s identity as a woman and a woman of color manifests itself most clearly in how she has approached policymaking on the job. “I’ve been with her in rooms where she’s the only person of color advocating policies that look completely different from what everyone else in that room has known,” Mesloh told me. She recalled that one of the first things Harris did when she became San Francisco’s first female district attorney was instruct her team to stop the use of the term “teenage prostitute,” as a way to talk more empathetically about girls who were often victims of human trafficking. (Harris pursued reforms to human trafficking prosecutions during her time as California attorney general.) In May, Harris’s campaign announced a policy proposal for pay parity that would ask companies, rather than individual complainants, to report pay disparities between the genders

“She grew up in this environment where, yes, you’re a woman of color, you’ve had this unique experience — then therefore, what?” Mesloh said. “What is that going to mean for what you say you want to do?”

That Harris doesn’t put her personal experiences front and center runs somewhat counter to the American public’s desire to know as much as possible about the lives of women, famous and otherwise. The how-she-gets-it-done genre is crowded, and some women politicians like U.S. Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez have used social media to give constituents — and everyone else — glimpses into their everyday lives. Even Hillary Clinton’s campaign started a podcast, presumably as a way to everywoman its extremely famous candidate.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with Kamala,” Jim Stearns, the campaign manager for her two district attorney races, told me, adding that she was a warm presence and “down to earth.” But, he said, “I never knew anything about her private life.” In her first campaign to be district attorney, Harris was running as the first woman of color for the position. “She usually frames things within issues, so it’s not necessarily about herself,” Stearns said. The campaign manager for her attorney general races, Brian Brokaw, said much the same thing. “Her identity is her identity, but that’s not how she runs,” he said. “She wants to be judged for what she believes in and what she’s done.”

The “electability” question that Harris now faces — a dubiously framed debate in the eyes of some — is also one that dogged her in her early California races. Brokaw said that during Harris’s 2010 attorney general campaign, skepticism around her candidacy came even from friendly corners. “I remember having a conversation with someone I won’t name, but at the time, he was a prominent state legislator, and he said, ‘I like Harris, I think she’s a great DA, and she’s got a bright future, but I don’t think she can win because I agree with her too much.’ And the point he was making was as a progressive himself, there was no way that someone who was a black woman from San Francisco with a progressive record could win a job in California that had been held entirely by white men for the history of the state of California.” Harris would go on to beat Republican Steve Cooley in a close race, but only after Cooley declared victory on election night. He conceded weeks later.

In Harris’s current race, her foil is the front-runner, Biden. He hadn’t yet gotten into the race when I saw Harris in New Hampshire, but his smiling face was on the cover of Time magazine when I popped into a drugstore. Harris has chafed against Biden’s pitch that he can win back so-called Obama-Trump voters. “There has been a conversation by pundits about ‘electability’ and ‘who can speak to the Midwest,’” she told a crowd at an NAACP event in Detroit recently. “But when they say that, they usually put the Midwest in a simplistic box and a narrow narrative. And too often, their definition of the Midwest leaves people out. It leaves out people in this room who helped build cities like Detroit. It leaves out working women who are on their feet all day, many of them working without equal pay.”

Harris’s path to the White House hinges on her ability to increase turnout of core Democratic constituencies in places lost by Democrats in 2016. Black turnout fell across the board in the last presidential election, including in key areas of “blue wall” states like Michigan with high black populations. That Harris is a mixed-race woman could, allies argue, be her greatest electoral strength, not a weakness. “This moment in time when we really see, especially within the Democratic Party, people looking at and seeing the power of black women,” Mesloh said, “has probably been the first time that there’s really been that recognition.”

In Keene, people seemed cautiously optimistic about Harris. Donna Doherty told me that she agreed with everything Harris had to say. “My only fear is that I think some people in our country aren’t ready to vote for a woman,” she said. Doherty’s friend, Sandy Thibodeau, was similarly complimentary: “She speaks very well, she’s very calm. A woman, unfortunately, needs to be.”

While Harris spoke, I found myself at pains to notice how voters reacted to her. People tended to call her “Kamala” rather than “senator” when they addressed her, but I couldn’t detect much else that was radically different from any other event in a far-too-long presidential campaign. At one point, in the middle of her stumping, I caught sight of Harris’s husband, Douglas Emhoff, who had slipped into the back of the crowd. He shook his head in disbelief as she called out some gun control policies as too lax in one part of the speech and then looked around to see how others had reacted. For a moment, I was struck by how strange it must be to see a room full of people size up your spouse. And watching us — voters, journalists — watch her seemed as apt a metaphor as any for modern “electability” politics, 2020 included. The chief concern seems not to be personal belief, but concern for the personal beliefs of others: “some people in our country aren’t ready to vote for a woman”; “I don’t think she can win because I agree with her too much.”

Harris, for one, seemed confident when she stopped to say hello to a little old lady on the way out of the event: “It’s not going to be easy, but we’re going to win.”

