#when i was a teenager my doctors office was a joke and they just prescribed me muscle relaxers instead of idk getting me physical therapy

[testosteronefag]

absolutely hate how hard it is to get actual HELP for my pain levels. the clinic i was wanting to go to doesnt accept my insurance. just called the clinic that DOES accept my insurance, and despite the website saying theyre accepting new clients they are not accepting new clients. i literally have to spend so much time just finding places to call and then 9/10 they cant actually help me. like what the fuck

[worldserasingandcreatinginmymind]

Unfaithful | Part Three

Series Summary: After dreaming of your perfect wedding since you were a little girl the big day is almost here. But after meeting the priest you start to question your relationship.

Pairing: Hot Priest x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2828

Warnings: abusive behaviour, a lot of angsty stuff, drunken behaviour and a pinch of fluff

A/N: Please be warned there will be some themes of toxic/abusive relationship in this series. Also, spelling and grammar is not my strongest skill so please be kind :)

Part Two | Masterlist

- - - - -

I sit alone on the bench outside the church, looking out at the empty graveyard in front of me. 

The miserable grey clouds above part and bright sunlight beams down to earth, shining on the Priest who is now walking up the path toward me. The light seems to be following him and as he moves closer I realise he’s dressed in a magnificent purple and gold gown. 

“Why are you wearing that?” I ask

“This is what I’m going to wear when I marry you” 

“Wow, I love it! Not sure Daniel will-”

“Who’s Daniel?” He asks and I laugh, but his serious face tells me he’s not joking.

“Daniel? My fiancé, the man I’m getting married to…”

“What are you talking about? You're marrying me remember?” He sits on the bench next to me, taking my hand and showing me the engagement ring on my finger, a ring I’ve never seen before.

“I- I don't understand. We’re engaged?”

“Are you feeling okay? Yes, we’re engaged and in a few weeks we’ll be husband and wife!” He holds my face gently in his hands and looks deeply into my eyes “I love you Y/N!”

He leans in and kisses me passionately.

— — — — 

My eyes shoot open and I realise I’m in bed. It was just a dream. Why do I feel slightly disappointed? 

Every night since that night at the church the Priest has been in my dreams, and every night the theme has been the same; the Priest and I are in love. 

I shake the thought out of my mind and roll over, reaching over to hug my real life fiancé but my arm falls straight down on the mattress. He isn’t there. 

I sit up and reach over to grab my phone off the bedside table. 9:30am! I must have needed that lie in. I roll out of bed, wrap my dressing gown around myself and head down stairs to the kitchen. I need coffee. 

Walking into the kitchen I find Daniel sat at the table waiting for me. 

“Morning!” I greet him cheerfully as I fill up the kettle “coffee?”

“No thanks.” He responds dismissively, changing the subject. “The other day, when I came home from the pub and you stormed out… where did you go?"

“I just went for a walk” I answer honestly

“Where?” 

“I don't know, I just wondered around for a bit and found a bench to sit on” 

“Alone?” 

“Yeah” I lie

“So you sat on a bench in the dark and drank all alone” He places an empty silver and green can on the table and looks at me accusingly, waiting for a response. 

“You went through my bag?” I silently curse myself for not throwing the can away yet.

“I was looking for something”

“What?”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” He slams his hand down on the can, crushing it against the table “You met him didn’t you? Father whatever his name is. I saw the same can of G&T in his office”

“Okay fine, yes I saw him. I didn’t plan to. I just went to the church to think. I thought it was empty but he was there and we talked for a bit”

“And drank”

“I was upset so he offered me a drink.”

“And then you lied to me about it” he says, getting up and slowly walking over to me.

“Because I knew you’d overreact!” I respond, poring the boiling water into my cup and stirring the coffee.

“Oh I’m overreacting am I? Tell me, how am I supposed to react when another man flirts with my fiancé in front of my face?”

“He hasn’t flirted with me Daniel, he’s our priest! He’s just trying to get to know us, but you won’t let him!” 

“I don’t want to get to know that creep!” 

“You know what? I can’t be bothered with this right now” I roll my eyes before saying three words I would instantly regret “You're being pathetic” 

I can almost see the red mist in Daniel’s eyes as he grabs my coffee cup and throws the boiling hot contents straight in my face. I suppress a scream as I wipe the coffee from my eyes, the liquid burning my skin. I run upstairs as fast as I can and lock myself in the bathroom, immediately  splashing cold water over myself. I soak a flannel in water and hold it over my face for a few minutes, trying to cool my burning skin. Daniel starts banging on the door, begging me to open up so he can apologise. When he starts to mention his dad I shut out the sound of his voice, choosing to ignore his excuses. I’ve heard them all before. 

When my skin finally starts to feel a little less on fire I remove the flannel and examine my blotchy red face in the mirror. A few small blisters have already started to form on my cheek and down the side of my neck. I bring my hand up to gently touch them, and hiss with pain as eyes instantly fill with tears. I cover my face with the flannel again and sit on the floor, leaning with my back against the door as Daniel continues to talk on the other side. I stay like that for however long it takes for him to finally leave me alone. Once I’m sure he’s gone I go silently to the bedroom, quickly get dressed and go downstairs. As I’m putting my shoes on Daniel comes running to me.

“Where are you going?” 

“To the hospital”

“No no, please- please don’t go. I’m sorry!” He panics.

“I need something to fix this” I argue, gesturing to the blisters and peeling skin.

“I can fix it!”

“Not this time” I walk out the house, slamming the door behind me. I hear it open again and I turn back to glare at Daniel as he’s about to step out. “Leave me alone!” I warn him before walking off, surprised that he actually obeys me for once. I hail a passing taxi and climb in the back. 

“A&E please” I say and he looks at me through the rear view mirror, his eyes widen as he sees the state I’m in but he doesn’t say anything. He just silently drives me where I need to go. 

— — — — 

“And how did this happen?” 

“I was carrying a cup of coffee when I slipped and fell, throwing the whole lot over myself.” I lie as convincingly as possible as the doctor examines my skin “I can be such a clutz sometimes”

I let out a small awkward laugh which the doctor ignores.

“Hm. Well you're lucky, there’s no permanent damage. It will be painful for a few days but it will heal. I’ll prescribe you some cream which will soothe it but in the mean time go home and take it easy. No more ‘accidents’ okay?” 

I can tell by her voice she doesn’t quite believe my story. 

“Thank you doctor” I say, taking the tube of cream off her and walking outside.

As I stand waiting for another taxi I realise, I’m not ready to face going home yet. There’s only one person I really want to see right now. 

— — — — 

Once again I find myself stood outside the big wooden doors of the church, suddenly doubting whether or not I should be here. I know I want to be here but I also know that if Daniel found out it would create yet another drama. I’m so trapped in my own moral dilemma that I don’t hear the footsteps approach behind me. 

“Y/N?”

I spin around to see the Priest walking toward me. His face goes from confusion, to horror as he sees my skin.

“Holy shit! What happened to your face?”

“I don't really wanna talk about it right now”

“Thats okay, you don't have to tell me anything” he smiles a gently smile and my heart flutters.

“I know it’s the middle of the day and you're my priest but… I don't suppose you have any more gin?”

“You’re in luck” his smile turns into a grin as he lifts up the bag in his hand and I hear the sound of cans clattering inside it.

— — — — 

A couple of hours and a few too many drinks later, the Priest and I are ever so slightly drunk and currently laughing about… well I don't actually know what. Everything just seems hilarious after a few cans of G&T. 

“You know, I think I’ve laughed more with you in the past week than I have in the past year with Daniel” I say, as he hands me another can “Maybe if you’d have been the Priest here when I was a teenager I wouldn’t have stopped coming. Teenage Y/N would have loved you. The old Priest just seemed so… judgy. I couldn’t think of anything worse than telling him my sins” 

“Hey that’s reminds me, you’ve never confessed to me! We should it now” 

“Oh no no no, absolutely not”

“Come on! It’ll be fun”

“Fun for you maybe, not for me! You just want to find out all my secrets”

“Of course I do, that’s why I do this job. That and so I can wear the outfits”

“You’re terrible” I laugh, shaking my head at him

“I know! That’s why you can tell me anything and I won’t judge you. I’ve probably done much worse” 

I get an idea. 

“Okay fine. I’ll confess to you. But you have to confess to me in return” 

“That’s not how this works”

“It is now! I’ll tell you my sins and you tell me yours”

“I’m a Priest, I don't sin”

“You're drunk in a church in the middle of the afternoon, pretty sure you're sinning right now”

“Good point” he thinks for a moment before getting up out his chair “okay, deal. Lets do this” 

I follow him out into the main church toward the confession box. He pulls open the curtain and gestures for me to enter. I do and he closes the curtain behind me before getting into the next box. I can just about see him through the holes in the wall. 

“You go first” I say quickly.

“Okay, um… I drink alcohol in my office on a regular basis”

“That’s a boring one!” I wine

“We’ll get to the good stuff eventually. Your turn”

“Fine. When I was 8 I stole a pencil topper from a bitchy girl in school because I liked it and I didn’t think she deserved it”

“A pencil topper? You criminal!” He laughs 

“It was shaped like Mickey Mouse!”

“How are you not in jail yet” he says sarcastically and I can hear the amusement in his voice “My turn. Sometimes when I hear Pam calling for me I hide in here and lie to her about where I am”

“I don't blame you, that woman scares me” 

“Right?! She’s terrifying!” 

We both burst into laughter, and as it dies down I realise it’s my turn again. I take a deep breath and speak again. 

“I lied to my Daniel about being with you the other night because I knew he’d get angry.” 

Without thinking my hand comes up to gently touch the burns on my face as my mind takes me back to the incident this morning. I snap out of it and turn to look at the wall. For a brief second I catch the Priest looking through the hole at me, but he turns to face the front. 

“I broke my vow of celibacy last year”

“I’ve been having inappropriate dreams about another man while laying in the same bed as my fiancé” 

“I’m in love with you” 

“What?” I say, trying to see him through the holes in the wall but he doesn’t look at me. He just stares down at the floor.

“I’m-” he pauses “I love you”

He finally looks up at me, the sudden eye contact almost takes my breath away. I don't know what to say, I’m completely lost for words. The intensity of his dark brown eyes is too much and I’m forced to look away, looking down as I fiddle nervously with the sleeves of my shirt. 

“Y/N?” 

I quickly get up and walk out of the booth, but he stays put. I stand for a moment looking at the curtain, wondering if he’s going to come out. When he doesn’t I realise its up to me to make a choice. 

I could tell the Priest how I feel about him. I could admit that I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him, to wake up next to him.

Or I could leave right now and pretend none of this happened, go back home to Daniel. The man I’m engaged to marry. The man who I’ve loved since school. The man who, just this morning, threw boiling hot coffee in my face. 

I make a decision. 

