Author: iiinamorata

No One Mourns the Sick: The Wicked Myth That the Pandemic Is ‘Over’
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No One Mourns the Sick: The Wicked Myth That the Pandemic Is ‘Over’

You don’t have to watch Wicked to know its famous line—“No one mourns the Wicked”—which basically means that some people aren’t worth grieving. This kept echoing in my head when I heard that both lead actresses of the Wicked: For Good film recently tested positive for COVID.

According to a recent Guardian article, “Both Grande and Cynthia Erivo tested positive for Covid during the filming of the first movie, temporarily delaying production. Erivo reportedly contracted the virus days before shooting the climactic first-act number Defying Gravity, while Grande tested positive before filming the song “Popular.”

The same article notes that during the current press tour Ariana Grande again tested positive, forcing her to miss several events.

That news made me think of Mia Mingus. In her blog “You Are Not Entitled to Our Deaths”, Mingus challenges the idea that disabled or sick bodies are disposable and that those lives aren’t worth protecting or grieving. After reading this blog and our discussion in class, it made me remember hearing about the Wicked news. It made me realize we’re acting like COVID is just a production hiccup, an inconvenience to filming or press tours, rather than the ongoing threat which is killing and disabling countless people. The fact that both leads got sick, during filming and promotion, yet the media and public reaction centers on delays, missed appearances, and disappointed fans speaks volumes.

There’s something horrifyingly Wicked-like about how illness is framed now. If someone masks, they’re “paranoid.” If they don’t appear for a photoshoot or premiere, fans complain. When someone gets COVID, the conversation is about wasted money on promotion, fan backlash over missed premieres, or travel delays , but  rarely about health, recovery, or the toll illness takes. The framing treats sickness as a hiccup, not as human suffering. It treats the sick body as a burden to the show, not as a person in need of care.

“Grande’s positive test was the latest hiccup for the full-court Wicked press blitz that has seen the cast hop continents by the day. Due to flight delays, Grande was unable to make the premiere in Brazil, triggering fan backlash she also addressed on her Instagram.”

That is exactly the kind of abled entitlement Mingus warns about: a culture that assumes certain bodies can and should be sacrificed for convenience. Under this logic, “the show must go on,” regardless of who gets hurt. The Wicked cast situation isn’t just celebrity news, but it’s a reflection of a larger societal pattern where health, disability, and our shared vulnerability are minimized, ignored, or erased entirely.

What’s even worse is how normalized this erasure has become. COVID has become “another thing,” something to power through so cameras and promotions stay on schedule. Workplaces expect people to show up sick. Students are told to push through fevers. Long-term effects are brushed off as “just fatigue.” Public health infrastructure? Largely forgotten. Masks, ventilation, testing are all optional. People who get sick frequently or live with chronic conditions are expected to adapt or be pushed aside.

Mingus doesn’t just name this as negligence, she instead frames it as violence. When we treat care as optional, when we prioritize productivity over people, when we mourn canceled premieres more than lost lives, we are making a statement about whose lives matter. We’re deciding who gets protection, who gets grief, and who doesn’t.

We shouldn’t act like the pandemic is over. We need to stop shrugging when someone gets sick, framing illness as inconvenience, or acting like the only thing that matters is the show going on. Production, entertainment, or convenience is not more important than actual human lives. Because if we care at all about disability justice, about valuing every life, then we can’t pretend the pandemic is done. We have to mourn the sick. We have to fight for care. And we have to stop believing the myth that pushing on by ignoring risk, ignoring illness is normal or acceptable.

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Me Before You: A Tragic Tale of Romance and Assisted Suicide 

When I first watched Me Before You, I felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest. The story follows Louisa “Lou” Clark who becomes the caregiver of Will Traynor, a man who was adventurous before becoming paralyzed after an accident. Will unfortunately faces many challenges both physically and mentally, leading him to choose assisted suicide despite falling in love, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this movie ever since. Recently I started to question, if it was romantic, or was it reinforcing the idea that a disabled life isn’t worth living? After reading Nicole Schroeder’s “Dying a ‘Good’ Death: Disability and the Assisted Suicide Debate” from the Disability Visibility Project, I started to see the story through a completely different lens.

Before I fully dive in, I want to fully paint the picture of this movie. Firstly, Will’s parents hire Lou to care for him after his accident two years in an attempt to raise his spirits. Lou’s unapologetic, positive personality slowly breaks through his bitterness, and they form a deep connection. After finding out he plans to go to Swtizerland for assisted suicide, Lou tries her best to change his mind by trying everything from taking him to concerts and a trip out of the country. But in the end, Will does not change his mind even after falling for Lou. The movie paints his choice as noble as a way of reclaiming control over his life and giving Lou a chance to live hers. The final scene shows Lou reading Will’s farewell letter in Paris, smiling through her tears. It’s meant to be bittersweet, but it also raises difficult questions about what “a good death” really means, and whether society offers disabled people real choices about living.