[kaleuh]

Okay now that i’ve Chilled , here are my full Season 5 thoughts

OBVIOUSLY it was spectacular, I didn’t expect anything less. They really experimented this season -- expanding their animation and visual storytelling to the next level. Not even just that but the Writing experiments -- obviously, Free Churro. It was just fucking outstanding? I loved every second of that? And you can tell they really put a lot of work into seeing how they can push the envelope and go Beyond what’s anticipated of both writing and animation. Everyone onboard is just so fucking talented. There were a lot of voice acting moments that really got me in this season too. Like, Diane? Her VA is phenomenal. When she cries in the beginning of the second episode, and when she’s tearing into Bojack in episode 10, it’s just SO real. Also, if Will Arnett doesn’t get an Emmy or Annie or SOMETHING for Free Churro, I’m going to sit here and do nothing because it’s not anything I can control but I will be SO mad about it.

The only thing that made me feel a little sad is that it seemed the character stories all felt sorta.. disjointed? Like, every individual character had their own stuff going on so it led to a lot of separation in the cast -- the only time everyone is together is when they’re working on Filbert, but even then there’s not a lot of interpersonal cast moments like there were in earlier seasons. IT’S TOTALLY FAIR THOUGH because everyone had a LOT of shit going on.

Imo, the best episode was The Showstopper (ep.11) -- the variety of emotions I was thrown in and out of was insurmountable to anything else in the season. It felt like I was having an opioid induced psychosis episode. I was STRESSED and Paranoid and SAD and Full of Wonder and Shocked and GENUINELY FEARFUL to the point where I had to pause it (it was when he Called Charlotte’s House, but that was LIGHT compared to what happened later.) And then finally, I was just Upset. Like, I felt betrayed. There was a certain line I thought Bojack would never cross -- it’s like, you see him do all these Awful things but you think, “Okay, but he’s not a bad person. He never actively goes out to harm other people, he’s never violent.” And then it happens. The Horrible Scary Violent Adult Man comes out and its like. “I trusted you.” It was just horrifying to watch the cast slowly realize he was about to kill Gina in front of them -- and the part of me that felt Betrayed is like, “but it was just the opioids and hallucinations that made him violent!” but then Everything else in me is like . Is It Though

ALSO, THE SONG NUMBER SEQUENCE IN THAT EPISODE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS THAT EVER HAPPENED.

It was so relieving to watch him check into rehab -- and simultaneously, so fucking sad to see it happen, because at the end of last season, you’re thinking, “oh, he’s going to change. he’s going to get better , he’s going to realize what family means and be a better person.” and then he does so many god awful things this season. it’s heartbreaking.

I’m Disappointed in Mr. Peanutbutter, but it’s really interesting watching him go through his midlife crisis. I didn’t realize how long him and Diane were together (and Also that her and the other wives were all in their 20s when they were dating him??) Getting age confirmations on a lot of characters this season was helpful. I’m so happy for Princess Carolyn, but she did a lot of things that made me disappointed in her, too. Like, there was the whole Hiring An Astoundingly Horrible And Unapologetic Human Being thing and sticking by it, and then there weren’t any emotional repercussions for Bojack after he strangled Gina. I love PC because her career-minded attitude in Entertainment always reminded me of me, but it really showed that she values that over literally EVERYTHING else -- which I also think is going to conflict with her and her baby next season. Here’s my prediction: she’s not going to be able to balance being a mom and working as much as she does, so she’s either going to A) Quit. or B) Get back together with Ralph, have a happy family, and work less.

On the other hand, I’ve never related so much to Diane more than I have this season. Maybe it’s because I’m also a millennial woman Clickbait writer now, but I just felt a ton of connections to her. The pan of her being the last shot of the season was like, calming and sad. I’m honestly like. worried about her? I just want her to have a good life.

Todd is perfect, as always.

Anyway, the gags this season were fantastic as always, i love the alliterations and visuals. They’re heading in a fantastic direction. I really don’t know what to make of Bojack at this point. I’m glad he’s getting help, but I really don’t know if I can bring myself to love him until he starts being responsible for himself -- even with going to rehab, he needed Diane to tell him to Do That. The whole, “You just want a mommy to slide your dick into” thing comes up over and over again. I want him to stop being spoiled and horrible -- this’ll be a good step but I can’t have as much hope as I did the last season finale.

ANYWAY, I love this show. It’s unbelievable. Everyone working on it deserves an award.

[phroyd]

One DOES have to ask: “What Fucking Morons Would Smoke Free Drugs Given Out By Strangers In A Park?!” - Phroyd

When a raised voice breaks out above the downtown din in New Haven Green park, the shouts are often drawing attention to yet another person who has had a bad reaction to the synthetic cannabinoid K2, also known as spice.

The drug users who frequent the 16-acre park in New Haven, Connecticut, which is just steps away from Yale University’s gothic campus, describe that reaction as a “fallout”, and so far it has happened to 95 people over the course of two days this week.

This mass, rapid-fire overdose event was a sped-up version of what is happening across the US as local and federal governments struggle to reduce the colliding impacts of opioid, methamphetamine, cocaine and other addictions.

