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Twintuition

Growing up with a twin brother taught me more than I would like to know about emotional labor. From my first memories of us growing up together, I knew that the expectations I was held to were quite different from those that my brother was held to. I was expected to be the picture of emotional maturity. Conflict resolution, good communication, and empathy was something that was supposed to be built in. My brother was merely expected to be a boy. The worst part about the expectation of performing emotional labor is that it goes largely unnoticed and unvalued.

When I was a child, maybe 7 or 8, my twin brother and I would fight relentlessly. I would come to hang out with him and his friends, and the argument would usually start of by him declaring that he did not want me there because I was a girl. I would defend myself and my ability to hang with the boys, and eventually he would give in. This was not the end of the emotional torment. Once it was decided that I was allowed to stay, my brother would do anything he could to belittle me, whether that was emotionally or physically, many times both. Sometimes I would ignore and play nice, and sometimes I would snap back. Snapping back never worked. The fight would escalate with my attempts to defend myself. It always came down to the fact that he was bigger than me or meaner than me.

When I had finally had enough and went to my parents for help, I got the same answer most of the time: “Don’t take it personally, boys will be boys. Either don’t hang out with them or suck it up and go back in.” Here is where the imbalance lied. I was always expected to do one of two things. My first option was to go back into the room and diffuse the situation, either by apologizing or by pretending like nothing happened. My second option was to stop hanging out with my brother and spend the rest of the day alone, thinking about what had just occurred. Either way, I was expected to perform emotional labor while no emotional labor was ever expected of my brother.

You would think that being expected to perform emotional labor since childhood would make one better at communicating in emotionally charged situations. For me at least, it did the opposite. I have spent so long prioritizing the diffusion of social situations that I seem to have forgotten how to advocate for myself. Instead of assertively communicating when someone has hurt me or I want something different than someone else, I freeze or avoid, which ultimately makes the situation worlds worse than if I just stood up for myself. Emotional labor is something that should be taught with equity and highly valued, not something that is expected of someone because of who they are. When emotional labor is expected rather than taught and respected, it can quickly become a source of massive trauma.

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I’m Tired

I am tired of working and having to deal with people. In the past, I’ve mainly worked in food service jobs but now I currently have one desk job on campus and another job where I work as a cashier. Both jobs require me to talk/deal with customers often which is of course fine. The only thing is I find it very draining having to deal with people sometimes especially since some customers can be rude at times. Of my two jobs, I very much prefer the campus job since it doesn’t require any physical labor and just has to deal with people for the most part. But when it comes to my cashier job I absolutely hate it with my whole heart, since it basically has a combination of both physical labor and emotional labor, with having to work 5-7 hours shifts, standing up the whole time, with having the expectations of giving a smile and happy attitude with each and every customer, while also having to deal with some customers complaining about something every 20-30 minutes. By the end of the shift, I’m always so drained and tired, my feet and back hurt and all I wanna do is just go to bed and sleep.

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Your Disability Is In Your Head

Trigger warnings: mental illness, SA

My disability, as I’ve been told by my parents during some of the hardest years of my life, is all in my head. The accumulated and compounded effects of strife in my life that eventually developed into a deep, dark depression- it’s not physically tangible, so how could it have been real?

I have a unique relationship with my disability. The one that I grapple with the most is one that is acquired, not inherited or born into. I have post-traumatic stress disorder, and I am not a war veteran. I am a sexual assault survivor. My disability was acquired through experiencing trauma and then experiencing the more deeply horrific experience of utter social isolation, lack of support, and lack of real mental health resources for someone of my age, specific trauma, and cultural background. I was diagnosed when I was 13, before I realized I have ADHD, depression, and GAD. Most of those are co-morbid.

My relationship with my disability was very much through the lens of the medical model- something is wrong with me, it is my problem to fix, and in the mean time, *some* institutions and people may be willing to accomodate my different needs despite the burden that it is (that I am), but ultimately the onus of responsibility for my disability, for my neurodivergence and its physiological consequences, is on me.

