My Right to Vote (2013)

     The Tennessee heat was palpable. It was so thick that it somehow managed to slow down even the most brisk of walkers. Any southerner could tell you that August was hardly the most pleasant time of year; in fact, it was almost unbearable. To make matters worse, Nashville was absolutely bustling with people today, which only added to the mounting summer heat. I rounded a corner on Broadway en route to the capitol building and found my path obstructed by a sea of petticoats.  

I had been to Nashville many times before, but I’d never seen it like this. The city was usually a quiet one; people flitted about without any real sense of urgency. Today was different, though. Today, it seemed as though everyone in the capitol had an agenda, and they weren’t about to be interrupted. The men seemed more stately than usual; their Sunday best had been impressively starched, and their shoes had been polished to a shine. The women, too, seemed to be motivated by an invisible force. Even the most proper of southern ladies walked a little too quickly and spoke a little too loudly. It was clear that something was afoot in the capitol, something for which the city was trying to prepare itself. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of red. My eyes focused upon it, and I noticed it was a rose. For some reason, it seemed slightly out of place. I had noted the aroma of the flowers earlier, but I hadn’t given much thought to where the smell was coming from. The flower was pinned to the lapel of a remarkably well-dressed gentleman who was walking with broad strides in the direction of the capitol building. I made up my mind to follow behind him in the hope that he would help me navigate the crowd a little more quickly. As I trekked on, I began to notice more and more roses. All the women I passed on the street appeared to have flowers pinned to their bodices. However, I was struck by the realization that these ladies were all wearing yellow roses instead of the blood-red flower worn by my unassuming navigator. Every once in a while, I would pass someone with a particularly pungent flower, and I would briefly be treated to the fresh, dainty scent. 

Distracted by the roses, I eventually found I had lost track of the gentleman I had been following. I gathered my skirts in a relatively ladylike fashion and tried to quicken my pace. I rounded a corner and found myself on Sixth Avenue. The crowd was even denser here. And, interestingly enough, this particular conglomeration seemed to be made up almost entirely of women. I looked up at the words on an awning over my head: Hermitage Hotel. That would explain it. From what I had heard, this hotel served as a sort of command center for the suffragists in Nashville. The ladies seemed to be on red-alert today, as the hour of judgment drew ever nearer. 

The concentration of yellow roses here was particularly high. I found myself completely surrounded by women sporting the bright little buds. As I made my way through the crowd, my eyes fell upon a woman with a small table near the entrance of the hotel. She was snipping yellow rose buds and handing them out to the eager women by whom she was completely engulfed. I shouldered my way through the swarms of women and promptly found myself eye to eye with the lady on the other side of the table. She was the first to speak:

“Good morning, dear! Do you need a rose to pin on that lovely dress of yours?” she asked with a smile. 

“If you don’t mind my asking: What are they for?”

She raised an eyebrow and gestured toward a dapper gentleman in a well-pressed suit.  “Do you see that man over there?” she asked, “You see that red rose on his jacket?”

Indeed I did. 

She continued, “That rose tells us that that gentleman is an anti-suffragist. My rose,” she 

tapped her yellow flower, “tells the world that I’m a suffragist.” 

That would explain why I had seen so many women sporting yellow roses this morning. I

lifted a rosebud to my nose and indulged in its sweet smell. 

“Would you like one? They’re free!” she smiled again. 

As a journalist, I knew it was my job to stay objective, but I just couldn’t say no. I elected to take a flower and keep it concealed until after the vote. I said goodbye to the jovial woman and resumed my journey to the capitol building. I knew it couldn’t be far off. I walked to the end of the block and turned in the direction of my destination. Eventually, I looked up and saw the clean, white dome of the capitol. With the end in sight, I fell in with the rest of the large crowd headed up the hill. 

I introduced myself as a journalist to a man at the door, and I was quickly ushered into the marbled lobby. I was directed to a staircase down the hall which led to a balcony full of other reporters, as well as a great number of suffragists sporting yellow sashes. I had barely taken out my pen and paper when the speaker asked for motions and a man in the assembly stood to speak. 

“I would like to move to ratify the 19th amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America.”