Phil Costello, the clinical director for homeless care at Cornell Scott-Hill health center, works often in the Green from his temporary office under a tent. “That batch that came in yesterday, with all the people falling out, has just made this basically a mass casualty incident,” Costello said.

He and a team of other nurses and addiction counselors stood by cots, ready with bottled water and the overdose reversal agent narcan, which has proved largely ineffective against synthetic cannabinoids.

“I think it’s frustrating because for the team, because we don’t really have narcan that can fix it [the K2 overdoses],” Costello said. “It’s the addiction.”

In 2017, drug overdoses killed nearly 200 people per day, according to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) data released this week, a new record driven by the deadly opioid epidemic.

Since K2 was first detected in the US in 2008, clusters of overdose outbreaks have become more and more common. About 56 people overdosed from K2 in Brooklyn in May; 100 people overdosed in Lancaster county, Pennsylvania, in July 2017 and 40 people overdosed in Dallas, Texas, in May 2014.

Sometimes K2 is laced with the powerful opioid fentanyl, but investigators including the federal Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) said they have not yet found any in the New Haven sample.

Officials said there have not been any deaths from this batch of K2, but they fear the long-term consequences of a drug that causes hallucinations, vomiting and a rapid heart rate.

K2 is also known as synthetic marijuana because it interacts with cannabinoid receptors in the central nervous system to produce psychoactive effects. But K2 is much more potent and is an unpredictable mix of differing concentrations of different chemicals that are poured or sprayed on plant material.

Despite the mystery of each batch, K2 is appealing to drug users because its cost is low, its chemicals aren’t detected on standard drug tests and its changing mixtures make law enforcement efforts more complicated than with purer drugs such as marijuana.

“It’s just a daunting, daunting thought for the future,” said Costello. “This is a much bigger problem and a much bigger threat to national security than other things.”

Costello, a nurse, is known as “Dr Phil” to the hundreds of homeless who frequent the green and when not treating patients this week, he was constantly greeted by people he has helped in the past. “Everybody knows each other and they try to take care of each other the best they can,” Costello said.

The green has a manicured lawn and is surrounded by nice restaurants and cute shops, but it is also where people shoot drugs in the daytime and don’t hesitate to ask the stranger sharing a bench with them where to buy K2. It’s where hundreds of the city’s homeless spend their days, but the rest of the community doesn’t seem to linger.

Costello said on a normal day on the green, one or two people might need emergency medical care because of drug use. But not so with this batch, which police suspect was distributed by two men, including one accused ofhanding out it for nothing to lure in clients.

“With this particular version they have convulsions, psychotic episodes and become completely catatonic and barely responsive, which makes them very vulnerable to people who might want to take advantage of them,” Costello said.

At the peak of overdoses on Wednesday, 46 ambulances were responding to calls.

“People were dropping all over the green, it was just mass amounts of people,” said Daena Murphy, a clinical social worker at the community health center, Cornell Scott Hill Health Corporation, who worked alongside Costello this week.

“Fallout” rates slowed on Thursday, though in one 15-minute period, police and health workers darted around the park to respond to three distressed individuals.

A bystander or friend would call out, wave their arms and point at a victim lying on the ground or silent and still on a bench. In seconds, someone with a stethoscope, stretcher or water bottle would be running their way and ambulances would surround the scene.

Murphy warned that what had happened this week in this city of 129,934 people was happening across the US.

“After the TV cameras leave, we are still here,” Murphy said. “It’s not just New Haven.”

The dean of the Yale school of public health, Sten Vermund, said: “My fear is that the synthetic cannabinoids might be a new wave.”

“It’s occupying the fire department, the emergency room at Yale, you can imagine the pain and suffering of the patients’ families, on the patients themselves,” Vermund said. “It’s quite a big burden on a small city. It would be a big burden on a big city.”

Yale has been on the frontline of responding to the New Haven city green overdoses, with its emergency room caring for most of those affected and its pharmacologists analyzing the product and blood tests.

Vermund said: “This [K2] is a bit of a drug du jour but it’s in the context of a fairly substantial substance abuse crisis we have in the US.”

Phroyd

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

Aftermath: Bombshell

So… this story and its counterpart was made at the beginning of this year. However, 4.2 and 4.3 ended up revealing that Dex and Nursey weren’t back in Maine/NYC during Game 7, but in Samwell/Providence. Because I’m a neurotic mess who likes my stories in a single canon-complaint headcanon-verse, I have zero qualms about going back and retconning. I continue to thank @kleeklutch for helping not only beta the changes but make the whole thing flow better.

**Warning: this fic contains explicit homophobic language, bullying behavior from an adult, mention of past physical trauma, anxiety, and allusion to the current opioid crisis.**

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13320069 

There some moments in your life when you know that something catastrophic is coming but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

You have to bear that feeling of helplessness despite your mind tearing itself apart playing out all of the possible scenarios that could unfold.  Despite the constricted breaths, sleepless nights, and twisted insides weighing on your body as you get closer to zero hour. Despite everything, you just have to suck it up.

I’ve done it before. I can do it now.

I’m with over half the village crammed into Aunt Trish & Uncle Jim’s diner, and all eyes are fixed on the diner’s new bigass screen; where my former captain is about to make a seventh-game overtime shot that will earn the Providence Falconers the Stanley Cup.

