Just Complicated Me

The guy who called me the Whore of Babylon for teaching kids about Ancient Egypt as I stood there and nodded.

The woman who was deeply incensed that staff wouldn't open the cases so she could touch the organic objects.

The one guy who made me translate hieroglyphs on a stele for him, then was mad because it didn't say what he wanted it to say, and reported me for 'lying' to the public.

The parents who objected to the taxidermied animals having taxidermied genitalia because it was unseemly.

Those kids on a school trip who got on the floor in front of a mummy and started chanting 'we worship Ra' as their teacher desperately tried to get them to leave.

Suddenly, this man standing on the outskirts of our conversational circle piped up with “actually, I think men are more discriminated against than women these days.”

 All conversation died.

I turned to look at him and he had this smug, insufferable grin on his face, relishing this moment, expecting us to waste our time and energy refuting this ridiculous thing he had just said.

The Devil’s Advocate was among us.

And, in my mind, I saw the next 15+ minutes playing out. The parade of facts and statistics in a vain attempt to defend ourselves, our gender, and to prove that misogyny is real. The glib, snide denials from some shithead who is getting off on our pain and frustration. The Gish Gallop of bullshit that would take a whole evening to properly dismantle. It was depressing and overwhelming. I hated it. I had to kill it before it began.

So I looked him dead in the eye and I said “OK,“ shrugged, and just walked away. 

Nothing I have ever said to another human being has ever been so crushing. As I walked away, I watched the smug grin vanish and confusion and anxiety set in. The rest of the group turned their backs to him and carried on as if he had never spoken - as if he was invisible. He was still staring at me when I walked over to another friend and told her what he had said. I pointed him out for her and made direct eye contact with him while we both laughed.

 Mortality rates were highest for poor communities, mostly for sanitation reasons, but absolutely nobody was immune; several sitting presidents lost children while in office, when they had access to the most state-of-the-art medical care available at the time.  

Then she moves in to talking about specific causes of child mortality and the efforts made to combat them.  The one that surprised me was “summer diarrhea,” which usually affected children at age 2 or 3–the first summer that they were weaned from breastfeeding, and thus exposed to all of the pathogens that would multiply in food, water, and milk in the hot weather.  I mean, just imagine knowing that a diaper blowout could be the first sign that you’re going to spend the next few days watching your baby literally shit themselves to death. 

 (Klass suggests that the sentimental, idealized deaths of angelic children in Victorian literature were a response to this particular horror–you could picture your child dying calmly, ethereally pale and beautiful, among clean white sheets, and then ascending straight to heaven, instead of what really happened.)  

Some antivaxxers today like to claim that improvements in sanitation were all we ever really needed to get child mortality under control–we start to see a drastic decline in child death at the time that cities and towns started working on providing clean water sources, sanitary sewers, and places where parents could get clean milk at reasonable prices, and antivaxxers like to suggest that, had no other developments been made, that downward trend would have continued.  

That is bullshit, because–as public health experts at the time realized–summer diarrhea was the low-hanging fruit of infant and child mortality.  It was vastly more common in urban settings than rural ones, and more common in poor urban settings than well-off ones, so it wasn’t too hard to see the differences in those settings and identify some obvious contributing factors.  And once they knew the causes, they had the technology to deal with them–it was just a matter of finding the will, and the money, to do so.  

Summer diarrhea was a very common cause of death in young children, and reducing it cut the mortality rate significantly–but it did little or nothing about any of the other causes of child death: the “childhood illnesses”–so called, because if you got them as a child and lived, you’d be immune–and ordinary infections (which could kill you even if the initial cause was as minor as a blister–that’s what happened to President Coolidge’s son).  Society as a whole continued throwing money and effort at these problems because sanitation wasn’t enough.  (It probably didn’t hurt that these were the causes of death that affected children from well-off families at similar rates as poor ones–a number of wealthy families funded vaccine research as a memorial to their dead children.)  And the most recent efforts–the ones still ongoing today–have to do with care of premature infants and those with birth defects, and prevention of accidents and injury. (The book doesn’t really cover the treatment of childhood cancer and genetic diseases, which are also ongoing efforts, but aren’t traditionally considered “public health.”)

The general trend in these efforts is that they started with the most common/most preventable causes of child mortality, and progressed to the less common/more difficult ones.  This was deliberate–Klass even cites some debate among public health authorities, over whether the next stage after sanitation should be childhood illnesses or premature babies.  Vaccines for childhood illnesses got priority, both because there were more children affected, and because it seemed easier.  