I open the curtain to see the priest still sat on the tiny bench, and he looks up at me with wide eyes. He watches as I squeeze into the booth with him, placing my hands on either side of his face. He stands up slowly so our faces are inches apart and slowly moves in. 

“I love you too”

He looks into my eyes one last time before I close the gap, our lips crashing together. I keep expecting to wake up any second now, for this to just be another cruel emotionally confusing dream. 

But this is real. 

I’m kissing a priest. 

Part Four

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_domestic_violence_hotlines

[elisemarie10]

My Story

*Trigger Warning* Vomiting, Suicidal Ideation

For the last 20 years, I’ve been dealing with emetophobia. Which is the fear of vomiting. Well, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t know exactly what I was dealing with until 2017. Growing up, I was told that I had GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) and saw different kinds of doctors that tried treating me for GAD, without actually treating me. What I mean by that is, because one doctor diagnosed me with it every other doctor just assumed the previous doctor was correct and treated me as such. I was an extremely anxious child, which turned into an extremely anxious teenager. School seemed unbearable, because I was “anxious”. Most of my days in middle school I spent in either the nurse’s or counselor’s office. I remember wanting to end my life because of my intense fear of vomiting was making life not worth living. It sounds very dramatic, but to me, it was the worst thing that could happen. Death seemed like a better option than vomiting.

Then came high school, where I thought I started to handle this anxiety better. I took the medicine doctors prescribed and went to all of my psych appointments. I ended up doing pretty well in high school. But I was still pretty anxious and depressed. Yet, I graduated and started college. I thought I was doing pretty well, seeing as I was able to live on campus and seemed to be living like a true college student. Life appeared to be moving on. I should mention, that I have yet to throw up since 2001 at this point.

January 21, 2017 - I ate a cheeseburger from Burger King, and ended up throwing up from possible food poisoning. This was so horrific to me. That night, I called my employer at the time, and quit. I essentially hit ground zero. I wasn’t expecting to get better and thought that this was it, this was going to make me give up trying to move forward in life because I was unable to. I didn’t leave the house, had trouble eating, and was basically rotting away. My mom was beside herself on how to help me and told me that if I wouldn’t get a job, I wouldn’t be able to live with her anymore. (My mom is an angel, she was giving me tough love because she believed in me even though at the time, that’s not what I felt). So, with this I realized I needed better help. I googled doctors in the area who treated anxiety patients. I found one that seemed good and was close, set up an appointment and this is where my life changed.

This psychologist listened to what I had to say and about my previous psychologists and their diagnoses. After listening, he tells me that I have OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). I didn’t believe him, I was so confused because I was stereotyping OCD as having things to be in order with precision. And I knew that wasn’t me. He elaborated on what OCD truly is, lo and behold, I fit that diagnosis like a glove. OCD is way more than what television appeared it to be. So, I started getting treated for OCD and emetophobia. Hey! There’s that funny word again. Yes, this psychologist also diagnosed me with emetophobia, not GAD. Anxiety, OCD and emetophobia are essentially a package deal for me. Can’t treat one without treating the other. At this point, I still don’t have a job and only seeing the psychologist once a week, I wasn’t seeing the progress that I was hoping for (which in all honesty was not realistic). One day, my psychologist brought up Partial Hospitalization to treat this OCD package. I initially said “fuck no”. But two weeks later, I gave in and was put on a waitlist for Partial Hospitalization to treat OCD.

I was in Partial for 10 weeks. The treatment there seemed to be working. I went there Monday thru Friday 8:30am - 3:00pm. This is where I learned about Exposure Repsonse Prevention (ERP). I had to do exposures involving vomit in some way shape or form. During the 10 weeks, the more I was progressing, the better my life outside of there was getting. By the time I was discharged, I had a new job waiting for me at a bank. I seemed to be doing pretty well, seeing as I got promoted 8 months into the new job. And then, I relapsed. October 2019, I was back in Partial. This time around, I hit my lowest point. It was harder than the first time and I added a new diagnosis to my chart; Panic Disorder. All of these diagnoses and treatments and I felt myself giving up because I was getting worse. Somehow I pushed through and started to see a sliver of a light at the end of the tunnel. I worked my ass off in the program and was able to return to work 14 weeks later.

It’s been 1 year since my last day of partial. I am constantly trying to push myself every day to keep moving forward. I have worked too hard and have spent way too much time (and money) into living a “regular” lifestyle. Who knows what life has in store? But I am determined to do something special with this life that I have. I don’t have much, but I have ears to listen. I have the hard days that come with the good days. There is more of a purpose of my life than just being afraid of vomiting. I know that my purpose is to help others, in any way that is plausible. I am always open to hear your story. I am here to listen to you on your good days and bad days. I am here to be your cheerleader, shoulder to cry on, audience when you want to joke.

I. Am. Here.

My story is not bigger than your story. If you or someone you love is having a hard time trying to keep your stories going, know that I am here and ready to listen.

[szopenhauer]

Have you ever seen a black rose? online only

Is your coffee machine plugged in right now? we don’t own one as we don’t drink coffee Do you write words on your knuckles? I tried few times for fun XD Have you ever been a SCUBA diver for Halloween? wtf Have you ever taken a picture of a sandwich? sure Have you ever seen elephant droppings? I haven’t  Would you like to visit Play Dough Land? :o What’s your opinion on Katy Perry? copycat Who was your favorite character from the cartoon Recess? Spinelli, then Gretchen

Have you ever lost your parents in the grocery store? yeah, I still do and I hate that  Have you drawn a star today? not today but when I was in hospital this week Are you older or younger than fifteen? much older If you can remember, what was the last thing that made you feel nostalgic? Recess being mentioned Are you the type of person who prefers to stay in or go out? stay in Do you plan on sleeping in tomorrow? yep Are you starting to realize anything? sigh... Would you live with someone without marrying them? why not Who was the last person you talked to in person? *mom enters my room*

Who were the last 3 males you talked to? dad and two doctors

If you have a pet, when did you last pet him/her? omg I realized I was so tired that I didn’t even say hello to my dog wtf... What genre is the song that you’re currently listening to? indiepop/electropop Does the person you love/like have a car? What colour is it? nope Have you ever received a compliment on anything you’re wearing? plenty of times Which word(s) do you generally use to describe someone attractive? (e.g. “fit”, “sexy” etc.) wow beautiful, pretty, attractive, cute, adorable, piękna, that she looks amazing/awesome/great, śliczna, urocza, słodka, cudowna...

*it reminds me of one very embarassing high school story: były wigilie klasowe i wyszliśmy rozbawieni z sali, a na korytarzu stała śliczna dziewczyna i na cały głos powiedziałam “ale laska” potem zorientowałam się co właśnie zrobiłam i robiąc facepalma wymaszerowałam ze szkoły, a za mną śmiejące się przyjaciółki, nie dały mi potem o tym długo zapomnieć, a E.W. nawet obczaiła kto to i próbowała się dowiedzieć, czy jest ona lesbą, ale okazało się, że ma chłopaka i demonstracyjnie całowała się z nim na moich oczach parę dni później Have you had any caffeinated beverages today? just water Have you eaten any chocolate today? What kind? I haven’t Name something you like, that starts with the letter ‘L’. lamps I’m not a moth tho :P When was the last time someone wanted you to do something, and you refused? not sure when was the last time and/or what it was about How many people have you hugged today? 2 Do you have a favourite hair colour or eye colour on your preferred sex? been really into very dark brown eyes and arm lenght or a bit shorter brown hair mostly like Rosa Salazar (latino and asian women) that’s why Sarah been so my type

but my biggest tumblr crush was Raquey Strange

and my youtube one - Rachel Maksy

*vintage ladies <3 The last song you listened to – does it remind you of anyone? it doesn’t remind me of anyone, it’s from K-12 album

What was the last compliment you received? mom complimented my hair today

Are you more prone to being the social butterfly, or the wallflower? wallflower

Would you rather go to a Katy Perry or Taylor Swift concert? none but Swift if I had to choose

What pattern do the sheets on your bed have? no pattern this time

What languages can you count to ten or higher in? englihs, polish, russian Where did you get the underwear you’re wearing? Auchan

Are you good in painting yopur nails with your left hand? not even with my right one lol Do you feel uncomfortable sharing drinks with other people? very Do you call any of your friends by their last name? that would be weird How long does it take you to get out of bed in the morning? long? Have either of your grandparents ever told you a sexual joke? I don’t recall Would you rather give up the computer or the TV? gave up TV Which room in your house tends to be the coldest in the winter time? bathroom Are you trying to grow out your hair? need to cut my hair but not bangs

How many times does the letter ’t’ occur in your full name? once

What brand is the shirt you’re wearing? I cut the tag but I believe I bought it in Sinsay First person you spoke to today? my mother Name of first boyfriend/girlfriend? dunno who to count First place you lived? same as currently Who was your 1st teacher? not counting pre school and Mrs. Alinka - my aunt  Last person to call you? labor office Last song you heard? Melanie Martinez - Bombs on Monday Morning Last thing you bought? silver glittery ugg slippers :3 Where was your facebook display photo taken? hospital How many people have you kissed in the last 2 weeks? nobody What were you doing at 10 this morning? waking up Have you ever dated an Emily? umm... How many pairs of flip flops do you own? 0 What is the weather like right now? perfect - hot, zephyr, clouds :D why am I not outside?... Where was the last place you went that was more than 30 minutes away? mall Something you wear all the time that you’d feel naked without? panties, unless I’m sleeping

Do you live within an hour of the ocean? not even sea Do you ever do things even though you know you’ll regret it later? sometimes I might :( What are you currently sitting/laying on? my desk chair Have you ever dated a friend of one of your siblings? no but I had a crush on one of them for a moment What do you plan to be doing 2 hours from now? eating? Have you ever been a clown for Halloween? not Halloween What time did you go to bed last night? early and immediately fallen asleep which never happens to me but I was so exhausted that I was falling on my face while I was blow drying my hair When was the last time it rained? yesterday or day before Have you ever made yourself throw up?  no way in hell When was the last time you went camping? middle school? Are you currently wearing anything orange? am not Do you know anyone who is a nurse? neighbor Would you prefer to own a lapdog or a bigger dog? lapdog Are you currently wearing any jewelry? nope Was any of it given to you? - What was the worst thing to happen to you today? health issues, annoying people, nothing new? Do you know anyone who plays guitar? I tried myself Did anyone tell you that you looked nice today? mentioned that in this survey so look above How many missed calls have you had today? two Did you graduate high school within the last 3 years? it’s been over 5 years  If not, will you graduate within the next 3 years? not applicable as you can see Which is coming next: Christmas or your birthday? Christmas Do you have any money on yourself at the moment? mhm Do you sleep in the nude? nope Do you ever walk around the house naked if no one is home? neither What is your favorite way to spend a cool autumn night? sleeping duh! Where was the last place you slept other than your house? hospital Do you have any big plans for the weekend? work in progress, we’ll see, deciding  How many relationships have you been in so far this year? like 1 Have you ever dated someone who had a child? pfft, I dislike kids so... Are you taller than 5'6"? I’m smol 