I know who is going to win as this scene already played out over a week ago. Championship games tend to finish late, so we just record them so we can focus on work — in the process, we do our best to avoid to avoid news — until we all get together for a community watch party. After all, unless there’s a personal investment, there’s no point in losing productive sleep before a work day.

This year though, I was able to not only watch the game live but did so in Providence.

Unlike the alumni who had seats with Bitty, I held down the fort with Chowder and Nursey at Jack’s apartment. Though I bet that any stranger could have waltzed right in and eaten our snacks right next to us without being noticed. While I can recall the play-by-play, that night still went by in a cuss-laden blur. The only lasting evidence of how I felt were the scratch marks along my arm and slight crescents in my palms. I do know that we never let our eyes leave the screen as it went into fucking overtime.

Through overtime, I never noticed how much I’ve been holding my breath until Jack made the shot that brought the Falcs victory. At that moment, that held breath exploded out into a scream and joined the screams of my friends into a collective holler loud enough to be heard back in Samwell.

We were still celebrating — as was everyone else, evident by the chorus of shouts and honking of car horns pouring in from outside — when we saw Bitty running across the ice right into Jack’s arms. Because of course. Still, even as I rolled my eyes, I smirked and raised my bottle to them. Jack not only deserved the Cup; the two deserved all the happiness they can get.

Still didn’t prevent me from wanting to make a chirp out of Ransom and Holster probably being bummed that they can’t charge fines anymore.

Then the chirp died in my mouth, a horrible weight settled in my stomach, and blood drained from my face as realization hit.

Bitty was leaning back and gazing straight into Jack’s eyes. Something was said, and the serious look between the two turned into smiles.

Then they kissed.

Not the affectionate pecks that garnered so many fines. No, it was the intense lip-locked version that they indulged in whenever they thought nobody was watching; their expectation was frequently not the reality, but hey.

After the game, I didn’t say anything about what happened on the center ice. The state of Bitty’s phone was testament to the fact that he and Jack already had enough on their minds. And everyone else was so happy and showing them support. Nobody needed me barging in with the kind of issues that will just raise all kinds of questions.

In any case, that scene is about to be replayed here.

As the puck goes into the net, the diner erupts into cheers. Even if my village didn’t know that Jack was my captain, the Falconers being a New England team is reason enough to root for them. But honestly, I think they’re making a bigger deal about this championship than prior ones because of my connection to the Falcs.

As I add my voice to the collective cheer despite having been spoiled already, a part of me hopes that connection won’t cause them to make a bigger deal about other more personal concerns.

Though maybe they won’t have to.

As footage transitions to the postgame, I take my chance and scramble for the remote. With the focus now on celebration and general conversation, nobody should notice me turning  the television off.

As I mash the remote’s buttons, the room goes silent.

They’ll probably tell me off for messing with the controls. I don’t care. It’s not like there’s anything to watch now since it’s just the post-game. All I’m doing is keeping the electricity bill down.

Then I see the blue light reflected off the countertop.  No. This isn’t happening. Nonono…

As I raise my head, my stomach drops.

In grabbing the remote, I hadn’t turned off the television. I only muted it.

A delusional part of me still hopes that the camera will cut away. That those fucking journo seagulls will find something else to focus on other than my two friends being able to happily embrace without fear.

Of course, the cameras don’t turn away.

So I turn away instead.

And immediately regret my decision.

Everyone in the diner has their eyes locked onto the screen. There’s no more joy on their faces.

Just shock.

For some, their surprise is muted and hints that they got the news beforehand one way or another. However, even they watch the scene unfold in disbelief.

A disbelief being expressed in wide eyes and frozen expressions.

I steel myself for what will come after that shock. I hope that they’ll accept Jack and Bitty. I hope that they will accept the player they were cheering on just minutes beforehand. Either way, at least I will know where they stand.

Finally, Pa breaks the silence:

“Huh.”

… What.

I wait for him to add onto that. Any kind of elaboration. Anything. Anything!

Uncle Miguel looks in my direction. As does everyone else. Dammit, anything but focusing on me.

“The blond boy…” he notes, “that’s your captain next year, aye?”

I almost gag in my attempt to get my throat unstuck. “A-ayuh.”

“… Huh.”

Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!

Aunt Meg chimes in: “I mean, from what you told us about the blond one, I can kind of see it? Didn’t you say he’s a bit…?” She makes a limp-wrist gesture.

I’m saved from answering that by Uncle Jeremy. “Yeah, no surprise there. But Jack Zimmermann?”

By now, the whole diner is overcome by a low chorus of questions, bafflement, and speculation… most of which is aimed at me as if I have all of the damn answers. That’s not getting into those damn noncommittal grunts, as well as a bucketful of confusion from my younger cousins; one just asked me if that means Bitty is the girl.

While there are some comments of disapproval about how Bitty and Jack are making a scene, nobody’s explicitly disparaging or condemning the two. Which I guess is good? But nobody’s offering notes of support or at least acceptance either; though I suppose the comments about the “gutsiness” of the move count as a positive.

