I am what is considered a rainbow baby. For people who don’t know what that is a rainbow baby is a child born after a miscarriage, stillbirth, or neonatal death. When I was first informed of this I didn’t have much of an opinion. I felt bad for my mother but when I was told I was young and didn’t understand what that meant for my mom. After watching Aftershock there was a thought in my head.

Was my mom properly cared for by her doctors?  I hate that I have to question this but it doesn’t help that I was also a C-Section baby. Since C-Sections are more likely to be given to black women I question was necessary or if was it just simpler for them. For my mom having a child was difficult and it could’ve been more difficult based on her race. The idea of midwifery is prominent throughout Aftershock and I think about how it might’ve changed my birth.

Even thinking of other children I think about the difficulties many people go through. Aftershock really opened my eyes to a problem that goes hidden. It ties heavily into other ideas we talk about in class such as black people getting worse treatment from doctors in general but the concept of women is slightly different. The idea of them having a higher pain tolerance comes from nothing but is still currently believed in the medical field and that worries me. There have been times when I have complained to a doctor of pain and them asking multiple times if the pain was really that bad because I seemed to be fine but I felt that I needed to present being fine. Learning the ideas of the medial field are based on old practices based on racism is genuinely scary

Living under capitalism is ass, not just because of inflation or the 1% but because it makes life and people so unempathetic. Everything is based on how you can use your body for capital instead of compassion. There is no consideration for others because trying to get through the day in one piece takes up all your mental energy. There is no accessibility because in a capitalist society what is the need to help people with disabilities if they cannot work with maximum efficiency? Dehumanizing people according to their ability to work is disgusting and shameful, but I am not surprised when it happens. On the flip side, people are dehumanized because they are made to work efficiently like black people. No matter what side of physical capability you are on, you get dehumanized; when you are in the middle it only gets a little better. You are seen as human but not really, you are seen as a cog in a machine that will only help the wealthy elites. If everyone is not seen as people- and seen as worthy of human rights-, why would people stand up for others to fight against capitalism? Standing and fighting together is hard when you do not see other people as worthy allies. The normalization of people being treated as less than human perpetuates capitalism because you always think there is someone below you who will protect you from the mistreatment, but there is not.

Emotional labor is everywhere and it’s important to think about who is engaging in this work. As discussed in class, emotional labor is the management and/or suppression of emotions while performing paid labor. Because of this definition, it is implied that emotional labor refers to domestic, sex, and service work, among other things. Essentially, emotional labor is tied to jobs that require an emotional appeal to others while maintaining one’s own composure. 

But who is most likely to engage in this form of labor? Lower class women of color. These are the women who have to take up intimate labor jobs such as maidwork and food service. These jobs are hard enough, especially having to deal with rude customers who treat workers like they are undeserving of human respect. Women of color may face racism, classism, and xenophobia while simply doing their jobs. On top of that, workers must put on a smile and just dreadfully make it through their shift. They must feed into a capitalist system and be compliant to protect their jobs even when they are being treated unfairly. For lower class women of color, emotional labor is not only required for their jobs, it is necessary for their lives. Their bodies are used to create profit, and they must operate like perfect machines, else they be easily replaced by someone more obedient. 

I also wonder about the emotional labor that disabled workers must face. For disabled people working in intimate labor jobs, their bodies are made to be spectacles. Those with physical disabilities may be infantilized or treated poorly. The worker must manage the anger and frustration and anxiety that comes with this treatment. Those with hidden disabilities may have to work much harder to be a productive and fast worker, likely without accommodations. Of course, there is a layer of exhaustion that comes with this constant overextension of the body without rest. 

In both cases, the worker is displayed as a capitalist object whose only purpose is to contribute to mass production and consumerism. Their bodies are strategically put into low wage positions and are then made to be scrutinized. The exhaustion and anxiety that comes with this must be managed by the individual. It is unfortunately their own responsibility to handle the emotions that come with systemic racism, classism, sexism, and ableism. 