The room fell silent. The tension was almost tangible. I started to tally up the numbers of yellow and red roses on the lapels of the congressmen on the ground floor in an effort to predict the outcome of this vote. To my chagrin, it was almost impossible to tell which side had the advantage, as there appeared to be an equal distribution of both types of roses. 

Instead of putting the motion to a vote, the speaker of the assembly went to the podium and raised his own motion: A motion to table the resolution. In my opinion, tabling the amendment was only delaying the inevitable. Tennessee was the last state needed to ratify the 19th amendment, and the suffragists were not going down without a fight. 

The motion to table received a second, and the motion was put to a vote. I could tell it was going to be a close run. The crowd waited patiently while the votes were tallied. Everyone was suffering from the unspoken fear that the resolution would be tabled, and women would have to wait even longer to gain their vote.  

Moments later, the results were in. 

It was a tie. 

My suspicions appeared to be correct: The assembly was equally divided. With the motion to table indeterminate, the next course of action was to vote on the original matter of ratification. This was the suffragists’ last chance to see the resolution passed today. They were moments away from receiving a verdict on their rights.  

I suddenly became aware of the sweltering heat in the assembly room. I had become so invested in the situation that I had forgotten how hot it was. I began fanning myself with my notepad, as I gazed down at the representatives. My eyes fell upon a man who appeared much too young to be in the House of Representatives. He, too, had become aware of the heat and seemed to be looking around his desk for some sort of relief. His fingers brushed past the red rose on his lapel as he unbuttoned his coat and reached into his inner pocket to retrieve a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his brow. However, as he went to replace the cloth, a small piece of paper fell out from within its folds. He looked at it quizzically and began to unfold it. It appeared as though he had no idea the note was in his pocket, and whatever was on the page was equally surprising to him. 

At this point, the vote on the motion for ratification was well underway. The vote was proceeding as expected; the assembly remained equally divided. I was beginning to doubt the success of today’s vote. It seemed the anti-suffragists were determined to keep this amendment from being ratified, even if it meant dragging out the process with ties and tabling. 

“Mr. Burn?” someone shouted.

I suddenly became aware that it was the speaker. He seemed confused, if not slightly irritated. I looked over the crowd below to see who had elicited this questioning. No one responded to the speaker, and I remained uncertain of to whom he was speaking. 

“Mr. Burn?” he repeated. 

Suddenly, the young representative I had noticed earlier looked up. He was still mulling over the note he had found in his pocket. 

 “Yes?” the young man replied. 

“Would you care to cast your vote?” he droned, this time without concealing his annoyance, “Do you vote ‘aye’ or ‘no’ to ratification of the 19th Amendment?”

The young man slowly stood up. He folded the note with shaking hands and returned it to the pocket in which he found it. He looked up at the speaker slowly and deliberately. The red of his rose was piercingly bright. 

“Aye.” 

The room erupted in hushed murmurs. If he was wearing a red rose, why would he vote in favor of ratification? I began furiously scrawling notes onto my pad of paper. Something powerful had just happened; I just wasn’t sure what it was yet. 

The rest of the vote seemed to fly by and was over before I knew it. Once the votes were in, we were forced to wait for the final tally, yet again. If the tension had been tangible before, it was almost concrete now. Suffragists and anti-suffragists alike were fanning themselves profusely and twiddling their thumbs in anticipation. Finally, the speaker was given the tally and went to the podium to announce it. 

49 to 47 in favor of ratification. 

The suffragists had done it! Mr. Burn’s last minute change of heart broke the tie and made Tennessee the newest state to ratify the 19th Amendment to the Constitution. With this victory, the amendment had garnered the 36 states needed to be officially added to the Constitution and the right to vote would no longer be “denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.” 

I rushed from the balcony to position myself closer to the representatives so I could track down Mr. Burn after the session ended. Eventually, I spotted him among some other representatives, and I pushed my way through the jubilant crowd to reach him.  

“Excuse me, Mr. Burn? I couldn’t help but notice you reading something right before your vote. Can you tell me what that was?” 

“That,” he said with a grin, “was a letter from my mother. She told me to be a good boy and give women the right to vote. I’ve always been a good boy, and good boys listen to their mothers.” 

I smiled back at him, “Thank you, Mr. Burn. I’ll be sure to mention your mother in my article.” 