Nicole Schroeder’s essay completely reframes this debate. She argues that the real issue isn’t about whether people have the right to die, but it’s about why so many disabled people feel they need to. She writes, “those of us protesting do not want people to be in needless pain; instead we want resources other than death to alleviate suffering while people are still alive.” That line stuck with me because it exposes how the conversation around assisted suicide often ignores the failures that lead people to that point: lack of access to care, isolation, and social neglect.

In the film, Will isn’t shown receiving much support beyond Lou’s companionship and his personal caretaker, Nathan. Even with wealth, he seems completely alone in a world not built to include him. Schroeder highlights that in a “hyper-capitalist world,” assisted suicide can become a cheaper alternative to improving care and accessibility. It’s haunting to think about how Will’s decision might have been shaped not by genuine choice, but by a culture that sees disability as tragedy especially after losing the hyper-active life he once had. 

One of Schroeder’s most important points is that assisted suicide is often presented as a form of autonomy, when in reality, many disabled people are making choices under pressure. She shares that in Canada, nearly half of those choosing Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) cite feeling like a burden or experiencing loneliness. That statistic immediately reminded me of Will telling Lou he didn’t want her to give up her life for him. What sounds selfless in a romantic story becomes more complicated when you realize how society teaches disabled people to internalize guilt for simply existing.

The movie’s emotional framing makes Will’s death feel inevitable, even “beautiful,” but Schroeder challenges that idea. She calls out how assisted suicide has “eugenics-centered roots,” meaning that the very systems allowing it have historically viewed disabled lives as less valuable. When I look back at Me Before You now, I can’t unsee this unfortunate pattern that tangles up love, care, and death into a message that equates disability with hopelessness.

When I first watched Me Before You, I can still remember myself tearing up during the beach scene when Will tells Lou that he is still going to Switzerland after she pours her heart out to him. Me and many fans of this movie are still heartbroken over what could’ve blossomed between Will and Lou. But now, I think the real heartbreak isn’t Will’s death….it’s that the story never gives him another option. Schroeder’s essay reminded me that true dignity doesn’t come from the “freedom” to die; it comes from having the support and resources to live fully. The film romanticizes Will’s choice, but if it reflected the realities Schroeder describes like underfunded care systems, social isolation, and ableist messaging, it might look less like empowerment and more like surrender to a world that failed him.

I still love Me Before You for its intensity and emotional honesty, but I see it differently now. It’s not just a love story; it’s also a mirror of how our society defines whose lives are worth fighting for.

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Why Do I Feel Like Nothing When Everyone Else Feels Like Something?

Have you ever scrolled online and see people confidently declaring their gender and sexuality like they’ve had it figured out since birth? “I’m nonbinary.” “I’m a lesbian.” “I’m pan.” Meanwhile, I’m sitting here wondering, why do I feel like nothing? This question has been bouncing around my head for a while now. But after reading Nonbinary: Memoirs of Gender and Identity, specifically Christopher Soto’s “What Growing Up Punk Taught Me About Being Gender Nonconforming” and Aubri Drake’s “Clothes make the Gender/Queer,” made me realize that maybe this feeling of nothingness isn’t emptiness, but simply uncertainty in a world that demands certainty from everyone.

Soto writes, “I tell my friend who still presents outside the binary that I want to be alive. I want to live. And so this is my gender: a desire to live.” That line hit me like a ton of bricks. For me, identifying as a woman has always been about survival. It’s safer, easier, less questioned. I don’t have to explain myself or fear someone reacting violently because I don’t fit their idea of what a woman “should” be. Soto ties their fear to capitalism and violence because the way safety, livelihood, and even love feel like privileges granted to those who conform. Sometimes I wonder if I’d feel freer to explore my gender if the world wasn’t punishing those who step outside the binary.

Growing up, everyone labeled me a “lesbian” before I could even figure it out on my own. I was the tomboy wearing my dad’s clothes, obsessed with comic books instead of makeup. My mom used to tell me to “act like a lady,” for simply sitting in my own home with my legs open. Then puberty hit, and suddenly I had curves I didn’t ask for. Aubri Drake’s words that “clothes started clinging to my body in all the wrong places… they stopped being a form of expression and instead became material to hide in”described exactly how I felt. I started hiding under oversized clothes because my body no longer felt like mine, but a spectacle for others. 

For years, I bounced between labels from bi, lesbian, pan,  and now to queer. Each one feeling right for a second and wrong the next. I even dated men exclusively at one point just to prove something, though my attraction to women has always been stronger. Every time I picked a label, I felt like a fraud and that everyone knew I was out of place. 