When was the last time you saw someone you went to high school with?: this year

How long have your parents been together (or how long were they together, if they no longer are): 30+ years

How long would it take you to walk to the nearest store?: ~10 minutes

How old were you when you got your first smartphone?: 25 or something

Have you ever had a parrot sit on your shoulder?: monkey for a second

Has anyone in your life ever treated you abusively?: majority of society

Do you like The Rolling Stones?: prefer Depeche Mode

What’s something you’ve been struggling with lately?: life

How old were you in 1996? 4

How old will you be in 2026? won’t live that long but 34 What song is playing? Mosimann & MARUV - Mon Amour

Are you better at math or art? art Science or History? science, I’m bad at remembering dates and names

Where did you go to pre-school, if you went at all? my town

Have you ever dated someone & then dated their sibling? I wouldn’t be able to do such a thing What do you think of the 1980’s? cool :) Is their anything living (plant, animal, etc) in your room right now? me and plants How old is the cellphone you have right now? couple years old What are your initials, using the last letter of each of your names? AA as I’m a woman - dodaj jedno A i będziemy anonimowymi alkoholikami

Are both your parents still living? they are  Can you do a handstand? used to Is it after 11am? it’s almost 5 pm What’s the longest time you’ve ever spent on the phone? talking or doing other stuff? How many pairs of brown shoes do you own? do I even own any?... Are you on any prescribed medications? plan to be sadly Would you ever or do you have a nose piercing? doubt it, thought about septum as a teenager but no longer want it

How many days until Christmas? months Is your mom over 50? she is  How old were you 7 years ago? 21 Do you know what ‘C'est la vie’ means? even tho I don’t know this language  Are you wearing anything red? leggings Do you live in an apartment? house Do you wish on dandelions? I blow them but don’t wish on them Are you drinking anything right now? I’m going to  About how tall is your father? taller than me Do you know anyone who has lived to be 100+? not personally Have you had your birthday yet this year? in February Do you read your horoscope on a regular basis? nah Do you like the color yellow? it’s one of my fav colors Are you an aunt or uncle? yes What is your hair like at the moment? fine What would you name be if your last name was the color of your shirt? Black If you could find out how you would die, would you want to know? yasss but what about date? Has anyone ever told you you should be a model? with my height? r u serious? Who is the artist/band you’re listening to at the moment? Boy Epic Is there a calendar in the room you’re in? pocket and poster type If you’re single, do you wish you were in a relationship? am in a relationship Were you born in the 1980’s? 90s What was your first favorite movie? animated Robin Hood with a fox and Jumanji also Goonies What was your first trip to the emergency room for? not counting being born too early - I was choking due to the fact I got wrong meds for my lungs, later I ended up in ER as an adult for stomachache (took me in an ambulance) Where was the first place you went today? store What was the first thing you thought about when you woke up? dream that I had Do you remember the first time you spent the night away from home? grandma’s apartment but not exact night as I was just a child What was the last movie you rented? I srsly can not remember Why did you last get angry? neighbor is mowing grass... every single day for whole day long How long ago was your last birthday? half year ago Do you enjoy helping people move or do you not like it? I’ve never helped anyone move 

Have you been taking more or less surveys as of recently? less as I was absent

[riverdalepoet]

ALL I EVER WANTED (part 3)

PAIRINGS: Sweet Pea and OC (Emma Carter Wilson); Toni and Cheryl, Fangs and Kevin; Betty and Jughead

WORD COUNT: 1937

A/N: Sweets and Emma panic when something is wrong with their little guy.   Please reblog, like, and enjoy! I own nothing.

Part 1       Part 2 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I felt the stiffness in my neck before I even opened my eyes.  While the events of last night had me feeling as giddy as a teenager, this morning reminded me that I was not.  The piercing cry from the baby monitor that jolted Pea straight to his feet confirmed it.  I stretched, wincing, as the parts of my body that were angry with my decision to forgo the comfort of my memory foam mattress, got their revenge. “Not it,” I muttered before grabbing my blanket and making a beeline for the bedroom.

               Sweets groaned and stumbled drowsily into Carter’s room.  “You said that last time.”  That was probably true.

The damage, however, was done. I tried to lay every which way, but nothing brought relief to my aching muscles.  I sighed as Sweet Pea walked into the room with a freshly changed baby.  Sitting up in the bed, I reached for Carter, knowing that he would be hungry.  He latched on immediately and I winced at first, stroking his fuzzy little head.  Sweet Pea slung off his sweats and t-shirt and fell beside me.  As he threw his arm over his eyes and rested his other hand on my thigh, I made a mental note to ask him just how much he and Jughead drank last night.

After a few minutes, Carter was full and nearly passed out.  I lifted him up to plant kisses on his olive cheeks and laid him on my chest while patting his little butt.  Lazily I started to hum and used my free hand to run my fingers through my husband’s thick, black hair.  The corner of his mouth tugged upward in his sleep and I followed his example, drifting off myself.

               Our moment of peace didn’t last very long.  Sweet Pea’s phone rang incessantly on the nightstand, waking up Carter and pissing me off in the process.  He lurched towards the intrusion and answered with a gruff, “What?”

               After a few minutes, he ended the call.  “Whatever, man.  I’ll see you in ten.”  He turned back to me with a sheepish look, and I knew immediately he wouldn’t be making it to Carter’s checkup with me.

“Noooooooo.  He’s getting his shots today, damnit! I can’t do that by myself.  I’ll end up slapping a nurse or something.” Being a Serpent made me a fighter.  Being a mother made me protective.  Being both made me damn near dangerous.

               “I know, baby, I’m still going to try and make it back in time.  Jones said it would be quick.”  Pea was sitting on his knees, now, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.  These were the moments, however rare they were, that I wished we could leave the Serpents behind for good.

               “Fine,” I whined.  “But tell Jones he owes me.  It better be good.”  Pea kissed my pouted lips and within five minutes he was out the door.  Since the appointment wasn’t until later, I put my little guy down to play on his mat and headed for the kitchen to whip up something for breakfast.

               Carter and I waited around as long as we could, hoping that our favorite man would come bustling in to save the day.  Unfortunately, the time came for us to go…without Sweet Pea. Like always, I made too much food for myself, so I stuffed the excess in a bin to take to Fangs on our way.  God knows he wouldn’t eat if it wasn’t for me.

               I strapped my sleeping son carefully in his seat and headed towards Sunnyside.  Fangs’ trailer was right at the entrance of the park.  His driveway was full of all the motorcycles and vehicles he was trying to revive, so I pulled my SUV on the side of the road, as close to his house as I could get.

               Just as I turned my car off, I saw the door of the trailer swing open.  Fangs stepped out first to look around, clearly oblivious to my vehicle.  My mouth dropped open when, of all people, Kevin Keller followed close behind him.  I gasped audibly and ducked as low as I could behind my steering wheel.  Fangs walked with Kevin to his bike and handed him a helmet.  Kevin kissed him briefly and climbed onto the back.  Just like that, they took off, leaving through the back exit.

               I stayed parked, still in shock for a few minutes.  “Ooo Carter, Uncle Fangs, and Uncle Kevin have some explaining to do.”  In response, Carter gave a pitiful cry that I hadn’t heard him make before. Right then, I hopped out of my seat and opened the door to check on him.  I rested my hand on his forehead to find it hot to the touch.  “Oh buddy, you’re not feeling too good, are you?”  The look on his face was so sad, I unbuckled his harness to hold him.  Just as I was lifting him up, it happened… he puked all over me.

               Fighting every urge I had to get sick myself, I quickly cleaned us off and put him back in his set.  I was so grateful the doctor was already expecting us, so I could get Carter checked out and feeling better. When I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to get a car seat that would allow me to remove the lining so I could wash it when needed.  Sweet Pea argued with me for months that it wasn’t necessary.  Days like today is why I’m glad I stood my ground.              

Right as I was pulling back onto the highway, Sweet Pea calls.  I picked up on the first ring with, “Guess who I just caught slipping out of Fangs’ trailer? I’ll tell you: Kevin.”

               “Shut up,” he chuckled, just as entertained by the gossip as I was.

               “I’m serious.  I caught them red-handed.  I’m going to confront them both! I’m so excited. OH, and your son just threw up all over me.”

               “Like spit up or throw up?”

               “Throw up throw up. The real deal.”

               Sweet Pea’s tone changed drastically.  “What’s wrong with him?”

               “I don’t know, but he has a fever, too.”

               “Oh shit! Something could be seriously wrong.  We need to take him to the hospital.” He was worried, and the panic that hardly ever took him over was setting in.

               “Babe, I think he’s just a little under the weather.  I’ll just get Dr. Rhodes to look at him at the check-up.”

               “Emma, he is little!  Something small could turn deadly for him.  I’ve seen stories like this all over the internet!  Our son could be dying! Get him to the hospital right the hell now, I’ll meet you there!”

               I chuckled, hoping to calm him own.  “I’m sorry, am I talking to the right person?  I’m looking for my husband: nine hundred and forty feet tall, thrown more punches than pick up lines, gang member, scared of nothing?  Do you know him?”

               “You can quit being a smart ass, anytime now, I’m really worried over here,” he growled.

               “I know you are.  Just trust me, Sweets.  I’ll let you know what the doctor says okay?” He sighs and I know he’s either doing one of two things- pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing, or tugging on the curl that falls in his eyes and tapping his leg nervously.

               “Fuck that,” he finally replies. Glasses clinking and the hum of voices in the background let me know that whatever job they were called out for has been dealt with. “I’m leaving the Wyrm now.  I want to talk to this doctor myself.”

               “Yes, sir.” Any argument would’ve fallen on deaf ears.  I didn’t care to fight that losing battle any longer. I set the phone in the cup holder and glanced at my son with the mirror we put in the back seat, sighing, ”Daddy’s gonna end up cussing somebody out today, little man.”

We were checked in and waiting quietly when Sweet Pea came busting through the door.  Wild eyes scanned the room before they landed on Carter and me.  He made it to us two fluid steps before kneeling in front of me to inspect his boy.  Carter was sleeping, finally, in my arms.   His cheeks were rosy and little whimpers tumbled out of his pouted lips.

Although I wasn’t quite as shook up by this as my husband was, I was getting a little panicked.  My heart broke to think of my child being in any bit of pain, and I wanted nothing more than to take it away from him.  Sweet Pea took Carter’s chubby hand in his own.  Steely brown eyes looked up at me, and I saw what he must have seen in mine: worry.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Sweets gathered our baby up and put his arm around me to steady me.  I leaned into his side, grateful that he was here with us.  This was the part of motherhood I wasn’t prepared for.  I loved this beautiful boy with everything I had, and I knew without a doubt that I would do anything to prevent him from suffering. I had my taste of loyalty and responsibility from being in the Serpents, but this went beyond that.  Part of me will always be attached to the little human that once grew in my belly… and that scared the living shit out of me.