I began to walk away to leave him to the host of reporters who were now targeting him. But at the last minute I remembered something and turned back.

“Mr. Burn,” I began, fumbling at the pockets in my dress, “I thought you might want to trade that rose for this one.” 

I handed him the yellow rose the woman gave me this morning. He looked down at the red rose on his lapel and unpinned it from the material with a smile. Yellow suited him much better. 

“Thank you,” he said with a wink, “but you didn’t have to give me anything.”

“Of course I did,” I replied, “You gave me my right to vote.” 

Sorry, Not Sorry

I am 12 years old.
I am in my first community theatre production.
Some of the kids are backstage debating whether or not it's okay to be gay.
I snatch a Bible from the prop table and present them all with undeniable evidence that
being gay is a sin.
I have never known a gay person.

I am 13 years old.
There's a girl in my class.
She has bright blue eyes and is probably too cool to be my friend, but for some reason
she takes a liking to me.
She gives me a hug every day before class.
I am disappointed on the days when she forgets.

I am 14 years old.
My family and I attend the high school graduation of one of my older friends.
The announcer calls her name, and I cheer extra loud.
My mother turns to me with eyes like daggers and asks,
“What is she, your girlfriend?”
I say of course not.
I wonder what she would do if I said yes.

I am 15 years old.
I finally have my first boyfriend-- a good Christian boy with blonde hair
whose parents don't let us go on dates unsupervised.
One day, as we walk out of school, he kisses me.
It's my first kiss.
I don't feel anything.

I am 16 years old.
I am in another community theatre show.
I make friends with one of my castmates. He is gay.
I grow to love him not in spite of who he is, but because of who he is.
I wonder how the God who created him could feel any differently.

I am 17 years old.
I have a new boyfriend.
We date for almost 3 years.
We break up.
I wonder what comes next.

I am 21 years old.
I watch my friends entertain a revolving door of Tinder dates.
I entertain a couple myself.
I never feel anything.
Every time a boy walks me home, I desperately hope he won't try to kiss me.

I am 22 years old.
I have recently grown very close to one of my former college roommates.
One night at a bar, she informs me she might go home with a guy she's just met.
I feel like my heart has been torn in two.
I can't understand why I care.

I am 22 years old.
I am still spending lots of time with this girl.
We like to sleep at each other's apartments after lengthy rehearsals and nights of bar-hopping.
In the middle of one of these platonic sleepovers, we kiss.
And I realize that this is what kissing is supposed to feel like.

I am 22 years old.
I am in love with a girl.
It doesn't feel unnatural or wrong.
It feels like the only right thing I have ever done or will ever do again.

I am 24 years old.
I’m still in love with that girl.
We are building a life together--a home.
We kiss each other goodbye every morning before work.
We never forget.

It took me 24 years to find myself.
To break free of the theology that had defined my whole life.

My upbringing tells me that I am damned if I love her.
My heart tells me that I am damned if I don't.

So I will love her.

And I won't apologize for it.

Locker Room Talk

"You know I'm automatically attracted to beautiful... I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait. And when you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything...Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything."

-Donald Trump

U.S. Presidential Nominee

Allow me to make something exceedingly clear:

If you have, in any way, attempted to defend Donald Trump's comments about how he likes to grope women without their consent, I can no longer trust you. If you think that is acceptable behavior, then you have shown me that I am not safe around you. This is particularly true if you are male.

This is about so much more than a political disagreement.

If you are voting for this man after what he said, you ARE condoning his actions. You ARE supporting a system that perpetuates violence against women.

Donald Trump wasn't a hapless teenager when he made those comments. He wasn't saying: "Wouldn't it be fun if I grabbed women without their consent?"

He was saying "Here is a thing I do."

This isn't just about talk. This was him DESCRIBING his OWN ACTIONS.

If you think people are upset about these tapes because of some crude language, you are wrong.

People are upset about the tapes because they feature a PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE detailing the way he takes advantage of actual, living, breathing, human women.

This man DOES NOT represent "family values." He CERTAINLY does not behave in a way that emulates the "light of Christ."

I have a teenage sister. I am terrified by the idea of her coming of age in a society run by this man.