When it comes to gender, being called “masculine” or “feminine” makes me physically recoil. I don’t feel like either. I identify as a woman because it’s practical since it’s what fits easiest in the world’s boxes, but that’s never been the only reason. I’ve briefly thought about identifying as nonbinary, but fear always stops me: fear of losing cis privilege, fear of not being taken seriously, fear of violence. Like Soto, I get what it means to feel “illegitimate” just for wanting to live safely.

That’s why the label queer has been a relief. It’s flexible. It’s fluid. It lets me breathe. I don’t have to get a headache by searching for answers I don’t have yet. My gender and sexuality are personal, evolving, and maybe a little messy, but at the end of the day, that’s ok. 

A few months ago, before reading these essays, I went down a rabbit hole on Reddit trying to understand why I felt “genderless.” I remember scrolling for hours through different threads from queer and neurodivergent people describing the same sense of in-betweenness I couldn’t name. One that stood out to me was called “Does anybody else feel genuinely genderless?” on r/NonBinary, more specifically this one quote:

“When I lean more towards masc or femme with my presentation that’s all I feel it is — a presentation. Or really what it actually is is society interpreting my presentation as gendered. Ultimately it’s still just me. I don’t feel more feminine when I wear skirts — but it’s perceived that way.”

When I lean more towards masc or femme with my presentation that’s all I feel it is — a presentation. Or really what it actually is is society interpreting my presentation as gendered. Ultimately it’s still just me. I don’t feel more feminine when I wear skirts — but it’s perceived that way.”

That line felt like someone cracked my brain open and wrote down my thoughts. It echoed everything Soto and Drake described; that gender can feel more like a performance that others interpret than a truth you embody. Re-reading that thread and other ones I mindlessly scrolled actually helped me realize I wasn’t broken for feeling detached from gender. I was just tired of performing one.

I still feel like “nothing,” but I don’t see that as a bad thing anymore. That nothingness feels like freedom; free to move, question, and change without being boxed in. Reading these essays made me realize I’m not alone in that uncertainty. There’s comfort in knowing gender and sexuality don’t have to be solved; they can just evolve. Maybe “nothing” is true freedom. Maybe my gender isn’t nothing — maybe it’s just mine.

Leg Day, Arm Toning, 30 Day Abs Challenge, At Home Glutes Workout…….
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Leg Day, Arm Toning, 30 Day Abs Challenge, At Home Glutes Workout…….

You ever randomly decide at 3 am that you are gonna turn your life around so you decide to spend hours scrolling Pinterest and YouTube, looking for the fastest workouts to give you the best body possible? But you start to notice this weird trend where every workout towards women focuses on one specific part of the body. Becoming a blur of  “Get toned arms in 15 minutes” or “Build the butt of your dreams in 1 Week!” or “Perfectly Sculpted Abs in 30 days.” Instead of focusing on health, it seems like these fitness influencers and apps promote that our body is a collection of broken parts, needing to be fixed. This message is everywhere you look, constantly pointing out the flaws women need to fix.

I only remembered this trend when reading Young’s essay about throwing like a girl. But more specifically, she talks about a phenomenon called “discontinuous unity” that perfectly captures this feeling. Basically, it’s the idea that women are often taught to move their bodies in a disconnected way, not as one fluid, whole unit. Her example is throwing a ball. She points out that a girl often throws using just her arm, while the rest of her body stays pretty still. A boy, on the other hand, usually puts his whole body into it by twisting his torso, moving his feet, and using what Young calls his “total motorium” to get the job done. This creates a weird feeling where the part of your body doing the work feels totally separate from the parts that are just… hanging out. It’s like your arm is on a mission, but the rest of you isn’t even on the team.

Similar to this example, workout plans made for women that promote “abs challenges” or “leg day” basically train women to perform this mode of discontinuous unity. We are told we need to isolate parts of our body that just need a quick fix in order to get our perfect body. Young argues that this discontinuity comes from women being conditioned to experience their body as an object to be looked at, rather than a subject of action. These workouts focus on aesthetic goals of molding your butt, legs, arms, etc. to fit a certain beauty standard instead of improving the actual health and function of your body. It is just another way to push the idea that women must shape and decorate their bodies to visually please men. In contrast to workouts like dance or yoga, where the goal is to get your whole body moving in sync.

Looking back, this connection seems obvious, but it’s not something I could have noticed when I was 12 years old and hated the way I look. I gobbled up any of these workouts I could find, hoping that one could give me the perfect body that it promoted. Even though I stopped participating in them myself,  there are still many young girls doing the exact same thing. It makes me wonder if the cycle will always repeat itself with new, unaware girls who may never read Young’s essay in eight years to connect the dots.