Overall, nobody seems to know what to think about this. If they do know, they certainly aren’t letting their thoughts be heard.

It’s pissing me off.

“So Zimmermann’s gay,” states a cousin.

“Bisexual,” I correct.

“Huh.”

Okay, that’s it! I all but throw my hands up as I move for the exit.

“You knew.”

The hissed accusation stops me in my tracks. It’s from the one person who would have a stance. I turn to see Uncle Owen glaring right in my face.

“I… I—“

“I’m not just talking about l… that." He punctuates his statement with a grimace of disgust and gesture at the screen. “You knew those two were screwing each other.” Each syllable is accompanied with him jabbing his finger into my chest.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter how much hockey has built me up. I feel like I’m a scrawny ten-year-old again, and each jab forces me backwards. With each step back, the diner gets more and more quiet as all attention focuses on the two of us.

“How long, boy?” he spits. “How. Long?”

“Since…” I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate how those around me, even though they downright loathe Uncle Owen, are curious for an answer. I hate how part of me wants to give more information than they expect but… can’t. “Since December.”

Actually longer, but nobody needs to know.

Nobody needs to know anything.

“Only two years in that libtard ‘school’, and you’re just full of surprises,” Uncle Owen muses. “Wasn’t the captain elected unanimously by the team?”

“Yes.” Shit! My answer comes out just as I realize why he asked that question. But it’s too late to take it back.

“So you knew the little shit’s a pervert and still voted for him?”

“He’s not a pervert.” I grit out as my hands ball into fists.

“So you say,” he sneers. “And I hear you’re spending the next year in the same house.”

A small part of me feels relief that he doesn’t know that I’m going to room with Nursey. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to control myself right now if the shit he spews goes in that direction. “The rent’s better.”

“Hah. Of course that’s your excuse: ‘The rent’s better.’” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s too knowing for my liking. “What other faggy secrets—“

“That’s enough, Owen,” Pa growls while shoving his way through the crowd. “Leave my son alone.”

My father may be leaning his cane and may have kept his right arm back home. But in this moment, he looks ready to kick any able-bodied asshole’s ass.

Uncle Owen sputters, “You’re willing to let this Cultural Marxism—“

“I don’t give a flying fuck if Billy has a Little Red Book in his back pocket. You say another goddamn word to him tonight, and I’ll convince Shannon to finally cut you out of her life for good.” Pa doesn’t even raise his voice, but it’s enough to make everyone take a step back. “That will be after I rearrange your face to be as ugly as mine.”

I don’t know how long the standoff lasts. I only know that Uncle Owen is the one to back down and storm out… and that the bloody crescents in my palms are going to last a bit.

As if to enforce a sense of normalcy, the collective conversation picks right back up where it left off. This is despite the subject of the conversation being anything but normal. Pa nods to the door, and the two of us take our leave to begin the walk back home.

As the sounds of the diner fade, I check my phone. Besides the general rambling of everyone, Nursey’s making cryptic suggestions to check the national business news in the coming week.

Finally, I look up from my phone and back at Pa. “… You do know I’m no tankie, right?”

Pa chuckles. “Ayuh. Was just making a point.”

Heh, yeah. A point.  He’s just saying that he’d love me no matter what. But would his love really be so unconditional if I actually started spouting commie, nazi, or beardie propaganda? I know mine wouldn’t.

So then why did he bring it up?

Uncle Owen was the one who said ‘Marxism’ first, and Pa was just taking the statement to its logical conclusion. Don’t think too much of it.

But did Pa rebuke Uncle Owen because what was being said was wrong? Or was it just because I was attacked?

If Uncle Owen made his language just focused on “them gaysexuals”, would Pa make the same statement except with the Little Red Book replaced by a rainbow flag? If he did, would that mean he considers being queer as bad as a communist?

I know that I should really be giving my father more credit than that, and there’s a heavy weight in my stomach at the fact that I would even have doubts. But still…

Pa nudges me. “Something on your mind?”

“Just…” Okay, deep breaths. “Just thinking about the coming year.” Which is technically the truth.

That gets a nod from him. “It will be interesting. No doubt about that.”

Yeah… interesting.  I can just see the attention Bitty will get between him being Jack’s boyfriend and the first out NCAA ice hockey captain. Media may even come to Samwell.

People will know Bitty lives at the Haus. People will know where the Haus is; even if the media doesn’t divulge the location, it’s not like it’s hard to find due to all the damn kegsters.

What if we get paparazzi waiting for Jack whenever he comes to Samwell? What if there is paparazzi obsessed with Bitty himself? What if we get assholes who decide that spewing shit in a comment feed won’t cut it?

We don’t even keep the door locked. But even if we get the Haus secure, we have to walk to campus. Even in school, it’s not like they gate off the campus and limit access.

We should put in new locks and give out a limited set of keys. Convince the frats to install a surveillance system along the whole street. Maybe we’ll even have to stop hosting kegsters so often.

We should do something. We need to do something. We need to do something now! We need to try to keep several steps ahead of them even though they’ll keep trying to find a new way. That includes at our games.

