Maybe this reveals a lack of development, or a perpetual adolescence, but I recently listened to the album which inspired the title of this blog (Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane over the Sea") and was blown away once more by how beautiful it was. I'm now thinking about another tattoo, of an old fashioned early 1920's-1930's-ish airplane (reminiscent of the one that Antoine St Exupery flew), with a sprinkle of ashes drifting from it. Maybe or maybe not with an abbreviated sea beneath. Maybe or maybe not incorporating the words "on to glory." (A nod to my favorite cadaver in my medical school gross anatomy class--he has the words tattooed on his penis.) I'm just not sure where to put it...I love the spot where I put my first one, and am hard-pressed to find another spot which can be easily concealed, will not likely sag with age or stretch with pregnancy (if I do ever spawn), or will not clash with my current one. Hmmm.

Awesome post-call moment: Exhausted, I get into my car, thirsty as hell. I grab the Sprite bottle which had been bouncing around in my overnight bag on the way from my call room to the garage, open it, and proceed to spray myself and the car interior with massive amounts of Sprite. I sit there, dripping, with a dazed look on my face. I had spent the night keeping people with no immune system alive, and yet I'm dumb enough to open an agitated bottle of soda and suffer the consequences. Ha ha?

Yes, I am partly non-white and a product of a liberal arts education. I am overly analytical about everything, including race issues. But the comments that fly out of people's mouths here (in the South) drive me crazy. Granted, such comments may also fly out of people's mouths in the Northeast. But I don't think I would encounter such comments as frequently there. The other day I was hanging out with a couple of girls (Girl A and Girl B) who were nice and friendly. Unfortunately, Girl A began to talk about an argument she had with another girl (Girl C), who accused her of being racist. (Both girls are 100% white.) Girl A had spoken with a black guy about an event she had attended which had been sponsored by her favorite radio station (top 40/light alternative-ish), and when he expressed enthusiasm for the event, she suggested that he set up a similar event which could be sponsored by a hip hop or rap station. Girl C became angry and accused Girl A of being racist. Girl A, recounting this story, huffed and puffed about how she was SO not racist. I didn't necessarily find Girl A's comment to her black acquaintance racist, but I did think that she was stereotyping. How can you know what music a person likes simply based on what race he or she is? As a Eurasian person, what radio station would she assume that I listened to? However, I also thought that it was ridiculous that the other girl became so self-righteous about it, since it was a soft call, and a white person is certainly not the authority who can deem such a comment racist or not. I laughed a bit and mentioned that it amused me when white people became offended on behalf of non-white people by a comment as innocuous as that one. Girl A then became indignant and said that she knew first-hand what racism was like. I asked her for an example, and she described how a store employee made a nasty comment about how she didn't think that different races should mix, pointedly in front of Girl A's brother and Hispanic sister-in-law, as well as their biracial little girl. Girl B then said it made her so happy whenever she saw biracial kids and biracial couples, and when she was younger she wanted to have biracial kids too, because they are just so beautiful. Because I was not in the mood to get into a huge argument, I changed the subject. (Hmm, is that a compromise of my idealistic former self, who would have insisted on sharing her opinions, or simply a sign of maturity?)

But here are my thoughts. NO. If you are white, you DO NOT know what it's like to experience the same kind of racism that a colored person experiences. I don't even think that I can claim to have experienced true racism. I have to deal with little comments here and there about my ethnicity, but I have never been ill-treated because of my race. As a white person, you can feel sympathetic towards someone else who experiences racism (such as in Girl A's example above). If you travel abroad and suffer mean treatment because of your race, then that is certainly racism, but that's different. People of color who are citizens of the U.S. experience racism in their OWN HOMELAND, where they contribute as much to their society as anyone white. White people bitch about affirmative action, white girls bitch about black girls being mean to them when they date black guys. While I can see how that sucks, it pales so much in comparison to the racism that non-white people experience that I am not very sympathetic at all. And white people who argue over whether a comment is racist or not? Please. If you don't even know what racism is like first-hand, how can you make such a call when it is at all ambiguous?

