Tallochar's blog

"You can put all sorts of things in tupperware," Robby said, avoiding the question like a pro as he stacked the box on top of the nearest pile.

"I'm throwing out the tupperware," Jack said. "There's too much tupperware. And Christ almighty, lift from your knees, would you? I don't want another round of I'm fine, Jack, until you finally cave and take the muscle relaxants because you've tweaked your back again."

"I'm fine, Jack," Robby said automatically.

"Ugh," Jack said, and retreated into the kitchen. The sound of kitchen cabinets opening and closing continued apace.

Robby looked around the living room. He was pretty sure that was it in here. The TV, the sofa, and most of the rest of the furniture were labelled as going to Goodwill; the wingback chair, the one he liked to read, was tagged to go with him to Jack's—to their—house. Everything else was boxed up.

He tugged his t-shirt up so that he could use the hem to wipe the sweat from his forehead and ambled into the kitchen to find that Jack had, as promised, approached packing up in here with ruthless efficiency. There were more full black trash bags stacked by the door waiting to be thrown out than there were packed boxes waiting to be gathered up by the movers tomorrow.

"What?" Jack said when Robby raised an eyebrow or two at him. "You think anyone should waste time, money and effort on hauling tupperware and jars of expired spices across Pittsburgh?"

"It'd be nice to be asked," Robby said, because it was important to keep up appearances where grumbling was concerned, but maybe the sincerity of his grumbling was undercut by how he wrapped his arms around Jack from behind, rested his chin on Jack's shoulder, and let himself enjoy how simply good that felt, even after all these months. "They're my containers and spice jars."

"Like you actually give a shit about rosemary or white pepper," Jack said, leaning back into Robby's touch just a little, just enough. "Besides, I asked about the actually important stuff, didn't I?"

Robby thought about how carefully Jack had swaddled Robby's Bubbe's menorah in bubble wrap, how he'd wrapped up Robby's old photo albums and his one precious, framed photo of his grandparents on their wedding day in meticulous layers of tissue paper. About how Jack had listened to the stories that Robby had shared off and on that day, haltingly at first, about the little house not far from here that he'd grown up in—the wrench it had been to sell it after his grandmother's death, his hand forced by the Second Notice letter from the palliative care provider and by the med school tuition payment deadlines.

He thought about how Jack had asked Robby to move in with him in the first place, standing next to him in the ambulance bay on an ordinary Thursday while they waited for an ambulance to roll in. Jack had tossed it out there as casually as if he'd been asking if Robby wanted pizza for dinner that night or nah, but his body language had given him away: arms folded, chin lifted, watching Robby out of the corner of his eye. Clearly nervous as hell and doing it anyway, because he'd wanted Robby—because he'd wanted Robby to stay.

Those aren't the same claim. And I think the latter requires a degree of certainty that I'm not sure the text itself supports. Because one thing I find myself returning to over and over is that many of the ideas which have become central to certain corners of the fandom are, in my view, beautiful interpretations. But they still read like interpretations.

Samira as Robby's younger self. Samira as his true heir. Robby projecting his self-loathing onto her. His inability to articulate his admiration of her. Her craving his approval. Their relationship being simultaneously loving, toxic, and professionally harmful. His impossible expectations of her stemming from his belief in her exceptional potential.

These are all compelling readings, truly. But I don't think they're all canonical truths. Fandom does this all the time. We all do. We find threads; we connect dots; we construct emotional throughlines; we invest in possibilities. That's part of the joy of engaging deeply with fiction. But I think problems emerge when interpretations slowly become treated as facts.

"I think this relationship is central to the show" becomes "This relationship is clearly the emotional core" which becomes "The writers abandoned their own story" which eventually becomes "The writers have revealed their misogyny".

And somewhere in that progression, what began as an interpretation becomes transformed into a moral accusation. I think that's what I've found difficult. Not criticism, not disappointment, not even anger. But the way in which creative disagreements sometimes become reframed as evidence of moral failure.

Because if season 2 failed Samira, that is a perfectly valid opinion (which I share). If someone believes her screentime was insufficient, or that her relationship with Robby lost complexity, or that the show devoted too much energy elsewhere, I think those are entirely legitimate criticisms.

But I don't know that disappointment itself proves misogyny. And I don't know that every uneven relationship or disparity between characters necessarily has the same explanation.

Take Whitaker, for example.

I've seen him increasingly reduced to the "mediocre white man who gets rewarded". And honestly, I find that reading sad. Not because he's beyond criticism - he's not - but because it seems to flatten him into a symbol. His working-class background; his upbringing in rural Nebraska; his homelessness; his theology background; his anxiety; his mistakes; his growth; his deep empathy; his bonds with Robby and Santos; his willingness to meet people where they are; his evolution from terrified MS4 to confident R1. All of that disappears, and he becomes simply an embodiment of structural privilege.

Which, to me, feels oddly ironic, because a great deal of the discourse surrounding Samira rightly pushes back against flattening complex women of colour into symbols. Yet most of the criticism of Whitaker flattens him precisely the same way.

Likewise, Robby becomes 'latent misogyny'.

Dana becomes 'internalised misogyny'.

Gloria becomes 'the profit-obsessed Black woman'.

Al-Hashimi becomes evidence.

Collins becomes evidence.

Louie becomes evidence.

Joyce becomes evidence.

Everyone becomes evidence.

And eventually the characters stop feeling like people and start feeling like exhibits in a larger argument.

I also think some theories have become almost impossible to falsify.

If Robby criticises Samira, that confirms the reading.

If he praises Whitaker, that confirms the reading.

If he trusts Langdon, that confirms the reading.

If he doubts Al-Hashimi, that confirms the reading.

If Samira struggles, that confirms the reading.

If she excels, that confirms the reading.

If she receives little screentime, that confirms the reading.

If she receives more screentime, but isn't validated in the 'right' way, that confirms the reading.

And at some point, I start wondering what evidence would count against the theory. Because if there isn't any, then we're no longer using a framework to understand the text. We're using the text to reinforce the framework. And I'm not sure that's a partiuclarly healthy approach.

Perhaps most of all, though. I wonder whether some of the intensity surrounding season 2 comes from grief. Not grief over what happened in the show. But grief over the loss of the show people thought they were watching. Because I think many viewers fell in love with a version of the pitt where Samira was Robby's successor. Where their relationship was the emotional centre of the series. Where her philosophy of medicine would eventually be vindicated. Where his inability to express affection would slowly give way to recognition. Where he would finally acknowledge that she was extraordinary.

But I'm not convinced that 's the story the writers themselves thought they were telling. And I think season 2 exposed that gap. Not necessarily because the writers betrayed their own themes, but because audiences and writers were perhaps never imagining quite the same show. Which is disappointing, and disappointment is real. But I don't think disappointment automatically becomes proof of prejudice.

And I think that's where I ultimately land. Not that discussions of racism and misogyny should stop. Not that media criticism should be gentler. Not even that people should simply accept the show's decision.

But that accusations as serious as these deserve a degree of humility. Because the pitt is a show about imperfect people trying their absolute best in a failing system. People shaped by grief, ego, burnout, race, gender, class, trauma, hierarchy, and institutional pressures. None of these things operate in isolation. And I think our criticism should be willing to embrace that same complexity.

Because sometimes I read certain corners of the fandom and come away with the impression that racism and misogyny are not being treated as possibilities to be explored, but as conclusions from which all other explanations must flow.

And, I don't know… maybe that's where I part ways.