The away games. Fuck. I forgot about the away games. FUCK!

Shit. We’re fucked. We’re so f—

“Billy!”

Pa’s voice forces me to stop walking, and it’s then that I see that I’m at least twenty yards ahead.  Billy, you fucking idiot. Hell of a son you are.

“Shit,” I blurt out while rushing back. “I-I’m so—”

Pa cuts me off: “Enough of that. Right now, I just need you to breathe.”

It’s only at his request that I realize my breath are coming in rapid gasps. I try to do as I’ve been taught but can’t seem to get anything under control as my vision blurs and pressure builds behind my eyes. Oh, now you’re gonna cry about it? You gonna cry, you fucking little p—

A gentle pressure settles around my wrist, and I feel my trembling hand firmly pried away from my arm. The action forces me to look up and see Pa heaving deep even breaths to focus on. It’s not easy, but eventually I force myself back on track.

Once stability’s restored, Pa tentatively asks, “What’s the matter, Billy?”

This time, I don’t have to make the truth a technicality: “Just wondering how the school’s going to deal with the media and security issues.”

Pa nods and thankfully doesn’t ask me to elaborate. “I’m sure they’ll figure something out.”

I’m also thankful that he leaves it at that and doesn’t try to further any reassurance as we continue walking in silence.

A silence which only lasts for another few minutes. “So… your captains are together.”

When Pa comments like that, without the crowds around, the situation feels even more naked than before. 

Maybe I can get something out of it though.

“Ayuh,” I mutter. “Did you know? Before this?”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t have time to read the news.”

While I believe that he didn’t find out until now, I have a harder time accepting his explanation why. However, now’s not the time to get into that. “What do you think?”

My question comes out as a whisper that keeps any emotion in reserve.

Pa looks off at some unspecified point. “Well, I can say that my bombshell doesn’t compare to the one they set off,” he remarks with a wry smile and a waving of his forearm stump around the right side of his face.

Jesus Christ… “Jesus Christ, Pa.” It’s not like he hasn’t made similar jokes before, but I still fail to find them funny.

Pa rolls his eye and thumps me on the back. “To answer your question… I don’t know what to think. Though it’s not like it affects us,” he states with a shrug.

It affects us more than you think. “You know that a lot of queer folk come Downeast, right?” Hell, everyone here knows about, and plenty attend, the pride event in Bar Harbor.

“Ayup, and I know they help keep this economy afloat. Make great music too. Most are still just passing through. I mean, sure, there are plenty staying up in Mount Desert. But still…”

So is that how it will be okay? As long as distance is maintained?

“Well one's going to be officially leading me.”

Pa creases his brow. “He is, isn’t he.”

“The other  did  lead me, and it’s not like he became magically bi after graduation.”

“Hm…”

My jaw clenches.  At least it’s not fucking “huh”.

Our porch light shines into view and guides us inside. Once we get to the kitchen, Pa takes his prescribed painkillers while I watch; I know it’s irrational of me as he hasn’t gotten hooked so far, and it’s not like I’m here all the time, but I can’t help it after a few recent cases.

As he sets his glass down, Pa sighs, “Look, Billy. I know they’re your friends. So maybe I don’t get it. Doesn’t matter. I trust your judgement.”

It does matter.

But still…  “Thank you.”

“Hell, they’re welcome to stop by.” Pa barely finishes his statement before barking out a laugh and shaking his head. For a brief moment my stomach clenches until he murmurs, “Like a Falconer would come here…”

I hide my relief with a huff: “You never know. You saw how full of surprises they are.”

That gets a much warmer laugh from him. “Ayuh. They really don’t do anything halfway, do they.”

For once, I allow myself to join in on the laughs. Maybe everything can be alright. Maybe it will be alright.

Maybe… just maybe…  “Pa, I—”

“Anyways, I’m not sure if I can handle any more surprises,” Pa chuckles before looking up at me. “You say something?”

… it will be a disaster.  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

I say goodnight, Pa pulls me in for a one-armed hug, and I make the obligatory noises of protest when he kisses my forehead.  

Then I walk to my room and shut the door to whisper into the darkness enveloping me:

“Nothing at all.”

[joshuadunshua]

What to do when you’re afraid to leave, but you’re just as afraid to stay?

I was born in the covenant, to a convert father and a Mormon-since-birth mother. I was baptized at eight, like I was supposed to. I had a spiritual crisis in middle school, then found my way back to the church by high school. But I have never felt at ease with the teachings of the church. It has never sat right with me. I figured it was because I wasn’t like the other girls my age, I was geeky, nerdy, entirely unathletic, and for a long time I didn’t even want to be very feminine like them. They avoided me, and I stood upright and alone trying my best anyway. There were certainly some points where I’d not want to go to church at all, but I always attributed it to being outcasted by others. I graduated from YW with barely anything completed in my Personal Progress booklet because I didn’t believe in doing things just to get them done. I moved on to relief society, the only one left my age in the area as all the other girls moved off to start college.