It didn’t take long for the nurse to call us to the back.  We told her immediately what was going on, and she assured us that the doctor would be right in to take care of our little man.  When the doctor came in, he examined Carter thoroughly.  After a few minutes of deliberating, he told us that Carter simply had a little cold, and prescribed us a few things to knock it out.  When we left his office, we were both breathing a little easier, and clutching our baby a little tighter.

Once the medicine kicked in, Carter started to act like he felt better, much to my relief.  Sweet Pea refused to let him get out of his sight and insisted on riding home with us. “I’ll just get somebody to bring me my truck later.  I’m not leaving the two of you ever again.”

“Are you sure about that? Cause that’s going to get annoying fast.” Sweet Pea was stubborn, so I knew that while he meant that as a joke, there was some truth to it.  He would be stuck to us like glue for a little while.

“You say the nicest things to me, Emma.”  He reached for the keys dangling on my finger and hit the clicker a few times.

“What was so important you had to get involved this morning?” I finally got around to ask.

He hesitated for a few minutes, but shrugged it off, “Would it be alright if we tabled that for right now? I’m still pissed about the whole thing.”

“Consider it tabled,” I grunted while battling my worst enemy- the damn car seat. No matter how desperately I tried wouldn’t lock in for me, but as soon as I called Sweet Pea over, it clicked right in place in two easy moves. He shot me a teasing smile and wink and ducked quickly out of the line of fire.  Before I had the chance, Sweets was climbing in the driver’s side. “I didn’t say you could drive my car,” I mumbled.

“I didn’t ask.” He immediately started changing the radio and pressing buttons, annoying me as much as he could.  “Hey, I could get Fangs to bring me my truck, then we could talk to him about what you saw this morning.”

I visibly perked up at that thought.  “Hell yes! You can call him right now!”

[noorthernlightz]

Malaria is sooo last week?

Four of us were taken down by mosquitoes in the span of two weeks.

In other words: malaria.

Yeah, the “M” word.

One just so happened to be diagnosed two days before she was due to travel.

When she reached her home destination, she was diagnosed with salmonella.

She passed on this revelation to us via a Facebook message.

She advised us that we may too need to get checked out.

In case its news to anyone, I was among the four that had malaria.  

After a week of treatment, I was clear and well onto my recovery.

Or so I thought.

I still felt a few of the symptoms but I figured it was just some post-malarial stuff.

I had the headaches.

Stomach-aches.

And a new addition of nausea.

The persistent need to vomit except the vomit never came.  

But it all made sense now.

Salmonella.

Right?

I revisited the hospital, Le Memorial today.

The man behind the desk was a bit confused by my presence.

What was wrong with me now basically.

The third visit in a matter of days.

I made a bee-line for the lab.

I filled in the lab practitioner on the whole “potential of Salmonella” backstory.

She told me she would test me for typhoid.

Typhoid?

“Oh no no I don’t have typhoid. I want to get tested for Salmonella.”

Apparently “Salmonella causes Typhoid,” according to her.

I didn’t know if I should take that as fact but according to Google, she’s actually onto something with that as bizarre as it might sound.

Anyhow, I requested a full blood count just in case.

The third-vial-of-blood-in-a-week later, I was sent to wait out in reception.

Twenty minutes later she appears by my side holding a single sheet of my results.

She silently pointed to a word on the bottom of the page besides “Typhoid”.

Positive.

I laughed.

I was in shock.

I did not see this coming.

Not in the slightest.

Typhoid was not even on my radar.

My mind struggled to wrap around that eight-letter word.

Positive.

Maybe it meant something other than what it was supposed to mean.

I found myself saying, “is that bad?”

Yes, genius.

It is bad.

Of course it’s bad.

“Typhoid” and “positive” are two words that can never be put together to mean something well.

They’re like partners in crime.

When they do join up, they’re up to no good.

The lab practitioner walked me to the front desk to get my file.

The man behind the desk asked me if everything was okay.

I found myself laughing once again as I told him it was typhoid.

His reaction looked a lot more concerned than mine.

He told me to not be scared – that I would be fine as he walked me to get my vitals checked.

But I wasn’t scared.

This was all so funny and weird to me.

Denial?

Not that typhoid is funny.

No not at all.

It actually claimed a life of one of the students at the school I had volunteered at in the past.

That spurred a clean water project that some volunteers before me put together for the school to prevent typhoid breakouts that could lead to such tragic consequences.

So bottom line: typhoid is a villain and no laughing matter.

But the surprise element of how I came to know of its presence within my body was amusing to me.

I was not mentally prepared in the slightest.

I came in to check for salmonella.

And I left with typhoid.

That was funny to me.

I went into the nurse’s office.

She checked my vitals.

Apparently, I lost 1 kg.

Malaria makes a good diet plan?

My vitals were fairly normal.

I joked that I’m not dying yet.

She told me I can’t die yet.

Apparently I must leave grandchildren first.

Dually noted.

Next stop: the doctor.

It wasn’t John Kennedy this time.

I’ll admit I was slightly disappointed.

I actually didn’t even bother to ask his name this time.

Who knows – could’ve been Abe Lincoln.

I’ll delight myself in the possibility.

The doctor informed me that my typhoid is in the early stages.

I caught it early.

Fetus typhoid.

I am thankful for that.

Teenage typhoid is one for tantrums.

I don’t want to meet that one.

The doctor prescribed me my medications.

Antibiotics twice a day for seven days.

Another medicine once a day before a meal for seven days as well.

I was set.

I picked up my typhoid kit.

And I left.

A lot livelier than my malaria-self I will say.

And of course, classic mode of transport: boda boda.

To and fro.

[techieninja18]

So I’ve had a rough past couple of days and l’m trying to deal with some things that make me really uncomfortable. I don’t really know what made me decide to talk about it here, but I guess I felt like venting to someone other than my parents right now, even if it just ends up in the void. This involves some very personal stuff, including things of a feminine nature (like physically), so don’t read if you don’t want to hear anything of that sort.

It’s no secret that I have depression and anxiety issues. Earlier this spring I had to do a routine med check and, since I was having trouble with some previously prescribed meds, I ended up switching. This summer was tough, though I noted some improvement. Unlike my final spring semester of college, I didn’t have as many of the worst physical symptoms of anxiety such as pounding heart, chest pains, and difficulty breathing, so while there was improvement with my anxiety the symptoms of my depression became more prevalent and remain so now. I have no desire or will to do anything, I’ve lost interest in the things I’m supposed to enjoy, and I just feel wiped out all the time. I knew these symptoms would get worse starting in August when I moved back in with my parents after my summer job/internship ended. I have yet to find a new job and my poor mental health is definitely not helping.

Part of it has to do with living back at home. All of the independence I’ve gained the past few years while living out of town for school is pretty much gone. My parents treat me as if I were still in high school: not letting me do things my own way, telling me what I’m going to do with my time without even asking me if I had other plans, giving me my old list of chores (which I can understand while I’m still unemployed, though I know it won’t change once I do get another job) while my teenage brother doesn’t have to do any most of the time and he’ll just sit on his X-box (seriously, they are so lax with him; they give him so much more freedom and let him get away with so much more with fewer restrictions than I ever had, and he’s less responsible than I was as a teenager, but I digress...), just not taking me seriously or treating me like an adult the majority of the time. My dad even got pissed off last week because I wasn’t up at his shop working by 10:30 on Sunday like he’d mentioned he wanted me to do two days prior, yet he wasn’t even up there (I can’t get in without him because I don’t have a key), and I was supposed to take my brother up there with me, but he wasn’t ready by 10:30 either. My dad came into my room and chewed my ass for not doing what he said (he wanted me to mow the lawn, and with no one else up there there was no point in me going, plus there was literally no reason it had to be done so early since there was still plenty of dew on the grass anyway). He said it was stuff like that that was the reason he still “treated me like shit sometimes.” Yes, those were his exact words. It hurt me for the rest of the day and off and on for the next few days (I even had to hide tears from my mom two days later, though she did end up prying it out of me later anyway). Dad seemed to by in a better mood by lunch that day and was trying to joke around at lunch, but it made no difference to me.

He doesn’t always realize how his words affect me. Like, shortly after moving home, he would always say “you know, for being smart, sometimes you make stupid look easy” after I said something kinda dumb or I accidentally messed something up. I know it’s a quote from a movie and that it’s supposed to be a joke, but he said it a lot. It make me think of a particularly bad incident that happened in the last week of my summer job. It was never officially my fault, but I still feel responsible, and I still feel incredibly stupid for it. There was an incident a couple summers ago at a different summer job that was pretty bad (not that I ever got in any sort of trouble for it, it wasn’t good but it was fine, and it was labelled as an accident though I know it was entirely my fault). I had flashbacks to every stupid thing I’ve ever done or said, especially those two incidences, and I really started to feel stupid, like I can’t do anything without fucking it up. I’ve felt so worthless, pathetic, and stupid. After my mom saw how much those words hurt me she called my dad out on it and he ended up poking and prodding at my mind trying to piss me off after that just to get me to confront and stand up to him. He said he realized how much that saying could hurt, and he did apologize, but then continued to push to get an emotional response out off me, which he has a tendency to do when I’m under pressure or stressed or in an apparent mood. The problem is that he purposely takes control away from me as much as possible in these situations (like seriously, he’s admitted that he does it intentionally because it does piss me off). He’ll interrupt me constantly but won’t let me interrupt him, he’ll tell me how he’s right and I’m wrong, won’t always let me talk or defend myself, and often finds ways to belittle and/or underestimate me, not giving me enough credit for what I do know or why I do certain things certain ways. It’s incredibly infuriating and frustrating. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t really listen to me or make an effort to truly understand/accept parts of me.

Mom doesn’t always either, though it’s different with her. I think she tries to understand, but isn’t always capable of doing so. That’s seemed more prevalent lately. For example, when I came out as ace to her I could tell she didn’t understand. She tries to, or appears to try sometimes, though she clearly can’t understand that I don’t feel any sort of sexual attraction to anyone since she “never had that problem.” She keeps telling me to “just try it! You may like it. How can you know if you’ve never tried! Never say never. You just haven’t found the right person yet. You’re going to have to eventually, how do you expect to have kids? It’s just a part of life.” I don’t currently have any desire to have kids or in a relationship of any sort, which sucks right now because both my mom and dad are pressuring me to “get some” with a guy friend who I’ve been friends on and off with, and they’ve really wanted me to get into a relationship with him because they “don’t think I can do any better than him.” Ouch. Like, I know they really want grandkids (sooner rather than later), but no. They always say “no pressure,” but that never does anything to alleviate any pressure, especially since this guy has wanted to be in a relationship with me and I’ve realized I’m on the aro spectrum as well as the ace spectrum, so I really don’t see that happening. Neither of my parents want to accept me as aro/ace, and it can be really hard sometimes.