How can you hold your friends, family, or children to any sort of moral standard and then vote for a man whose moral compass is so dangerously skewed?

I am so distraught by what is happening in the evangelical community right now. I see my family and friends abandoning their long-held values in what feels like some Orwellian nightmare.

There's a story in the Bible that I have always found confusing:

All 4 of the canonical gospels recount the story of Barabbas. In the story, Pontius Pilate offers the Jewish people a choice. He will release from custody one of two prisoners: Jesus or Barabbas.

Jesus is accused of blasphemy. Barabbas is a "notorious criminal." Some accounts even call him a murderer.

To me, the choice always seemed rather obvious. Why would the people opt for the release of a repeat offender who may or may not be violent over the release of Jesus--a pacifist preacher who was seemingly well-liked?

The people chose Barabbas.

The religious elite had sown such discontentment among the Jewish people that they opted for the release of a dangerous criminal over a man who, as the story goes, had come to save their souls-- a man who shared many, if not most, of their values.

It seems to me that, at this point, voting for Donald Trump is like requesting the release of Barabbas.

Please do not misunderstand--I am in no way saying that Hillary Clinton is analogous to Jesus Christ. She is a human. She is flawed. She has made mistakes. There is no comparison.

But the reality is that a vote for Donald Trump is not a vote to preserve or protect your values. Voting for Donald Trump is a betrayal of your own beliefs, the same way demanding the release of Barabbas was a betrayal.

Donald Trump is not a Christian. If you believe he is, then you have been fooled. Donald Trump has publicly stated that he has never prayed to God for forgiveness. He does not feel it is necessary. Donald Trump uses language that would never have been allowed in my Christian household. Donald Trump regularly talks about women in a foul, degrading manner. Donald Trump does not believe in helping the less fortunate--if he did, he would have paid his fair share of taxes to contribute to the greater good. Donald Trump regularly lies, cheats, and steals. Every time he refuses to pay someone for their services, he is stealing from them. He has been married 3 times. He has been openly adulterous. The list goes on and on.

Do you really think, after all of those things, that he embodies your values?

He flippantly admitted to sexually assaulting women.

I hope I don't have to explain that grabbing someone's genitals without their consent is sexual assault. It is criminal.

Your presidential candidate admitted to a sex crime on tape.

And you're making excuses.

There are no excuses.

I know everyone wants to compare Trump's behavior to Bill Clinton's. You may do so if you feel so inclined. But it doesn't change the fact that Bill Clinton is not running for president. It doesn't change the fact that all of the supposed examples of Hillary mistreating women are unsubstantiated hearsay. It doesn't change the fact that Hillary Clinton defended a child rapist because it was her JOB. Because she was a LAWYER.

If you are only voting for Trump because Hillary Clinton is pro-choice, you need to rethink your priorities. If you are willing to abandon the majority of your values over ONE issue, you are squandering your right to vote out of fear (and out of a lack of understanding of how checks and balances work).

You don't have to vote for Hillary. You don't. You also don't have to vote for Trump. You don't have to vote at all, actually. Is a vote for Trump a vote you can really be proud of? If Jesus Christ himself came back tomorrow, would you be able to defend your vote to him?

Is Trump the candidate you think best represents your values?

If so, I have a lot of questions about your character. You should, too.

My Brother Killed Himself, And You Don't Care

Over the past few weeks, I have heard so much talk about gun control. Or lack thereof.

We are faced with some new tragic gun crime almost daily. Mass shootings flicker onto our television screens at an alarming frequency. It has become commonplace. So commonplace, in fact, that it's totally normal for me to hear tell of some new tragedy via Facebook.

And with each new shooting, I witness the same half-witted battle between those of us who support gun control and those of you who support guns.

If I wanted to, I could sit here and type up an incredibly convincing, fact-based argument for gun control. I could hit you with statistics and legal jargon surrounding the interpretation of the 2nd amendment. I could talk until I was blue in the face about how supposed gun rights are proving to be the ruination of our society.

I could. But I won't. Not today.

See, I've heard all the arguments:
"Gun control won't solve anything. Murderers aren't going to follow the rules anyway."
"Gun control will never work in America because the mental health system blows."
"The only way to prevent more mass shootings is to introduce more guns into the equation."