I realized much more recently that this may not be true. This semester, it was reiterated to me in the form of Tom Shakespeare’s reading about the social model of disability. // In our view, it is society which disables […] impaired people. Disability is something imposed on top of our impairments,
by the way we are unnecessarily isolated and excluded from full participation in society. (p. 215)//

I don’t agree with every aspect of this reading, such as how mental disabilities are not acknowledged by the founders/ creaters of the social model. But I do resonate with this new way of thinking- that the structures we live within are not inclusive to all people that live within them. This leads some people to struggle much more than others to get through their days.

I only started truly believing recently that I deserve the accomodations I have. Not because I didn’t believe that I was disabled, but because I saw them as a privilege. But I see it differently now. Not everyone has to deal with what I deal with every day. That doesn’t make them better than me or more normal than me, but it means that their phenomenological experience of this world is not the same. Nobody gets to tell me that my disability isn’t valid when they have never walked in my shoes. Nobody gets to tell me to suck it up and find a way to make it through when I see how so many people are able to do with ease, the things that I struggle and toil to do.

Also, yes, my disability is all in my head, in a literal sense. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

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Misdiagnosed

My mom has an understanding that her medical concerns may not be taken seriously as a woman of color. At the time of this event, my mom had just recently gotten her U.S. citizenship, which only made it more important for her to find a doctor for her three young daughters who would simply listen. So, she made sure to find a Latino pediatrician who would care for her concerns.

It was nearing the end of my kindergarten year when I started to express pain in my lower abdomen to my mom, and with worry and concern, she decided to take me to the doctor to get an answer. But something was different. This time the doctor who saw me was a white man, training under my actual pediatrician, who diagnosed me with a UTI and prescribed over-the-counter medication for the pain.

However, my pain continued to get worse; I constantly stayed home from school, I was constantly vomiting, and it eventually got to a point where it was difficult to walk and my dad had to carry me around everywhere. As my pain continued, my mom continued to look for answers from this doctor, which he brushed off as “exaggerated” and was even hesitant to give my mom any sort of medication for my pain. He had somehow concluded that my mom was just seeking a way to gain access to drugs, completely overlooking the five-year-old girl in agonizing pain and her mother, who was concerned for her health. 

Eventually, because of my incorrect diagnosis, I had gone untreated for several days. My parents had no other choice but to take me to a hospital in hopes that they would provide an answer. At this point, my appendix had already burst; the woman at the front desk knew exactly what was happening without even asking further questions. Luckily, I was properly diagnosed with appendicitis and given treatment on time; if we had waited any longer, I would have likely not survived. Yet, I can’t help but wonder how this experience could have been different if I had been white or if I was a boy. Would the doctor even think of a UTI as a possibility? Would he have cared more about my mom’s concerns? Could have this near-fatal experience been avoided entirely?

As I reflect on this experience and our class discussion surrounding healthcare and the medical system, it becomes even more clear how gender and race shape not only the experience of pregnancy and birth but various levels of health issues and medical complications. While my experience does not surround labor and pregnancy, it does point out how gender and race impact the medical attention that women of color receive. Evidently, medical professionals frequently overlook women of color, particularly Black women, due to preconceived notions about race and gender. Consequently, they are neglected and placed in situations that could be avoided, and tragically, the situations are often deadly.

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Anxious Labored Body

My whole life I’ve been called a busy bee. But as I’ve grown up I’ve lived up to the nickname. I started working at 15 years old, and have not stopped since, and I actually still work at my first job as the Supervisor.

Working is a part of my normal routine and relaxing is a luxury, and for some reason if my days off are not filled with things to do then this heavy weight lays on my shoulders of being guilty for not working if I don’t have anything to do. Taking a break is not easy for me because I am constantly always doing something. 

I almost get FOMO (fear of missing out) or feel shameful if I have nothing to do and I don’t go to work. I guess this explains why I get so anxious when there’s nothing left to do. I hate feeling this way though, because I literally have worked my whole life. When I was a child I would get up early and go to work with my dad on the weekends and then I was forced during the week to get up and to get to school by 630am because my mom worked at my elementary school as a daycare provider for the school. Once I got to high school I was told it was my time to get a real job, so I can “pay my part”. Meaning that I was no longer my parents responsibility and that it was time to fend for myself (to an extent). Since then I have been nonstop.