There are other things my parents haven’t been accepting of, at least not at first, but I hope that can change. Back in high school when I took my first psych class and started learning about depression and anxiety, I tried telling my mom I thought I had depression/anxiety. She told my dad and the first thing he said to me after that was, “No. If we thought you were depressed we’d be the first ones dragging your butt to a doctor.” That was the end of that conversation. Fast forward 4 years, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office for my annual physical, and when I was asked about concerns it was like a switch had been flipped and I started sobbing in front of the doctor. I’d had a really stressful semester prior to that and I was in bad shape. She determined that yes, I did have clinical depression and anxiety, and that the anxiety had probably gone undiagnosed for years (I’m betting since childhood). She also mentioned that it could be partially genetic, and that’s how I learned that my mom also has depression/anxiety but had neglected to say anything to me prior to that and even helped my dad deny that anything was wrong with me because I was apparently high-functioning. Imagine how hurt that made me feel, like I’d been ignored when clearly a problem did exist. That same feeling of hurt has been plaguing me this week.

I’ve known since my med check in the spring that I was overdue for a physical because I hadn’t had one since I was 20 (I’m now 23), and that they had to do a pap smear/pelvic exam at this physical. I’ve been absolutely dreading that since the moment I heard about it. For a little background, I’ve always had issues “down there.” I’ve never been able to use tampons or anything because of discomfort and pain. I’d fight for at least a half hour with multiple tampons of the smallest size during my heavy flow and still not be able to get one in. I couldn’t find my way inside, and no matter which direction I angled the thing it either felt like I was hitting a wall and creating pressure or it would be uncomfortable and start to hurt. I only ever managed to get one in once, and it was uncomfortable the whole time, even when I took it out (after it was fully saturated). I told my mom about this at the time and she brushed it off, told me discomfort was normal at first and that I would get used to it, I just had to keep trying. She picked on me sometimes for being a wuss for not trying tampons again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, especially since I was fine with pads. So yeah, I’ve had increasing anxiety about this exam as it approached. A couple days ago I decided not to try a tampon (because I’m not on my period yet so there’s no point) but my finger just to see if I could do it this time, figuring several years might have made a difference (because hey, it happened with contacts, where I couldn’t get them in the first time but when I tried a couple years later they went in just fine, so I thought maybe this would be like that). It didn’t. I couldn’t even find my way in, and touching that area just felt so uncomfortable like my body was telling me not to touch (not painful exactly, but bordering on it), up until I touched a spot trying to push in that immediately caused a sharper pain like what I remember feeling before. Instead of helping my anxiety, that little experiment only made it worse. For the next few days, the mere thought of this exam made me cry. I told my mom that I still couldn’t do it and that I was terrified, and she tried to make me feel better, but it was clear she was getting frustrated with me. She told me I had to get this exam done, it was just part of life, that I’d have to suck it up and “put my big girl panties on and just do it.” I felt like I had no support, she still didn’t understand.

I had to drag myself to this doctor’s appointment yesterday because I really really didn’t want to go. I was extremely tight-wound and nervous as hell, and I told the nurse why. She tried to make me feel better but it didn’t really work. She changed the speculum the doctor was going to use to the smallest they had (the “child-sized” one), but when she showed me the small one I just felt so nauseated; the smallest they had was still bigger than the smallest tampons I couldn’t insert, and I started hyperventilating after the nurse left the room. I fought tears while waiting for the doctor to come in, but once she did I just started sobbing. I already felt I wasn’t being taken seriously, and I was worried it would just get worse. The doctor said she’d have to at least take a look in there to see if anything was going on, and she said she didn’t see any problems, though I don’t know how much she could see because she couldn’t get the lamp over there to see the way she wanted. She told me she was going to put a couple fingers in to check, and immediately I felt that uncomfortable, almost painful sensation, which I told her about. She went deeper and suddenly there was the sharper pain. She stopped then because I was so uncomfortable, saying that “at least I made it that far... might’ve even made it all the way.” That didn’t make me feel better. She still didn’t find anything wrong and chalked the discomfort and pain up to anxiety (I mean, I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but that was as relaxed as I was going to get without being sedated or something). That didn’t make me feel any better either, in fact, it kinda made me feel worse, and I kept fighting tears because I was already embarrassed and freaked out. Then she asked me if I’d ever been abused, which I haven’t to my knowledge (I would’ve had to have been too young to remember if I was because I have a pretty good memory and can remember a lot from when I was little). It kind of bothered me that she asked that question, especially after I told her about me being on the aro/ace spectrum. She believes I really need a counselor for my general anxiety/depression, but she also thinks I may have some unresolved issues that may be causing the problems with my lack of comfort with various types of intimacy, so to speak. I know she means well, but it still felt really invalidating.

She did refer me to a women’s health specialist, so I have an appointment with them in a couple weeks. I told my mom about how things went after the appointment and that I was pretty much an emotional wreck and would probably be a vegetable for the rest of the day after getting home and taking my meds (they can apparently sedate me somewhat, though the crash that comes after an attack that strong also does that, and that is pretty much how I spent the rest of the day). She didn’t say much about me not being able to go through the exam. but she took the day off on the day I have my next appointment so I don’t have to go alone. She can access my medical stuff because I gave her legal permission deal with it too, so she checked my appointment info and apparently I have not one, but two appointments that morning. The first one is apparently to get an ultrasound, and the other is to actually have the gynecologist check me out. The addition of an appointment for an ultrasound makes me even more nervous, though I suppose it might be standard for something like this, I don’t really know. But yeah, I’m still incredibly nervous about this whole thing and really really really don’t want to do it. I’m sure I’m only going to get more nervous as those appointments get closer, and I expect I’ll probably be a teary-eyed mess then too. I hope they won’t have to actually sedate me to get in there, but I’m worried that’s what it’ll take, and if they find something it could mean surgery to fix. It’s just terrifying for someone like me who doesn’t want anyone or anything doing anything down there (myself included).

My mom now thinks that my being ace is just because I’m afraid of pain down there, so I still feel invalidated. I’ll admit that is one reason I have no interest in sex, but that is not why I’ve never felt sexual attraction nor why I consider myself ace. She’s trying to make me feel more normal about things, but tonight I finally called her out on not taking me seriously. I reminded her that I told her about these problems years ago, like how I told her about the depression/anxiety thing back in high school too (and ended up being right), and that she just brushed these things off. I could tell she felt kind of bad after that, and she did say “well, hindsight is 20/20,” which is true, but I don’t think that makes up for her (and dad) not listening/taking me seriously on these things, I wish they could just do that from the start. But then, I’m just the kid, what do I know, right? It’s not like I could really know myself or my own body...

So yeah, I don’t know if anybody’s even going to read this, but this is just some of what’s been going on with me, and I just felt like I had to get some of it out of my system. Sorry for the super-long whine/rant.

[nancygduarteus]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/doctor-rapp/579634/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

Article source here:The Atlantic

[krypti]

[CN:Silencing, gaslighting, rape and abuse, rape culture, white supremacy, racist erasure, white privilege, male privilege. This is the first in a 4 part series.]

At first I thought, "Maybe Bernie Sanders has a woman problem."

It boggled my mind to think it. I'd always heard him spoken of as a liberal lion progressive honey badger, a guy who courageously took on unpopular stances, and simply did not give a fuck about conservative detractors. Go Bernie! Like a lot of people, I knew he was a socialist, and an Independent. From the snippets I'd gotten, he seemed to be a mix of Eugene Debs, and Rosa Luxemburg and Tommy Douglas combined, with a little bit of Alice Paul, Harvey Milk, and A. Phillip Randolph sprinkled in.

I thought I knew him. And what I knew, I liked very much.

["Bernie Sanders-Caricature" by Donkeyhotey is licensed under CC 2.0.]

But then came the release of his 1972 essay from the Vermont Freeman, a strange, free-wheeling reflection on relations between a man and a woman that included references to the man sexually fantasizing about women being abused, a woman sexually fantasizing about being raped, everybody wanting to read articles about the sexual abuse of 14 year olds, and a 13 year old girl with a "sex friend." Whut.

As someone who teaches women's history, I know enough about gender relations in 1972 to take it in context. It wasn't totally atypical of the crap some (but not all) male radicals were writing when it came to sexuality and "the revolution." That didn't make it any less awful, or more feminist. I assumed (from what I—vaguely—knew of Sanders) that he'd acknowledge the hurtful language, explain that he'd changed, and apologize. Problem solved.

I was wrong.

Instead his campaign trumpeted every brogressive excuse in the book. "It's a joke!" (But jokes can be harmful, and intent is not magic.) "It's bad 50 Shades of Gray fiction." (But 50 Shades of Gray glorifies abuse.) Then his fans got in on it. "Sanders has good votes!" (True! Which is why I'd expect him to understand the criticism.) "Don't crucify him!" (Criticism from feminists is not a violent attack.)

Silencing, gaslighting, minimizing. Huh?

Then there was his campaign appropriating #BlackLivesMatter to talk about jobs. Then there was Bernie Sanders whitesplaining not only how POC vote, but also how POC should be voting: "You should not be basing your politics based on your color." Here was Bernie Sanders' former chief of staff and close advisor talking about how Democrats really need to be courting white people. And here were his internet fanboys, on Facebook and twitter and in the comments of articles which ask why Sanders doesn't talk about race and gender, telling us to STFU because Bernie is THE MOST PROGRESSIVE. (Since when is that a productive way to evaluate a candidate?)

I changed my question. Does Sanders have a privilege problem? To find out, I went looking for Bernie.

(If you're not familiar with privilege, and its effects, you'll need to educate yourself before reading the rest. If the term only means economic privilege to you, and you've never heard of [among others] white privilege or Christian privilege or thin privilege, or the places where privilege and oppression intersect, then this essay will be incomprehensible to you.)

I went looking in the history, because that's how I understand things. I started at the beginning and went forward. I didn't want to rely on other bloggers' accounts. So as much as possible, I dug into old newspapers. There aren't any archive-only documents here; everything is online, in one place or another. But as much as possible, I've used news stories and items from the time of the events involved, or close thereafter.

I went looking for the activist and politician. So you're not going to find any irrelevant and intrusive nonsense about his personal life, his partners or other family, who deserve their damn privacy. This isn't a hit piece. But maybe it's a corrective, an attempt to bring some reality to the overinflated claims about his psychic ability to always be right about everything progressives care about in 2015. I wanted to look at his story through the lens of intersectional feminism. From that perspective, it matters, a lot, how candidates talk about marginalized groups; it's not enough to have some good votes in Congress if you're also legitimizing oppression in other ways. I've got some particular questions, especially (but not solely) around race and gender; not everyone is equally interested in those questions, but they are central to the purpose of this space.

I went looking for Bernie. And here is what I found.

PART 1: SANDERS '72

[Picture originally published in the Bennington Banner, Tuesday, Sept 17, 1974.]