I am also SO sick of the biracial and multiracial baby fascination. They are not symbols of racial harmony. They are not products of a selfless attempt on the parents to make the world a better place. They are just kids. Not any more or less beautiful than any other kids. They are not exotic toys made to delight you with their unusual conglomeration of features.

I am in the slow, gradual process of falling out of love with someone. It seems like I've been falling out of love with somebody for the past 15 years, but the identity of that person keeps changing, replaced by someone new. That is kind of a glass-empty view of things, eh? As opposed to viewing myself as always falling in love with someone new. But the periods of being in love are so fleeting in comparison. Perhaps I idealize love too much, and underestimate the true duration of "in love" time I have experienced...because only the blissfully happy times are logged into the "in love" periods. Anyway. It's a cliche, but it does feel like a slow, drawn-out death. I don't mean to trivialize true death, as well as the pain and suffering that precede it. But (to be all emo and shit) I do feel like something is dying inside of me. Falling out of love is a strange limbo, when you still feel this strong emotional tug towards someone, because of shared giddy memories and trembly vulnerable words, but you also feel emotionally remote, because you know that they can't give you what you need, and can't make you happy. And all the silly dreams you had about yourself and him turn out to be as formless as clouds which drift away from your reach.

Damn. Can't believe a year has gone by so fast, and I'm just now catching my breath, remembering that I used to write things other than history and physicals, daily progress notes, and discharge summaries.

I'll share some choice quotes from the past year:

Cantankerous horny patient who openly made lewd remarks to me in front of his wife: "Are you gonna vote for Hillary to be president? I agree that she needs to be back in the white house...so she can return all the silver she stole!"

Another gem from the same guy: "If we elect Obama to be president, we can't call this country the United States no more. It will be Obama-nation!" (pronounced Abomination)

Guy who came up to me at the Red Door Salon: "You know, you're not the kind of girl that most of the guys here go for. But I like your type."
My response: "What do you mean, 'my type?'"
Guy: "Well, your skin is a little browner, you're darker, you know. But I just moved from California and there were a lot of girls who looked like you there, and I grew to like that look."
Gee. What a pick up line. I suppose I should have been thrilled that I found a guy who appreciated my browned skin? And ignore how hideous he was, both looks-wise and personality-wise?

Faux-martyr elderly male patient: "You know, owls and eagles are the only animals that mate for life. That's how it is with my wife and me. Once she died, I knew there would be no one else." He then made coy remarks about how pretty I was, and how he would snatch me up if he were younger. And then he promptly dropped his pants and asked me to examine his penis, because it was dribbling urine.

Manic obese female patient: "You see that girl over there"--referring to me--"she's dressed very nice, she has a pretty necklace. But without organic chemistry, she'd be a slut in a ditch smelling of Montezuma's revenge!"


There is a benefit to getting involved with a guy whose musical taste is totally different from yours. When the relationship ends, particularly in an ugly fashion, none of your favorite music is ruined by memories of him. You hear a shitty song that he liked, and you think, "Ah. Now I can really appreciate how shitty the song is, unobscured by any silly romantic associations." You hear a song that you've loved for years (like, let's say, old school R.E.M.) and you think, "Thank fucking goodness this song is not one that I shared with that guy, and I can still love it without reservations."

So what is it like to no longer be a medical intern? I'm still figuring that out, slowly remembering who I was, and the parts of me which lay dormant while I was an overworked automaton. When I was a kid, I thought it was so crucial to share myself with others--my flaws, my opinions, my beauty, my random musings about things. Now it seems strange and self-indulgent. Perhaps this means I finally am becoming an adult. But then, whenever I step into an art gallery, or watch a fantastic movie, or hear a perfectly crafted song, I think--that's what warms my insides and fills me with light. It's a bit sad that I feel more connected to humanity sometimes when experiencing art than when talking to a patient. But that's probably just exhaustion from work. I still do love learning the stories of people's lives, and getting glimpses into perspectives which are so different from my own.