Relief society has always had a fake feeling veneer over it, no matter what ward I was in. All the sisters seem to have fishhooks in the corners of their mouths whenever we’re all together. And I’m not even anywhere close to Utah. I can’t imagine how it might be out there, where there’s the mental health and opioid addiction epidemics. It’s not a mere correlation, I don’t think.

I had a devoted boyfriend who would go on to serve a mission, and before he left I felt that I should also go on a mission too. I think I felt that way because i would have nothing else to do for two years, so why not?

The only spiritual experience with prayer I can remember clearly having was as a middle school youth, and I cannot remember whether I prayed to know if the Book of Mormon was true or that Christ’s teachings were true, or if it was for a testimony of something else entirely. I don’t trust my memory very well. I’ve never felt spirituality during a prayer since. Which means I never got confirmation from the Lord that I should serve a mission. But hey, I never got confirmation from the Lord for anything since middle school, so maybe it was always as I had heard someone say once, that the Lord knows I already know the answer, so He wouldn’t tell me?

So I weaned off the antidepressants I had just begun taking earlier that year and submitted my mission papers. And I was sent to Phoenix, AZ, Spanish speaking. The most exciting part was being able to get endowed just days before my only sibling’s Sealing to his to-be wife. I had been so afraid I wouldn’t get to be there for it, as he is older than I am and you can’t just get endowed if you’re a female. I don’t remember very much of my own endowment, not specifically. I do remember not feeling prepared, and feeling uncomfortable. I did not know what covenants I would be making exactly, but I knew it was the next step I was supposed to take.

So I packed my bags, said goodbye to my best friend, and left for the MTC. I’ve always struggled with routine (hello depression), so to have such a rigid schedule was good for me. I was desperate to become more in tune with God and Christ and the Holy Spirit. I read, listened, learned, and prayed more fervently than I ever had before. I also got sick in week one of six, lost my voice completely, and due to the nature of having to learn a language, was never allowed to fully recover it. Singing has always been the only thing I am great at in my life, and for the entire six weeks I was there, i could not sing. Not even for a visit from an apostle. I begged my teacher for just one day of vocal rest from practicing Spanish, and it was not permitted. I was heartbroken, and I still am. Singing has always been the one way I would say I could feel connected to my spirituality, and I could not access it.

I prayed desperately in the MTC many times over, begging God to let me feel His love. I prayed at night for ten minutes, once even half an hour. I prayed in the Celestial room on Saturdays when we were permitted to do endowment ordinances for the dead. Every week i would cry deeply in that beautiful room. I cried many many times at night. I just wanted to know for sure that God loved me. To feel something, anything, that i could identify. I can’t say I ever did. I figured there must just be something wrong with me and that I should stop asking. I persisted along.

I left the MTC and headed into the field, to Arizona. To Monte Vista, specifically. I had a decent compañera, she was tough, and steadfast, and strong in her convictions. She could seem a little unempathetic and unsympathetic at times, but she was doing her best. But where things had at least been going okay at the MTC, arriving in the field saw my mental health deteriorate. Rapidly. I have a paralyzing fear of role-play and role-play-like situations, and practice teaching is such a situation. I could not do it; I would freeze, panic, and cry. I quickly became more depressed on my mission than I had ever been at home since the eighth grade. Which is to say I was just shy of suicidal. I wanted to die, and be dead, and stop existing, but I was at least not in danger of acting upon it. I lost all sense of self-worth I had managed to build up. I cried everywhere i could without pestering my compañera. In the bathrooms, in the shower, silently at night after she was asleep. I did cry to her also, often during the morning studies. I still did not have my voice back. I was still not permitted a day of vocal rest. I began speaking with my mission president. I set up a time to visit with a family services therapist.

After a session with me, she told me she couldn’t see that there was anything wrong with me. To her, I was fine, because I was clearly not having an emotional breakdown in her office, and was cognizant of the irrationality I was dealing with. I was fine.

I went on splits with an English Sister, and cried to her, poured my soul out to her. She helped me to feel loved, but gave me the same response as everyone else. Pray about it.

Christmas came quickly. I had had thanksgiving in the MTC, after all. It was without a doubt the best thanksgiving I ever had. Not because I felt the spirit, but because it was not with my extended family. Thanksgivings with my extended family often turned into some kind of argument, then. So doing service and spending time with other missionaries was a nice change. While my compañera was Skyping with her family, I knelt in our bedroom alone and prayed. I prayed so hard. I wanted to stay, and yet I knew I might have to leave. I begged for help, and I received an answer for the first time in almost a decade. That I should go home. I Skyped my family, and told them what to expect. It was a very bittersweet Christmas Day. More bitter than sweet. But I felt I had my answer.

So I told my mission president, the priesthood leader presiding over the whole Phoenix, Arizona mission. God wanted me to go home.

“God wouldn’t tell you that.”

It took me over a week after that to make the final decision to go home. There are two things my mission president told me that i will never forget. One, was that, even if I went home and all my problems went away, that I still needed to get help, because it would come back, and it couldn’t come back when I was a new wife, or a new mother, when I had new and difficult responsibilities. The other, “God wouldn’t tell you that.”