I’m not lower class or disabled, but in sharing a bit of my own experience as a woman of color, when I worked in a local boutique, this responsibility fell on me. We had a very close-knit and small staff, and while diverse, I felt like I was constantly dealing with microaggressions. This was back in 2020 while the elections were going on, and so you can imagine my fear, confusion, and overall frustration when I found out my seemingly cool boss with a dyed pixie cut was a Trump supporter. Suddenly I began reexamining the way she had been treating me. Every time she would come into work she pretended like she didn’t know I was working that day and she would constantly ignore me in conversations with other staff members. She successfully made me feel like I didn’t belong there. I became increasingly uncomfortable but I still had to maintain my composure and make sure that I wasn’t showing my emotions. I had to suppress my anxiety and fear because I wanted to keep my job and I didn’t want to make my work environment any more uncomfortable than it already was. I thought the more I tried to manage my own emotions while putting on a smile and just working, the better my boss would treat me. Then I ended up quitting because I realized that it should not be my responsibility to put on a good face when I’m being treated poorly…amongst other reasons. But for many lower class women of color and disabled folk quitting is not an option. So what is the answer to this problem? Do we have to just endure and cope? Is there a solution to the harms of emotional labor?

The title of this post is a lie, most of the time. Usually I’m happy to write more open-ended things; dealing in the land of theory and abstract. I enjoy the many little things, as many creatives do, and want to make sense of all that life has to offer. I make use of myself to help others see things; holding up mirrors and windows for people to look out in and in. This past week though, I am continually reminded that we aren’t taught what to do when we see ourselves in the mirror; facing the you inside of you, our underneath truths surfacing in the expressions of our faces.

I didn’t want to write this blog post because I could not bear to face my grandma. Her life was cut short by the very industry she gave it too; years worked as a nurse in the same hospital, only to pass there too. Helping black women and children through years of health, and yet she could not help herself. Working constantly by the condition of her upbringing; she avoided the aches in her body, the tiredness in her face, her hands battered by years, her mind overwhelmed with worries. She was alone in her struggles; I was still too young to help nor understand when she went. I am thinking of her voice when I hear the way the medical complex treats black women and I sigh a deep sigh, one I’m sure I share with ancestors long past my time .

I didn’t want to write this blog post because I could not bear to face my mother. Her aspirations were dimmed with my birth; she worked herself so hard inside and outside the home to provide for her kids, resulting in a myriad of medical issues she left undiagnosed until now. The worry she has when getting new doctors, praying the next one will believe her and continue her medicine. Glossing over minor hiccups because what other choice could she have? Health hinders progress; A lesson she’s finally beginning to reverse.

I didn’t want to write this post because I couldn’t bear to face myself; a culmination of the experiences of the women before me. How much have I learned? I avoid the horrors of reproductive thoughts, only to fall into the trap of overwork again. “Health does not hinder progress!” I say. But I know that if I go to the hospital for that ache, how much of my life will I lose? If I so choose to start a family, how much of the work will fall on me?

(artwork by Joel Gehmen)

Is my body broken if its shattered pieces are held together by flesh colored adhesive that is merely my own mental salve?

Do I suffer from pain if the constant ache in my bones is an echo of the violent histories passed down for generations? 

Is it illness if the markers are not physical, the symptoms not visible, and there is no possible diagnosis in western medicine to comprehend this malaise? 

How does one treat such dysfunction? With brave smiles and silent resolve? With quiet tears and chronic despair? Or with hordes of medication that sedate and suppress but fail to inhabit the exact synapse of cellular transmission communicating to the brain that all will be well and that peace can be found?

Where is wholeness to be found if no one can see all the broken pieces? 

Yet I know my pain, I know my illness, I know my suffering. None can take that knowing from me. Because if they could, I would let them.

Labor can mean different things to different people.  Especially women.  Women go into labor at the end of pregnancy but it doesn’t end there.  Two words for you, laboring mothers.  For much of the twentieth century, it was more or less unheard of for a woman to be out in the workforce.  Young girls were brought up to be young ladies, to marry and bear children.  Caring for children and doing house work can be challenging too.  On top of that, she was expected to have a warm meal ready for her husband when he got home from bringing home the bacon as it were.  Apart from teachers, nurses, and secretaries, women stayed home until a little after the second half of the twentieth century or so.  