Let's start with the late 60s and early 70s, since there have been a flurry of pieces recently discussing more of Sanders' early 1970s essays, his general participation in Vermont's radical scene, and his early political life. If you want to know about his earlier years, his time at the University of Chicago, including his anti-segregation work and other activities, has been covered elsewhere. I'm interested in his early political life in Vermont. He wrote for several alternative publications, did some community organizing, and ran for office on the Liberty Union ticket. Like others in his cohort, he was broke a lot, and lived on unemployment, his carpentry, or the sale of his educational filmstrips. Or his writing.

His writings ranged over a broad range of subjects, but when he got the chance, he frequently turned to revolution. Against the establishment, against class restrictions, and against government restrictions on the individual rights. A rejection of Vietnam and other wars, using those monies to address class inequities. The decriminalization of drugs, abortion, and other areas where the government infringes on individual rights. The essays certainly touch on gender issues, but most often as related to broader themes of liberation, including sexual. Sometimes, yes, they are downright creepy. In every case, they seem to reflect a Sanders who cares about equality generally, but hadn't engaged with feminism, or considered his male privilege, at all.

For example, in "The Revolution is Life Versus Death," published the Vermont Freeman in November 1969, Sanders ruminates on the film I Am Curious (Yellow), apparently concerned that those under 18 were not permitted to view the sexually explicitly movie. I think his concern is false modesty and sexual ignorance, because he then muses (in response to an incident at a Vermont beach): "Now, if children go around naked, htey [sic] are liable to see one another's sex organs, and maybe touch them. Terrible thing! If we bring children up like this, it will probably ruin the whole pornography business, not to mention a large portion of the general economy that makes its money by playing on people's sexual frustrations." I really wish he'd put something about teaching children to ask before touching someone else. I don't want to be disappointed so early in my quest.

He goes on to note that "[t]he Revolution is coming, and it is a very beautiful revolution... The revolution comes when two strangers smile at each other. …when a commune is started and people start to trust one another, when a young man refuses to go to war and when a girl pushes aside all that her mother has 'taught' her and accepts her boyfriends [sic] love."

The rape-y logic that a woman "accepting" her boyfriend's pressure for sex is somehow revolutionary was not uncommon at the time. But there were plenty of feminists out there at the time fighting back; the earliest version of Our Bodies, Ourselves spends a lot of time trying to help women work through pressure from both patriarchal tradition and the male entitlement of the Sexual Revolution. Suggesting that a woman is brainwashed by her parents just because she doesn't want to have sex with a dude, as Sanders does, is simply the inverse of suggesting she's a slut if she does. (Bonus gross points for equating patriarchal control with her mother!) I don't see much understanding of feminism here.

Sanders' additional claim that many social ills were related to the sexual repression of young people was also suggested in another 1969 essay, "Society, cancer and disease," in which he muses over a 1952 study that correlated the inability to orgasm with breast cancer; he also discusses a 1954 study suggesting that women with cancer of the cervix tended to have a dislike of sexual intercourse. These aren't Sanders' fantasies; they're scientific studies (albeit minority opinions). But the conclusions he draws are all his own:

…What do you think it really means when 3 doctors, after intense study, write that 'of the 26 patients (under 51) that developed breast cancer, one was sexually adjusted.' It means, very bluntly, that the way you bring up your daughter with regards to sexual attitudes may very well determine whether or not she will get breast cancer, among other things…How much guilt, nervousness have you imbued in your daughter with regard to sex? If she is 16, 3 years beyond puberty, the age at which nature set forth for child bearing, and spent a night out with her boyfriend, what is your reaction? Do you take her to a psychologist because she is 'maladjusted,' or a 'prostitute,' or are you happy she has found someone with whom she can share love? Are you concerned about HER happiness, or about your 'reputation' in the community?

The reference to 13 years being at the age when nature prescribed childbirth is gross. His concern, that teenage women "share" or "accept" love from men, for their own good (cancer!), is some pretty amazing trolling. If the revolution includes this much patriarchy, count me out, Bernie.

Sanders voices concern over men getting cancer as well, but apparently they don't have to blame their sexual attitudes. Rather, it's female authority figures who are to blame:

A child has an old bitch of a teacher (and there are many of them), or perhaps he is simply not interested in school and would rather be doing other thing. [sic] He complains and rebels against the situation, which is the healthy reaction. When a person is hurt, no matter what age, he SHOULD rebel…. Outwardly, he becomes the "good boy", [sic] conforming to the rules and regulations of the system. Inwardly, his spirit is broken, and his soul seethes with anger and hatred, which is unable to be expressed. He has learned to hold back his emotions and put on the phony façade of pleasantness. Thirty years later, a doctor tells him he has cancer.

So, men's anger is suppressed by old women, who represent the oppressive power system that gives men cancer. Considering that anger is one of the few emotions (white) men are traditionally allowed to express in a patriarchal society, this doesn't sound so much revolutionary as reactionary. Was he serious that *men* are the ones obliged to bury their anger "under a façade of pleasantness"? I'm sorry, but this is not the fearless feminist I was looking for.

In fact, Sanders was so far removed from feminist analyses of oppression that he suggested women bore some responsibility for it. While the rapey sexual passages of his 1972 Vermont Freeman essay have been thoroughly quoted, this passage has drawn less attention:

Women, for their own preservation, are trying to pull themselves together. And it's necessary for all of humanity that they do so. Slavishness on one hand breeds pigness on the other hand. Pigness on one hand breeds slavishness on the other… On one hand "slavishness," on the other hand "pigness." Six of one, half dozen of the other. Who wins?

Presenting the oppression of women as somehow resulting from "slavishness," seems to put the responsibility for gendered oppression on women's acquiescence. Women have to take responsibility for bootstrapping themselves out of patriarchy! (The particular use of the word "slavish" is also wince-inducing, considering the racial history embedded in the term. That sort of erasure and appropriation was something that white feminists (like Robin Morgan) were doing a lot, so Sanders isn't uniquely gross here. Ugly white privilege all around.)

Sanders' essay also includes another classic 101-level bit of false equivalency: women's mistrust of men, based on their experiences with oppression from men, is "misandry," and therefore somehow the equivalent of male oppression:

…"But in reality," he said, "if you ever loved me, or wanted me, or needed me (all of which I'm not certain was ever true), you also hated me. You hated me—just as you have hated every man in your entire life, but you didn't have the guts to tell me that…. You hated me not because of who I am, or what I was to you, but because I am a man. You did not deal with me as a person—as me. You lived a lie with me, used me and played games with me—and that's a piggy thing to do.

This kind of false equivalency (addressed by Liss at this blog in "The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck") is probably something that 70s Sanders would have immediately recognized, if it were in a class-based analysis. No intelligent leftist of his generation would have accepted to idea that a poor person's suspicion of the rich was equivalent to their oppression of the poor! Yet here we find women being "piggy," a not-too-subtle word choice in an era when "male chauvinist pig" was entering the lexicon.

So, based on a limited sampling of his essays, Sanders is sounding a bit like a Shakesville troll crying misandry. I do not think I would have enjoyed being at a party with early 70s Bernie Sanders! But more importantly, would I have voted for him?

Sanders ran as a candidate in a number of elections for governor and for Senator from 1971-1976, on the Liberty Union Party ticket. (These included two different elections in 1972: a January vote for senator and a November vote for governor.) His campaign rhetoric, as recorded through his own writing and newspaper reports, centered on concerns with the Vietnam war, economic injustice, and Nixon-era government infringements on civil liberties—a fiercely social libertarian stance that rejected government interference in personal liberties. Frequently, these concerns overlapped with gay liberation (as it was then known), anti-racism, and women's rights. So it's important to put those concerns in full context of time and place in order to understand what Sanders was supporting.

For example, Salon recently re-published one of Sanders' 1972 letters to the Vermont Freeman, under the truly embarrassing headline, "Bernie Sanders Supported Full Marriage Equality 40 Years Ago." The article lauds Sanders for being so far ahead of his time and tut-tutting President Obama and Secretary Clinton for not supporting full marriage equality until 2012. Why is this embarrassing? Well, aside from the fact that Sanders was still squishy on his support for civil unions as late as 2000 (more on that in Part 4), it's a terribly ahistorical reading of Sanders' letter.

The goals of most participants in early gay liberation didn't include marriage. Although some same-sex couples did indeed pursue marriage licenses many more activists rejected marriage as an oppressive institution. And also? They were fighting simply to survive, to exist in peace without being jailed or beaten or tortured by "treatment" or locked in asylums. Marriage, that conservative institution, became a more widespread goal in the 1980s. (Here's a brief history of that evolution.) Although some of Sanders' current fanboys seem to view him as a Progressive Messiah, I don't think anyone has seriously suggested he has psychic powers, able to discern that ONE DAY this seemingly conservative cause would become a progressive one. So what was he supporting in the letter?

Writing in support of his own bid for governor, he lists three points of concern. Point 1 is Vermont's regressive tax structure, which Sanders criticizes for taxing consumers more than corporations. Point 2 is about the war in Vietnam, which he acknowledges as a moral and financial problem, specifically calling for its funding to be transferred to affordable housing, dental, and medical care. In point 3, he states that "[p]robably the most alarming concern of the Nixon administration has been the gradual erosion of freedoms and the sense of what freedom really means." He calls for the abolition of "all laws that impose a particular brand of morality," listing among these "all laws dealing with abortion, drugs, sexual behavior (adultery, homosexuality, etc.)" His letter ends asking for support from "all people who are disgusted with the basic status quo and who demand basic social change in this state and this country."

It's notable that Sanders addresses the decriminalization of homosexuality and abortion on a par with drug use, as part of a wider concern for civil liberties generally. That's consistent with his description of Liberty Union's platform in a Bennington Banner article from Saturday, December 11, 1971. (This and most of the other newspaper articles I am referencing are available behind a paywall at Newspapers.com.) In "What the Other Party Offers," John Leaning reports that LU candidates Sanders for Senate and Doris Lake for Congress have four areas of concern. First is the economy, and wealth inequality; Sanders is quoted as saying that "the interests of the 2 per cent directly and entirely control the economy." Point 2 is labeled as "decision making: 'Who makes the decisions in this country…the same handful of men who control the power and wealth. That has to change, because no 10 men should ever be able to control the lives of the rest.'" Third is foreign policy; Sanders decries the post-World War II imperialism of the U.S. Point 4 is freedom: "Sanders said he would seek an end to abortion laws, legalize all drugs, eliminate restrictions on birth control, and end all discrimination based on sex, race, or anything else." Sanders is then quoted going into drug decriminalization in some depth, suggesting that decriminalizing drugs (he specifically discusses heroin) would end the "kick of doing something against the government" and allow "us to know the dimensions of the problem, and be able to deal with it rationally."