My parents forced college on me and my brother but didn’t realize that college wasn’t free. They were happy when I expressed my interest in wanting to go to college but were mad when I got accepted into a private thirty thousand dollar a year school. Then they were mad when my brother decided to drop out of college. It has been an ongoing war with my parents because no matter what me and my brother did or how much we worked it was never enough. My parents have watched me and my brother struggle financially numerous times and still continued to ask for our last dollar. My brother and I were the main source of income after we got jobs because my dad got lazy and my mom worked multiple minimum wage jobs just to make her part. 

Then I started college, and college students have it hard enough, let alone balance a full-time job or even multiple jobs with their studies. It has taken me 7 years to finish my undergrad because I’ve had to pay for tuition out of pocket and also balance my three jobs with my academics.

With all this being said, my parents loved the phrase you don’t know what “real stress” is. My parents still haven’t grown out of that phrase even though I work a full-time job, two part time jobs, and am taking 5/6 classes this semester. But, now I think from time to time that maybe they were right. Maybe what I am describing isn’t “real stress,” and maybe it’s just trauma. My trauma response is to crowd myself with so much to do that I literally get anxious and physically ill when I’m not constantly doing something.

Now, my parents aren’t horrible parents. Well definitely not my mom, but my dad is a different story. Maybe I am the way I am because my mom has always had multiple jobs to support my brother and I and my dad was always losing jobs and putting our family in struggle situations. So I can understand that aspect but, the diminishing of the feelings or obliviousness my parents had to the trauma they were causing on me and my brother and is something I can’t wrap my head around. My body to them is just for labor. One day when I have children I will ensure that they don’t feel the way I did/ do and their bodies aren’t just another body for labor. I stay motivated for this reason, because I will do anything to make sure my children do not ever struggle financially or emotionally the way my brother and I did.

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Would I Survive Childbirth?

I want to preface by saying that I have always been against the idea of children for a multitude of reasons. One main reason why I do not intend to have children is because it is what is expected of me by society. That’s the thing to do when you grow up, find a husband, get married and have children and provide for those children. I have always gone along with what society expects of me, however, this is not something I was going to given into so easily. As of recently though, I have found myself more and more open to the idea of having children. 

This new development is a slight possibility as I still sit with my many concerns that come with being a mother. One concern I would like to focus on is the maternal mortality rate for Black women. I was fortunate enough to take a Gender and Women’s studies class in highschool that has enlightened me to the struggles of women all throughout our world’s history. We discussed topics such as the women’s suffrage movement, gender equality, intersectionality, gender roles, gender and sexuality, female genital mutilation and last but not least Black maternal mortality rates. The discourse of maternal mortality rate in Black women specifically was a touching subject as I have experienced first hand how black women are ignored and pushed aside in health care. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize just how real and dangerous the situation is for Black women when it comes to maternal healthcare. The statistics are staggering—Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than white women. What’s even more concerning is that many of these deaths are preventable. It’s not just about access to healthcare; it’s about the quality of care received. Time and time again, Black women’s pain is dismissed, and their concerns go unheard, contributing to this shocking disparity.

This issue is deeply rooted in systemic racism that plagues our healthcare system. Black women are often treated as less credible when they express discomfort or medical concerns, and that bias can have deadly consequences. High-profile cases, like that of Serena Williams, who almost lost her life due to medical professionals not listening to her about her own body, highlight the urgency of this problem. The fear of being ignored or mistreated by healthcare providers is something I would constantly have to consider if I ever chose to become a mother. This reality adds yet another layer to my apprehension about having children, and it’s a conversation we need to have more openly. Every Black woman deserves to feel safe, heard, and cared for in every stage of her pregnancy—and yet, that’s still far from the reality many face today. So, with all of this weighing on my mind, I can’t help but ask myself: Would I survive childbirth?

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The art of bodies and labor

The Circle of Life

Have you ever examined certain aspects of life and wondered how everything comes together to form the circle of life? Many individuals are very mindful of the entire process of laboring a child. Many of these individuals spend years becoming educated in this particular field. They will spend hours and hours gaining clinical experience to gain experience in how labor works. These individuals are “medical professionals.” They may hold a lot of knowledge about how a woman’s body works during pregnancy, but they cannot account for those women who have different experiences than the rest. There are normal aspects of pregnancy that all women may face, but unknown symptoms should not be ignored.