Nowadays, it isn’t at all uncommon for both parents to be in the workforce but don’t let that fool you into thinking that women get paid the same or treated the same as men.  Of course not, that would be absurd! (sarcasm)  If that isn’t enough, there is also the problem of having to worry about sexual harassment in the workplace.  It’s not fair but for some reason, society just accepts it as if it were some kind of right of passage.  When women are sexually harassed in the workplace, we are supposed to take it in stride or even take it as a COMPLIMENT?? If we say something, we are made out to be bitches who “can’t take a joke”.  This is something that happens more than one might think because most women don’t report because we decide it’s not worth it or because we have seen other women crucified for speaking up.  

Gloria Allred was a single mother for most of her daughter’s life.  She maintained a career and raised a daughter all without a man and she is one of, if not the most respected women’s rights activists.  But not without struggles.  For example, everything she did was scrutinized by men because she was a female lawyer in a man’s world.  She is just one example of how amazing and capable women are.  We can do more than play the role of the 1950’s housewife.  

In recent years, I have noticed many women don’t want to have children.  I am one of those women.  You know those people who really shouldn’t be parents but are?  I’m one of the ones that should not be a parent but I am aware of it.  I don’t want to be a mother, I shouldn’t be a mother.  No child should have to grow up knowing they weren’t wanted.  I always say the biggest favor I could do a child is not be its mother.   I am too selfish and I know and accept this.  To be a good parent, one must be selfless and be willing to sacrifice a great deal.  I would rather put my energy into a career and only have to worry about taking care of myself.  That’s another thing– I can’t cook.  The kid would starve to death.  I am in awe of all women who make something of themselves, mothers or not. 

I don’t know if it’s just me but whenever I see families playing with their kids on the swings, or kids running around on the playground goofing off just being kids, I am constantly reminded that ‘I’ as a female and socially and ‘biologically’ obliged to give birth to the next generation because only female can give birth (I think it’s obvious…). Now don’t get me wrong, kids are great; they’re lovable, cute, and small and I’ve been told that being a parent is very rewarding (If you can’t tell already, I’m giving anyone who told me that a side-eye). But, I don’t think our generation (GenZ) was meant to birth future generations, at least, not when our parents hoped we would.

Now, this is all coming from a 2nd gen who’s family came from India on a work visa so my parents and my grandparents all grew up on a very traditional standard, which isn’t a bad thing but it’s difficult to explain to your parents why you don’t want to get married at an early age and start a family. I’m still a sophomore in college but I still feel the looks and the indirect pressure that my mom and dad’s side of the family give to not only me but my other female cousins as well. My parents and my grandparents grew up in an era where the cost of college tuition was cheap (most of the time, females didn’t even go to college), and finding a home was never the problem (in a traditional Indian home, the wife usually lives with the husband’s family and cares for his parents and lives with them and in American, housing was pretty affordable). People were more dependent on their own family and raising one rather than exploring careers and making money to pay rent and food for the week. I get looked down upon when I tell my grandparents especially, that I do not want to depend on my husband/wife/significant other (if I ever get one that is) and want to simply enjoy my life and my career without the distractions of looking after my family. It’s not that I don’t want a family (and I’ll look after my parents when they get old) but I don’t want to make the choice between my career and my family, I simply wouldn’t be able to make that sacrifice for either.

I’m a bit too young to start a family, in my opinion, because I have mouths to feed (yes, plural all for me), tuition (doesn’t help that I don’t work at all during the school semester), and I’m too afraid to even have intercourse. Birth control pills, protection, hospital bills, a literal child first- off, everything costs money (and frankly, I’m not even old enough to get my tubes tied). The whole idea of pregnancy just scares me and it’s not something I want to go through. I’m not saying it’s a horrible experience as it’s quite the opposite but personally, I don’t want to give birth and have kids even if I’m financially (and mentally) stable. I’m sure most people, if not all listen to the news about what happened with Roe v Wade; even though it was overturned, as a female, I am appalled and frightened of what could possibly happen to me if I get pregnant and don’t want a kid. Not only that, I get treated differently based on my skin, my gender, my age and, how I present myself. If I can’t put my full faith into society and expect them to help me in times of need, that’s a toxic relationship I don’t want to be in. And thankfully people are recognizing that there needs to be a change in the way we treat each other because at the end of the day, we are all still human. At this point in time, what I do with my body and my persona, isn’t even up to me. It’s “My” body.