Sanders addressed many other issues that campaign, and some of his out-there ideas even won praise from the "establishment." For example, he argued that hitchhiking should not be illegal, and in fact, there should be regular parts of the roadway widened so that those who wanted a ride, and those who wanted to stop to give one, could safely meet. Needless to say, I can't find any other candidates addressing this topic, although it was at that time a very common form of transportation, especially for young people without money for bus or train tickets. The Bennington Banner not only reported this, it wrote an editorial commending Sanders' idea; why have a law that everyone winks at? Sanders and Liberty Union may have been on the fringe, but they did get some positive attention for their original ideas on occasion.

The Bennington Banner also featured stories on Sanders opposing Nixon's bombing raid in North Vietnam on December 30, 1971 (an opinion shared by all but one of the other House and Senate candidates). On January 4, 3 days ahead of the special election for Senate, Sanders toured a state prison in Windsor and made remarks afterwards blasting environmental pollution and saying "...that the 'real criminals' are 'the people who allow and even promote the unemployment which enables corporations to make large profits.'"

He then gets around to the actual prisoners, blaming "the government's economic policy" and racism for joblessness: "He says that when a man who can't get a job because of the government's economic policy or because he is black, steals to get food for his children, that person is put in jail. 'It says a great deal about our country…that the richer our country gets, the more of us there are behind prison bars and that an overwhelming number of those who are in jail are poor, non-whites.'" Then he reportedly moved on to his opponent, Robert Stafford, blaming him for continuing to "vote for every major military appropriation in the last 10 years while he has been in Congress" and adding:

"The criminals who made this war will never be prosecuted," he continued, "but one soldier who massacred two dozen people is put in jail. Why is it a crime to kill one person or several dozen but not a crime to kill 200 people a day in Southeast Asia with American bombs and planes as we are doing right this minute?"

Taken in context, I can only conclude that his remarks refer to Lt. William Calley, who had been convicted in March of the premeditated murder of 22 Vietnamese civilians in connection with the My Lai massacre. The suggestion that Calley was not the only guilty party is nothing extraordinary; numerous other, more senior officers got off scot-free. But the suggestion that Calley did not deserve to be in jail (like the man who steals to get food, apparently), and the math-playing with Vietnamese lives ("One person," "several dozen" "200 people a day") are absolutely cringe-inducing. It's also strange, to say the least, to derail a very important and relevant statement about the racial injustice of American prisons to focus on a white man's imprisonment.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying that Sanders in 1972 was George Wallace, nor that his problems in speaking about race weren't a common problem for white progressives of all stripes at the time. (And it should be acknowledged that Sanders himself, a Jewish man who lost relatives in the Holocaust, has dealt with a wide range of ethnic bigotry. As Paul Kivel has explored, white privilege is complicated for European-descended Jews.) My point is this: Sanders'72 has a hard time keeping his focus on race, or addressing it intersectionally; he immediately goes back to economic hegemonies. And the result? Awkward as a basset on a surfboard.

[Picture originally published in the Bennington Banner, Friday October 16, 1976. Attributed to "Woolmington."]

Racial hierarchies aren't the only ones he has trouble on. He supports an end to abortion restrictions, an incredibly relevant topic in 1972. Roe v. Wade was scheduled to be re-argued that October. In Vermont, the landmark Beachy v. Leahy case had struck down state restrictions on the procedure earlier that year. Beachy v. Leahy was exactly the sort of case that one might expect Sanders to be interested in, since its reproductive rights issues were strongly wrapped up in class: a welfare recipient, in need of an abortion, could not afford to cross state lines to obtain one. Although Vermont law did not make it a crime for women to have an abortion (self-inducement, for example, was quite legal), any Vermont physician providing her medical care could be prosecuted.

But the intersection of class and gender is absent from Sander's remarks on abortion when quoted in a September 1, 1972 article in the Bennington Banner. Instead, he hits on the civil libertarian argument that politicians have no right legislating another person's body: ("[i]t strikes me as incredible that politicians think that they have a right to tell a woman what she can or cannot so with her body." He acknowledges that abortion "brings out deep feelings in people, and I respect the feelings of those who are opposed to abortion on moral grounds," but rejects the idea those are valid grounds for legislation. And then he ends noting that Women in Vermont will have abortion regardless of legal status: "The question is whether they will be forced to go to those states where abortions are legal, or whether they can be treated in their home state."

That's an extremely puzzling conclusion when an entire court case had been built around the fact that some Vermont women could not afford to travel out of state. So why focus on the social libertarian argument about government control?

Even when ostensibly addressing women directly, Sanders '72 seems to have had trouble connecting and staying focused. In a 1972 feature, Crittenden magazine provided A Feminist View of the Democratic and Liberty Union Candidates. (The magazine had previously interviewed other candidates in a separate issue.) There seem to have been some differences in the precise questions asked each candidate, but each responded to broadly similar topics deemed to be of feminist interest:

Bernard Sanders, Liberty Union Candidate for Governor.

ERA-Strongly for it.

Daycare--Should be available to anyone who wants it, with sliding fees based on income. "Day care is important, not only for parents but for kids."

Abortion--a "civil liberty" that government has no business restricting.

Consumer Rights--His view is like Ralph Nader's; he would like to see consumers on the boards of all major corporations.

Welfare Reform--The entire system should be scrapped and replaced with a $6500 income for a family of four. "Poverty is obsolete and should not be allowed."

Women's Liberation--A manifestation of blacks, women, gay people, and others "demanding control over their lives." As for women in politics, he points out that he has a female running mate--Elly Harter--and that the highest vote ever received for a Liberty Union candidate was received by Doris Lake in her campaign for Congress last year. Would he mind having a woman governor or attorney general? "Are you serious?" As for working under a woman's supervision, he points out that he's supervised by Liberty Union Chairman Martha Abbot, and has no objections. Women should have opportunities for top governmental and industrial jobs, but he would "not support someone just because she's a woman." Among steps he would like to see to bring equal pay for equal work is to raise the minimum wage to $2.50 an hour.

(Sanders also responded to a question on the Vietnam War [end it, for economic reasons] and a local environmental initiative.)

It's an interesting collection of responses. His support for the ERA, consumer rights, and abortion rights are clear—but the latter is, once again, very much a "civil liberty" issue. Women's liberation is framed entirely as an aspect of a wider revolution. His welfare reform suggests a commitment to minimum guaranteed income. And he can point to women in his own party with genuine leadership positions—more than the Democratic candidates were able to do. Well done, Sanders '72!

It's also weirdly disconnected. Women should get opportunities in government and industrial jobs, but apparently they needed no special consideration to overcome the overwhelming structural biases stacked against them. Should they bootstrap themselves out of patriarchy? And I'm not clear on how raising the minimum wage was supposed to "bring equal pay for equal work."

But perhaps the female voters responded better to Sanders. Unfortunately there are few records of his interactions with female voters, or any voters for that matter. A December 11, 1971 story about a Liberty Union campaign event, "An Evening with Sanders and Lake," details a first-person account of a reporter's encounter with the two Liberty Union candidates at a small information session. The reporter, Greg Guma (who would cover much more of Sanders in future) mostly discusses his own interactions with Sanders, who was already displaying his now-famous grumpitude:

In answer to a question about his personal political viewpoint, Senatorial candidate Sanders replied: "Obviously you haven't been listening to me. Do you know what the movement is? Have you read the books? Are you against the war in Vietnam?"

"But what do you think?" was the reply from myself. "You're an individual, not a movement."

"You don't understand. It's the movement that's important. Are you for it? If you're not, I don't want your vote."

After Sanders repeated "I don't want your vote," Guma apparently left the meeting. He concludes his article with a comment from an attendee:

The result of the rap session was summed up by Ruth Levi. "You've lost my vote," she said with a smile.

Sanders left his own record of the campaign trail, in a piece for Crittenden magazine, Fragments of a Campaign Diary. It contains sketches of his life on the campaign trail and his own blunt assessments of himself. If your picture of early 1970s Bernie Sanders is informed only by those slightly psychedelic essays for the Vermont Freeman, I'd recommend this to round out the picture. It's a straightforward series of vignettes and reflections that are very human. Here are Sanders and another candidate frugally splitting a fish dinner, down to their last few dollars. Here is Sanders enthusiastic about a "beautiful, toothless old man" telling him tales of Depression-era the socialist meetings. Here's a Vermont Labor Council delegate demanding to know where Sanders' beard was—after all, didn't all radicals have beards? Here is Sanders' frustration with a television interview where he addressed corporate greed at length, and the station "only" played back his responses on marijuana and abortion.

And here is Sanders being hard on himself when he feels he's done poorly.

Spoke to students of St. Anthony's in Bennington—and I did terribly… Spoke right off the top of my head, didn't put two coherent sentences together, and made very little allowance for the fact I was speaking to 17 year olds… I consider talking to young people very important, and it bothers me that I was unable to convey my feelings to them.

…Appeared on "You Can Quote Me" and did horrendously. It was just one of those times that I never got started and was on the defensive throughout…. It was defensiveness from thereonout…I felt disgusted with myself when I left the studio—I didn't handle myself well at all.

...the entire last week of my campaign…was directed toward telling people that they should vote what they believed in and not for what they considered the lesser of two evils. I guess it didn't work, though. On election day I expected 3 percent and was very disappointed with what I got.

(Sanders received 1 per cent of the votes.)

Perhaps the most interesting anecdote, for me, was his encounter with a group of working-class women in a factory—women with whom Sanders might expect to connect, given his interest in economic justice. It didn't quite go that way. He reports:

---Went through a factory in Bennington with endless rows of middle-aged to elderly women sitting behind sewing machines. Horrible. "Excuse me, I'm Bernard Sanders, Liberty Union candidate for governor. Have you heard of Liberty Union? Well, if you get a chance I'd appreciate it if you read this." And out goes the leaflet. A very deadly place. Barely made it through. As I left I heard a few women making snickering comments about Dr. Spock running for president. [ed: Spock ran on the Progressive Party ticked and was supported by Liberty Union in Vermont.] And I thought everybody liked Dr. Spock. I knew I wouldn't get one vote from that place.

I don't know why, exactly, Sanders flopped with this audience, and I'm not sure he did either. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with older women. Perhaps his revolutionary fervor was annoying to women just trying to get through the workday. It's interesting that Sanders thought "everybody liked Dr. Spock," when conservatives were already blaming the doctor-turned-activist/public humanist for ruining America's youth. Maybe these women agreed with that critique. Or maybe they just thought Spock was a mansplaining jackass who could keep his childrearing ideas to himself, thanks very much. But somehow, they connected him with Sanders. And I suspect he was correct—he didn't get one vote from that place.

Sanders would spend several more years running for office and not getting very many votes, before a successful election to the position of Mayor of Burlington in 1981. What happened to turn him from loser into winner? And how did his "white male" problems continue? Those will be featured tomorrow in "Looking For Bernie, Part 2: Mr. Sanders Goes to Burlington."