Diving into the subject of labor, the question that comes to mind is “Who is in charge” of the laboring body? This question brings so many opinions and thoughts from every individual. It should be a shared responsibility of assistance from the medical team to provide their knowledge to best help the woman who is giving birth. However, there should be autonomy over her preferences of how she wants to give birth. There should be an equal balance of where the mother and medical professional agree to provide support for the mother’s needs.

In early times, the process of how women were taken care of for their pregnancy has completely changed even up to the way a child is delivered. In the reading “African-American Midwifery: a History and a Lament,” the Lamaze technique was mentioned which is “childbirth without pain.” This discussion spoke about the increased rates of “chemical stimulation of labor, episiotomies, cesarean sections.” Why should childbirth be done in a specific way? Why does it matter if a woman wants to have a pain-free birth? These ideas and concepts are still topics that are debated upon. Overall, women should be the only ones who get to decide what she wants. Medical professionals should only guide her if it will negatively impact her.

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Medical Terminology and the Patriarchy

I learned about this in another class and found it to be very relevant to this class. In general, Emily Martin’s The Egg and the Sperm: How Science Has Constructed a Romance Based on Stereotypical Male-Female Roles, talks about how the language in medical textbooks reinforces patriarchal views of men’s and women’s roles in reproduction. Enjoy!

In Emily Martin’s The Egg and the Sperm, she asserts that even when we learn about basic biology, such as eggs and sperm, these notions from the patriarchy are reinforced. This subtle but very deliberate assertion is intentional. It reinforces gender norms and says that the sperm is dominant while the egg is submissive. The sperm travels through the female reproductive system and penetrates the egg. This is very much a Western idea. Now, modern research has found that the egg is the dominant one. Instead of the sperm penetrating the egg, the egg, “traps the sperm and prevents their escape.” (Martin, pg. 493)

The reason these narratives are so problematic is because it devalues the egg’s role in reproduction and, in doing so, reduces the whole female reproductive system and women in general and vice versa. Other things also reinforce this. Like how menstruation is viewed as a failure. The language medical textbooks show menstruation, “as a chaotic disintegration of form, complementing the many texts that describe it as “ceasing,” “dying,” “losing,” “denuding, “expelling. ” (Martin, pg. 486) As if a women’s role is purely reproductive and she is deemed useless or otherized when she is dealing with a completely normal biological function.

Reference

Martin, Emily. “The egg and the sperm: How science has constructed a romance based on stereotypical male-female roles.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, vol. 16, no. 3, Apr. 1991, pp. 485–501, https://doi.org/10.1086/494680. 

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Disability, Pain, & Pride

When we read Shakespeare’s Social Model of Disability, it introduced a concept I had never considered before. At first, I did actually like it, but the more I thought about it, the more my thoughts changed.

I am someone who is both physically disabled and neurodivergent. I have always been neurodivergent, of course, but my physical disability did not become more prominent until recently; and with it has come shame. I think this is why I was drawn to the social model of disability at first. I am ashamed and embarrassed of the visibility that comes with my disability and how I have to accommodate it. Reading this social model helped me think of this shame in a new light, however – it is not my fault I am ashamed. It is the society around me who has made me embarrassed and forced me to push myself past my limits countless times.


At the same time, however, I realized that this is not fair to myself and my identity as a whole. Yes, it is the society around me that has caused me shame and embarrassment and an unrealistic stubbornness that makes me push myself. But that does not take away the pain I am in, or the potential complications of my disability. And even if it is “just” society causing this shame, that doesn’t take away the pain from the nights I’ve wasted staying up wishing with everything in me I could be “normal”, wishing that I could just understand social cues and not have sensory issues or anxiety or mood issues.


It also takes away from the community I’ve found in spite of this pain. I’ve had negative social interactions because of my neurodivergency and my disability, but framing these things as purely societal issues takes away from all of the positive aspects of social interaction while disabled. I am always so grateful for that community and the people that have been there for me consistently. I’ve learned a lot about both myself and the world around me as I navigate being disabled and neurodivergent, and even though there are bad days, I love the community and the people I’ve found, and I love our persistence despite the pain we experience, regardless of where it comes from.

Image source: https://www.hamiltondds.org/cincinnati-region-celebrates-disability-pride-in-july/