TW: Disordered eating, weight, numbers.

I’ve struggled a lot with disordered eating. I have been improving greatly, and I’m so grateful, but one of those reasons is because I don’t allow myself to step on the scale. Even at the doctor, I will ask them not to tell me my weight. I know you should base your confidence off of how you feel about yourself, not the number on the scale. Still, my mind lets a number dictate how I feel about myself. I hate that regardless of the number I see, it will not warrant a good feeling, or outcome. This is a piece I wrote one night regarding this (I’ve never written a poem before, so bear with me, lol).

A World  Without Numbers

A language without numbers
Is perfect for me
Maybe then I will feel worthy
Of what life has to feed

I could have pizza
And soda
And still feel like me

The digits won’t decide
If I get to eat

In a world without numbers
I would have peace of mind
There won’t be evil figures
In my head on rewind

Fluctuations up and down
It all ends the same
Make it go lower
No matter the ache

So arrest the digits
For they’ve become felons
Vandalizing my thoughts
With pounds armed as weapons

On a beautiful day in May of 2022, I was driving over to my then girlfriend’s house after a long shift when I was hit by a drunk driver. I was helped within 7 minutes by firefighters, EMT, doctors, a nurse, and police with selfless and kind intentions. But were those intentions an excuse for them to disregard my voice and pain?

After I was hit, I reached for my seatbelt to try to get out, but it was stuck. You can’t see it in the pictures, but the machinery in front of my car imploded inwards, crushing my legs between my front and seat. The seatbelt was stuck as the impact destroyed it. I was in so much pain. I couldn’t do anything but sit and wait for someone to help me.

Two doctors and a nurse who were on the street as it happened rushed to help me. They open the door and ask me if I can move my legs, unbuckle the seatbelt, move my neck, and see them. Crying and in shock, I tell them there is a shooting pain in my lower back and legs every time I move my neck or feet. They ask me to stay calm and argue about what they should do. Amongst the arguing, the police, firefighters, and EMT arrive at the scene. They approach me, and before they even ask me anything, they begin leaning over me to try to unlock my seatbelt. I tell them it is stuck and I need to be cut out. They cut the belt off around me; now it is time to figure out how to get my legs out without causing damage. Long story short, every method they try causes me too much pain. They eventually decide to cut as much of the metal around my legs away until I can pull them up to my chin/chest so I can get out.

They start cutting them metal, and I can feel the release of pressure around my legs, but somehow, that shooting pain becomes even worse with the release of tension. I tell them to stop. They tell me to calm down and that it will be okay. I am pleading with the firefighters and police to stop. They don’t. I’m crying hysterically now. I am told by the police that I am just in shock and that it’s the adrenaline wearing off. I plead and cry, telling them something is wrong as they pull my feet to my chest and carry me out of the car. They lay me in the ambulance, and I told the doctor something was wrong. Once again, I’m told that it’s just because my adrenaline is coming down, so the pain from the impact is at its peak. I keep telling him this isn’t the case. Something is wrong. “They shouldn’t have moved me. Not without stabilizing my back and legs.” Throughout all my cries and complaints, I am told to calm down and that it will be okay.

I’ll meet with a neurologist and orthopedic doctors at the hospital later. They tell me I have irreversible nerve damage in my lower spine. If I’m being honest, I knew. I fucking knew it. I simply look them in the eye and say, “It could’ve been avoided if they hadn’t moved my legs. If they had listened. If they had stabilized me. Couldn’t it?” Their response: “They did the best they could. There is no telling what could’ve happened. Ensuring you got out of the car was the number one priority in case the car went up into flames or if you were bleeding out”. I didn’t say anything.

Over a year later, I have physical therapy, dozens of unused medications, and thousands of dollars in hospital visits. I constantly feel pain in my hip, lower back, and legs. I live in a constant battle of “They did what they could and only intended to help me.” and a state of rage for my complaints and pain being ignored and costing me my mobility. Why does it take physical and mental impairment/disability for women’s voices to be heard? It’s ridiculous.