[dwestfieldblog]

SUMERIANTIME BLUES

With a Red Indian Summer chant...Hitherehowareya, hitherehowareya...Hi there, how are ya? Not my joke but I love it. Please don't ask what film it comes from, not exactly highbrow film noir, more low dirty primary colour cartoon. Anyway...let's pretend to be serious...arf.

Greetings from the Golden City/Anarcadia, all hail the black Madonna and the Rosy Cross...Sultry, feral and on heat...In the hollow of the temple, the vein that needs to burst. And at last, a storm to break the tension...release...a bolt of lightning smashed down about twenty metres from my window last night with an intensity of total sound I have never heard before. The ape man cowered in terror and the magician marvelled in thrill, which is how it should be...respect and wonder. Now, Morning song...At dawn there is an unknown bird which trills the first six notes of Stravinsky's The Firebird Suite'. Yes really. And, having checked, it is even the same notes. And the magpies sound like Varese. Meanwhile, back on the island...

Oh Britain... England my cowardly lion heart....I remember reading in 2008 that the UK has1percent of the world's population but 20percent of its CCTV cameras. Now, nine years later....'Rise and rise again till lambs become lions'? Pa! And HA! (Hiram Abif, the architect) From where does such passivity to irrevocable changes stem? GM Frankenfood? The oestrogen in the water supply? Chemtrails? Always seems a touch dubious to me when there are killing attacks made just before a general election and it is revealed that the 'lone wolf' characters were already known to the security services. If I were truly into conspiracy theories (and, despite all appearances, I am not), I might suggest that they were allowed to happen in order to have yet more restrictive laws passed by whichever party is in power. And of course, it is not the parties which hold the actual power. Are those muppet caricatures Boris and Gove going to blather and oil their way up the chain of slime again? At least we have the best sense of humour in the world...self deprecating sarcastic surrealism and a monopoly on fart jokes....

A Czech newspaper had the headline 'Britain Falls into Chaos.' Think that happened quite a long bastard while ago, but it could always be worse, says the realistic pessimist. My imminent 'holiday' in the UK will see me attempting to maintain my distance from the news but it will be hard not to be infected with the national mind set again. A hard discipline of emotional distance is required but I always love walking around the heart of London, the streets are ablaze and swarming with energies, stories and multicolour.  

I set a smart teenage student some homework last week about what she would do if she were World President. A moral and well balanced page of A4 writing was handed over where her main idea involved better, deeper education for the poor and the masses (as well as support for genuine refugees and limited time on the Net for young people). Good work. I would start in those countries which pretend to be democracies but appear have become run by and full of deeply soulless idiots such as (fill in the blank). Educatshun is the onlee way forward oar wee is domed. Funn wiv langwidge.  

Think about what the Mass believes and the fact that they are a Mass... the believed information used to be 'If the priest/teacher tells me, they must be right'...then that nonsense became 'If its in the papers it must be true'. Now it seems to have become 'If it's on the internet it must be real' Fake news and propaganda...Vested interests... oil and other businesses and Putin surpassing the former work of the CIA and stirring the shit up all over the world. What happens if I push these two groups together... then introduce a third party to cause a deepening chaos? Evil glee. Money to be made and power to be taken because Nature abhors the vacuum left after chaos...and psychic vampires adore the blood energy of fear.    

Oliver Stone's serial on Putin...hmmm...does the baldhead truly feel himself as no more than a helpless cog in wheel of history, grinding on events beyond his control? Poor fellow. Looked cute together with the golden shower kid this month.  

Heard that Michael Moore is to do a documentary on Duck Fart, sure it will be as righteously destructive as it needs to be...just sticking to the absolute facts and verbatim quotes in context should be enough to do it. Hoist him high on his own petard. Nice headline in the International Guardian about America becoming a rogue state due to the blonde egomaniac's decision to go against the climate change accord (and all his other genuinely insane ideas)...well his poor billionaire friends need all the support they can get eh? 'Evil' is un-evolved energy. So perhaps I should pretend to be a smiling Buddhist and feel sympathy for the sad little (ter)mites. But I don't. He and they of their ilk are ruining this planet and Mother is going to be very very angry. Earth First. Very decent of BP (British Petroleum) to have given Duck Fart 500,000 dollars for his election celebration. After 97 million dollars in corporate donations, you can be sure they expect him to be their whore bitch...or else.  

And as for all his posturing against American law itself...after having sworn 'To protect, defend and uphold the Constitution of the United States'...with his hand on the Bible...hmmm....you have to laugh at his infantile rage against a democracy which allowed him within quacking distance of the White House, let alone into the Oval Orifice...Whaddya mean I can't build a wall (between the land grab of Tex Ass and Mexico) and take total control of U.S media? The darkest is yet to come, just before a golden dawn. Illuminated Ones, it is time to get your finger out and SHINE a light

across this globe. Get with it, get this foul reptilian out. The tweeting duck needs spit roasting. But first glaze him with a golden shower eh?

And in other depressing news... one of Osama bin Liner's sons has vowed to continue 'holy' war in his father's name and install a global caliphate. Etc. Nice to have a hobby. Good to keep busy with purpose... Without such, the ennui, nausea and panic set in hard and thoughts turn to suicide rather than mass murder, and we wouldn't want that eh? And yet worse... Au Sang Su Ki...it is becoming apparent that she is following in the bloody footprints of the ones who kept her imprisoned. I truly hope not but the facts scream for themselves. And as for Iran, a country where a girl can be held criminally responsible at the lunar age of 9 (boys get off easier at 15) but cannot actually be executed until they are 18....Allah bless such a merciful state of foul patriarchs...But  to close that paragraph with a skateboarding duck story to send you to bed with a smile, good to hear the founding leader of daesh has gone to meet his harem of 72 virgins and their mothers in law, hope that isn't fake news.  

Facebook...the recent F8 (FATE) event...new updates to augment reality on your mobile screens and share the images...well this would almost sound like art, if not for the fact 'FACT' (copyright Duck Fart) that Mr Zuckerberg (and here the NSA can pick up on an actual name in these blogs which generally use pseudonyms) is thinking of running for office. Or an orifice, take your pick. My tube/your Facebook is designed to make money and manipulate the gullible and outsource/ in-source their users information while you thrill to the idea of an unreal connection to truth. Suckers. Why let yourself be used as fodder unless you are truly a deep masochist?  You had better be DAMN sure that you do not care whether or not you are a puppet. Psychic nudity is only for those who have truly chosen such. I stand by everything I have written in every blog. Networking keeps you in touch with a distorted and distracting version of reality, i-phone therefore I am...anti-social media... 'Every day of your life, you're sitting in a database, just ready to be looked at'. E.S.

Been wondering again about the prevalence of doctors who prescribe drugs just because they have been given free holidays or various enticements by the companies which make them. Not such a far fetched idea unfortunately. I have had recent talks with various chemists in Czech and the UK about this too to check the facts. Seems a real shame that so many healers work against their own Hippocratic Oath. A promise of hypocrisy perhaps. A special circle of Hell is reserved for them...

Apart from my five worsening health problems, I seem to be recording two double cds...33 songs now and another ten possibles on the peripheral third eye horizon. I plan to have only three more sessions in which to complete all. See how I love to count. Wonder which will stop me first, illness or lack of money? Already not looking forward to the non Zen emptiness of winter...so New Zealand here I come...

'I long so much to be where I was before I was me.'  (Screamin' Jay Hawkins.)

Occasionally my usual good natured self (ARF/fnord) is over-run by the blackest of humours...yesterday, walking down a long main street, I saw a small group of folk with banners and twisted expressions, and stopped to be given two leaflets which caused me to laugh out loud like Lucifer as I went on my way. Early next morning I checked their web site...; 'RAPTURE... HE WILL COME SOON, ARE YOU READY?'. That's how excited his followers make him feel. Open your orifices and let the load of the lord in. Impregnate thyselves with the holy seed...Sex and religion are always such an arousing mix.  

Once more, for the lossless Hi-Fi record, I have my own personal belief in what I call God and the Christ and all the others...what I dislike is those who interrupt without being asked and push their rant/laws/insanity on others. All rivers will flow in return to the ocean. Fundamentalist missionaries of ALL creeds are foul and lonely in desperation and use fear to persuade. No Love in any of them. Humans will find their way...or not. Some of us will, some won't. The energy generated by the few will be stronger than the lack of it from the mass. Phase transitions have been taking place for decades and will continue, sense it for yourself...taking some advice from guides you have manifested in your life by 'coincidence' is not the same as blindly following leaders.

I am fairly close to being a dictionary definition of the word stupid/stoopid, just smart enough to recognise this. I have a certain unbalanced logic but made my choices decades ago. To the bitter-sweet end and until I am screaming with pain for one reason or another, will regret nothing except not having been a father. Fuj to the liars and manipulators, their own poison will destroy them eventually. Not in my lifetime but quite possibly in theirs. Self educate yourself but check the source and when certain, flow with it. Blah blah blah...Trust yourself but only after you know who and what you are. I will be all right if you kiss me. So sayeth the Omega Male.

'Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt'. Abraham Lincon said that, yes really. I should certainly shut up, but after all these pages, it must surely be clear just how deep a fool I am anyway. Anyway...

Next in the sequence of slogans and logos noticed these days, a girl with a bag upon which was written; 'Walk like you're a mediocre white man'. Easy enough to obey that command. I met an exceptionally cool black African guy last month who was applying for status here. He spoke excellent French, having lived there...I asked him why he wanted to live in Prague rather than France and he replied 'There's too many black people in France.' He was a true believer of Almighty Jah and one of his favourite songs was 'You'll Never Walk Alone' because of  'its righteous truth'. Effortlessly natural and down to Earth, with his soul in Heaven already. Surely even Nazis must realise on how many levels white folk suck? Perhaps that is one basis for their hatred...jealousy.  

Back in a room with golden light, curtains of smoke at 8pm, yes I am smoking again, surely the dumbest thing anyone can choose to do...And back to Dexedrine jazz 1958, still amazed how much I love this now, a broadening mature palette or a genuine sign of old age? Straight, no chaser.... Miles Davis and John Coltrane in wild abandoned synchronised improvising harmony...My liver is going the same way as Coltranes', shame I don't have an eighth of his talent. If I could play guitar the same way I whistle, I'd be a star. Or a black hole. Arf. Anyway...the next evening...

Wide open window...evening sky, sunlight on the cloud rims, the swallows circling, the dark green spaces between the leaves of the Horse Chestnut tree...even the houses look beautiful in glass and stone, a breeze through the window, breathing, every atom open in expectant silence. Beauty. Good to feel alive before you no longer inhabit flesh. A day is a wasted blasphemy without creating, working or truly taking it easy and watching the river. Wonders never cease...Love is Light...

See you later or not, meanwhile...you (yes, YOU) might like to have a look at this website and follow various links within the vast library. Knowledge of actual truths is always useful, so go and get Gnostic on yourself...  

www.halexandria.org/home.htm

Have fun, may ye be illuminated:-)