I returned home in January. I was released with honor, a real RM in the eyes of the Church, and I went to the doctor for my depression. For a small while, I tried to stick with the habits of a missionary, praying and reading and studying daily. Maybe not the “up at 6am,” part, but much of the rest. But it soon became too painful to bear. Everything reminded me of my mission. Everything seemed to have the word failure on it in hidden inks that only my heart could read. I had to take a step back for my mental health.

I don’t know if my mission president knew what weight his words carried when he told me that. I don’t know if he thought before he spoke them. He justified his words to me. The only spiritual feeling I had felt from prayer since grade school was written off as a feeling I conjured myself. It’s easy for others to say “he abused his priesthood position,” but he learned that idea from somewhere. He’d thought on that idea before. He was immediate in that response, and he maintained it. He was a leader, and if someone like him is able to so simply destroy faith with a single sentence borne in his mind of God, how can I trust what any leader tells me is of God?

I pushed myself through the rest of the time my then boyfriend was out on his mission. I was faithful to him— it was easy, as I loved him so much and am asexual, so I had no concern that I would find myself in a position where I wouldn’t be able to “control myself.” I felt at that time that we were foreordained to marry, that when he returned home he would save for a ring and we would soon be engaged. That was always our plan.

Then he came home in late December of 2016. I tried to jump back into what we had had, but physically it was difficult as I had physically been isolated for two years. I told him I would need time to warm up to the more serious bits. Instead of trying to communicate boundaries and asking permission to move forward with anything, he grew cold. Any physical contact, I had to initiate. Kissing him felt like kissing a brick wall. He talked to me less— he never opened up more than surface level, an issue we had never had. He began to treat me like a monster, began to grow upset if I knew more than him about anything, and instead of talking to a 21 year old returned missionary, I felt like I was constantly speaking with an immature 17 year old high schooler. He was the perfect mormon boy, if you look at him objectively. He never missed a day of scripture reading or prayer, and he loved his mission, or so he said. He broke a lot of rules near the end, jumping into pop culture and watching anime and music videos on his P-days. He did not come back a man at all. He came back a depressed, worn down boy in denial of his own health.

Eventually I got him on skype with me (he lived an hour away), six months into the new year, four years of dating now behind us, and we broke it all down. I explained everything I felt was wrong, that I wanted to make it work, that I wanted both of us to be better. He explained how he was feeling, and that the feeling was mutual, that he wanted to see us succeed. So we agreed to take a break to focus on other things, our mental health and our next steps in life, and come back in a few months.

And then he told me he cheated on me months before. Kissing the sister who brought him to institute every week. I was heartbroken, devastated, angry. I could never trust him again, how could I? I had been faithful without him for two years, and he returns and is going at someone else after a mere three months.

I stopped talking to him under the premise of taking the aforementioned break. I needed time to think. Eventually I wrote him a breakup letter, too broken and angry to say anything to his face. A mutual friend meant to deliver it to his new address, which I didn’t know, but sent it to the wrong one. Before I could bring myself to write another letter, he texted me for my new address. I discovered he intended to break up with me through our mutual friend. I told him to screw off. The next day he was dating the same girl he had cheated on me with. He got engaged to her the day before what would have been our fifth year anniversary. He recently got sealed to her in the temple. They have been together for less than a year, and he is more committed to her than he had ever been to me. But I am still broken. I am still hurting. I do not miss him, but at one point he said that God had confirmed for him that we were right for each other, that he’d had a vision of our future family. I trusted him when he said that. I believed him. He had the priesthood, after all. He was the perfect member.

It has been around three years since I returned from my mission early— 12 weeks, by the way, was how long I had been out— and I still think about everything every day. I have been struggling with my faith every day. And as I grow, as I learn, as I have tried again and again to jumpstart my faith once more, to read and to pray and attending church like a good girl, the less convinced I am that I’m in the right place. I believe in God, but beyond that, I’m no longer sure. There’s so much dissonance with the concept of the God I feel from reading scripture and the concept of the God the church teaches about.

I can’t conceive of a God who makes some of His children gay, and then condemns them for it. I can’t conceive of a God who makes half of his Children to be Lesser than the other half, and commands them to know their place and covenant to maintain submission to the other Children’s authorities.

I cannot in good faith follow a leadership that ignores the teen suicide epidemic in Utah that disproportionately affects LGBTQ+ LDS youth. I cannot in good faith follow a leadership that in finally addressing mental illness, fails to address rampant spousal abuse.

But I’ve made these covenants, up to and including my endowment. I am filled with doubt of the truth I’ve been raised in, and am filled with fear that I cannot be truly happy if I stay. And I am also filled with fear that if it is true, and i should leave, then I am condemned, and am a disappointment to my parents who love this gospel so much.

I only hope that something somewhere got lost in translation, that God’s truth is still perverted in many aspects due to the folly of men, of patriarchal society, of homophobia and transphobia. I hope that this Church that I have been raised in, that i feel could still be the most correct, will yet change.

It’s a pessimistic hope.

I’m afraid to stay. I’m equally afraid to leave.

I’m unsure what I should do.