“my characters have a mind of their own!” - no i’m not mad and yes i know i made them up but i have no idea what’s happening anymore please save me

“i’m going to write today!” - i’d actually rather wash the garden path but the house is already pristine and i’ve run out of excuses

 “this is still a rough draft so go easy on me!” - i have spent what feels like forever pouring my very soul into this but i worry it’s terrible and if you’re mean i may just cry

“i’ll update soon!” - this is utterly killing me, i don’t know how to read anymore, what are words, help 

“i just had this idea and had to share it with you guys!” - this has taken me three weeks and countless hours please love and appreciate it

“wake up,” she urged the dummy, pressing her hands to the pulse points on its wrists. “come on. what the fuck.”

“yeah, i don’t think that asking nicely is going to do the trick,” hank said, his eyebrows raised. his helmet, the special one they’d decorated for him with craft supplies from michael’s when he’d gotten promoted to firestation chief, sat askew on his head. “i can see now why they didn’t pass you.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “it’s a psychological thing,” she said. “it’s like, you give the brain an instruction and it follows naturally. and the pulse-point thing always works. i don’t know why it’s not, like, in any of the books, but i swear to god it’s worked for me every time.”

it was true that annabelle had the best record on low body counts, which was good because she was the smallest person on the team not counting Georgie, who was a corgi. jake and lillian were always making fun of her for having been the shortest of their whole rookie class. but it hadn’t ever been a problem before; annabelle rarely had to carry anybody out, because she was good enough at getting them on their feet.

but none of that would matter if she couldn’t pass her stupid recertification exam, because they’d take her badge and she’d have to go be, like, a doctor or something.

hank blew out a long breath and sunk down to where she was kneeling on the station floor in full fire gear, giving CPR to the practice dummy, whom they called dierdre. there was a little light that went on when you’d saved its life. it had been a dull gray for an hour now.

“look, AB. i know you’re a good firefighter, and i know you know how to deliver CPR. just do it like you do it during an emergency. you’re overthinking it.”

“but this is what i do during an emergency!” annabelle cried, throwing her hands up. “i put my hands on their pulse points and i use psychological mumbo-jumbo and they just get up and walk!” 

hank blinked. “…really,” he said, voice flat. “people who’ve been inhaling smoke for half an hour just … get up and walk.”

“the brain is an incredibly powerful organ,” said annabelle, shrugging. “look man, i don’t know, okay? but it works. i haven’t had to actually do CPR in like a year and a half.”

he gave her a long, quiet loo and said, “well….huh,” before pushing himself back up onto his feet and frowning off into the distance. “keep practicing,” he said after a minute, and left her there.

-

hank switched her team.

“what the fuck, man,” she said, sliding into the truck next to him as the sirens went on. “i can’t get CPR on one fucking dummy and suddenly you don’t trust me to do my job without supervision?”

carl and bethany very carefully did not meet her eyes in the rearview from the backseat. bethany pulled a magazine from beneath the seat and said loudly, “look, carl, jennifer aniston and brad pitt are getting back together.”

“thank christ,” said carl. “i’ve been really worried about jen.”

hank gave annabelle the flat look that had gotten him promoted to firestation chief in the first place, the one that said i’m your dad and you don’t want to disappoint me. as always, annabelle wilted underneath it, sliding down in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. it was a difficult feat in full gear but she wanted him to know she was feeling sullen.

“i trust you completely,” hank told her, his voice a light scold. “i want to see you in action so i can help you figure out what’s going wrong with the dummies. sometimes it’s hard for the brain to accurately remember everything that happens during a crisis.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “i told you,” she said. “it’s just – it’s the same thing every time, I’m not like, blacking out.”

“great, then i’m about to learn a cool new trick,” hank said serenely, and pulled the truck out of the lot. annabelle kept her gaze focused out of the window, watching the city pass as carl and bethany talked loudly about which celebrities were dating which other celebrities and who wore what better. she tried to swallow down the nerves that tightened her throat. maybe the dummy was right. maybe she was doing something else and didn’t remember it. maybe the last two years had been a fluke and she had no business being a firefighter. maybe she was about to get fired.

there wasn’t a fire, though the alarm was going off. instead they found a bag of smoking popcorn and the collapsed heap of a forty-five year old bachelor type, down to just his boxers and a pair of slippers with llamas on them. he had no pulse. 

hank held carl and bethany back, directing them to deal with the smoke from the popcorn; annabelle he pointed toward the resident with a jerk of his chin. 

she sighed, kneeling by his side. she pressed her hands flat to his heart and then dragged them across his chest and down each arm, to his wrists. with her thumbs on his pulse point, she hissed, “let’s go, man. up and at ’em. you’re not meant to die in your underwear while cooking popcorn, come on.”

she held her breath for a few moments, conscious of hank’s eyes on her, and let out a long sigh of relief when she felt his pulse jump beneath her, watched his eyes flicker. “what the fuck?” he asked, voice a croak. “what happened?”

“you gotta eat more vegetables, bud,” annabelle told him, and looped his arm over her shoulders to help him get to his feet. she was so relieved she could have wept, but instead met hank’s eyes with a challenging glare. see? she thought. i told you. “let’s get you to the ambulance.”

-

“the bad news is that you have a lot of practicing to do if you want to pass your recert,” hank said without preamble, showing up at her apartment. she didn’t think she’d ever seen him in jeans before. it was weird. “the good news is i understand your problem now.”

annabelle stepped aside, beckoning him in. “what problem?” she demanded. “it worked! you saw it work. that’s the opposite of a problem.”

hank shrugged. he handed her a trifold that he’d clearly printed off at home. it said so you think you’re a necromancer. annabelle blinked down at it, and then up at hank, and then down at the trifold again. “i … don’t understand what’s happening here,” she told him honestly. 

“i’m not in the community and they’re kind of cagey, so i can’t really tell you a lot,” hank told her, stilted and visibly uncomfortable. “but i have a cousin who is, and um, i just want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. you’re still who you’ve always been and you have my complete support. we’ll figure out how to get around the recert. maybe i’ll – i can put you on admin duty to give you time to study. we’ll say it’s because of an injury.”

“hank,” annabelle said, with some urgency. “hank, this flier says the word necromancer.”

“yes,” agreed hank, looking relieved. “oh, good, you’ve heard of it already. i thought i was going to have to have the whole your body is changing talk.”

annabelle shook her head. “no, i – hank. you know that … um, you know that necromancy isn’t real, right? people can’t bring other people back from the dead. that’s crazy.”

“annabelle, not four hours ago you instructed a dead man to stand up and he did.”

“okay, he wasn’t dead, obviously. he was almost dead, at best.”

“no. he was dead.”

“i felt his pulse! it was very faint!”

“you called his pulse. no one else would have felt it, because it wasn’t there except in response to you.”

“hank, what the fuck.”

he shrugged. “read the flier,” he instructed. “and bring dierdre home with you. you’re going to have to practice a lot if you want to get recertified, considering you haven’t one time had to use any of the skills you learned the first go around.”

he bussed her temple as he went by, letting himself out of her apartment with a friendly wave. annabelle looked down at the flier in her hand with a frown. when she unfolded it, the first page said, everyone’s necromancy journey is different, but most people discover their gift by accident. have you ever brought a pet back to life? touched an elderly relatives hand and seen some of the color flood back into their face? or perhaps, more subtly, been able to keep cut flowers alive long past their purchase date?

annabelle looked at her kitchen table. she’d had the same vase of tulips on it since she moved in, three years ago. it was true they periodically started to wilt, but she usually just changed their water and they were fine, popping back up one after the other as she slid them into the fresh vase. 

I can wait to get my point across but sometimes when I do that I’ll swallow it and internalise it and then it will stay swepped under the carpet and fester and grow into something much bigger because it is so hard for me to get the words out in the first place. I’ll lose my nerve and bury. I have made myself smaller and quieter and been the peace keeper for other people. To please them, to feel accepted, to avoid conflict, to minimise damage, to get to safety. Shrink and bury. Shrink your words and thoughts and feelings to get along. Followed by isolation to pull myself back together alone. To emerge back out like nothing happened and everything is now fine. Onwards. It’s partly an ingrained survival reaction and partly social anxiety. It works in certain situations, it can keep you safe.

But with decent human beings, with non abusive people, people who actually care about your words, thoughts and feelings, it doesn’t. When non necessary it just seems to enable more isolation, more misunderstanding, more conflict.

I’ve worked really hard to stop myself from the pattern of going into the default shrink, bury and isolate mode. I’ve made some progress.

I’m not totally successful 100% of the time but I’m better than I have been ever before!

…and y'all, I almost cried. Just look at these. LOOK AT THEM.

So many skin tones!

PLUS SIZED BODY TYPES!

NATURAL HAIR STYLES!!! MULTIPLE SHADES OF DARK SKIN!!!

LOOK AT THIS PROFESSIONAL LADY!

SO MANY SKIN TONES AND BODY TYPES AND LOOK AT THAT MERMAN!!!

FRECKLES!!!

Y'all, I’m just…so so happy.

I’m 35 years old and I’ve never seen a Barbie that looked like me, and then there I am as a Barbie in a purple sweater with thick thighs and evenly proportioned boobs and pink hair and a cat.

I can only imagine how other girls must feel.