These arguments, aside from being poorly constructed (let's be honest), also only address a very small part of America's gun problem.

According to the CDC, in 2013 over 33,000 Americans were killed by firearms. 21,000 of those deaths were suicides.*

That means about 2/3 of the gun deaths in this country were suicides.

But you won't hear about that on CNN.

In 2013, my 19 year-old step-brother committed suicide. He was the kindest, funniest, and seemingly happiest person I ever knew. And when he was 19 years old--an age at which males are at a very high risk of developing depression-- he was able to legally obtain a gun and use it to kill himself. Someone sold a severely depressed teenager a firearm and by extension sealed his fate and the fate of his entire family. Our lives will never be the same.

Just gonna hit you with that number one more time: 21,000 people shot and killed themselves in 2013. My step-brother was one of them.

No one cares.

You gun-lovers don't care. You make excuses. You will fight tooth and nail for your right to possess an object designed for one purpose and one purpose only: Killing. Death. Murder. Destruction.

A gun destroyed Tyler's life. A gun destroyed my family.

What does the NRA have to say about those 21,000 lives lost? Do they believe more guns will solve the suicide problem? When someone threatens to shoot themselves, what's a good guy with a gun gonna do?

I'll wait for an answer on that one.

Here's what no one wants to admit about guns: Everyone is secretly in favor of gun control.

I am in favor of controlling people's access to firearms.
You, my gun-loving friends, are in favor of controlling the world around you with a firearm.

I often wonder what it must feel like to walk around in such fear all the time that you feel it is necessary to carry around such a precise, effective weapon.

I'm a 20 year-old female who lives in New York City. I have never been so afraid of my surroundings that I wished I was packing a gun. In fact, I recently stopped carrying my pepper spray.

That being said, I have a hard time believing people's gun dependency is borne out of any genuine fear. It's borne out of a need for power. And a fear of change.

(Have any of you NRA people figured out how more guns will prevent another 21,000 people from killing themselves this year?)

Didn't think so.

It's sad, you know. Watching people arguing via Facebook. Having people explain to me why their right to bear arms is so damn important.

Having people explain to me why their right to bear arms was more important than giving my 19 year-old step-brother half a shot at making it out alive.

I appreciate the dialogue people attempt to have about reforming our half-baked gun laws. But I don't know why it takes a mass murder to get people talking when twice as many people kill themselves with guns every year than are killed by other people.

There was no national outcry when my brother died. At his own hands. At the hands of society. At the hands of a system that makes it easier for a teenager to purchase a firearm than a glass of wine.

So while you guys are over there arguing about how gun reform is nothing but a huge inconvenience, my family and I will be over here picking up the pieces of our shattered lives and trying to put them back together.

Don't mind us.





*http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/suicide.htm

An Open Letter to the Williamson County Board of Education

To Whom it May Concern: 

     I hope you appreciate my business letter format. I did, after all, learn it from you. I was a part of the Williamson County School System from the time I was in 2nd grade up through my graduation in the spring of 2013. During my time as a WCS student, I (and many of my classmates) took issue with several decisions made and changes implemented by the school board. But I have never been so disappointed with Williamson County Schools as I am now in light of the appointment of Mark Gregory as chairman of the school board. 

     Yes, this is about the "ButtleOpener."

     Mark Gregory's "ButtleOpener" is not just a tacky, tasteless novelty item. It is offensive. And it speaks to the character of a man who claims to represent the values of  "the majority of constituents in our county." I hope, for the sake of the thousands of females whom the school board represents, that his values are not aligned with the majority of the county's. 

     The "ButtleOpener" is repugnant. It is disgusting. I am disgusted by it. It is an incredible example of objectification in action. A woman's body has been reduced to nothing more than her rear. And, to make things worse, that rear serves only as a tool. A gimmick. A joke. On the surface, most people seem to be viewing the "ButtleOpener" as inappropriate due to its appearance. But I take issue with the very design and functionality of this "harmless" invention. All it takes is a quick Google search to find a YouTube video of the "ButtleOpener" in action. The video features a cute, scantily clad young woman with a beer in hand. But the cutesie facade crumbles away the second she crosses to the "ButtleOpener" and goes to open her beer. 

     When I first read about Gregory's invention, the first question I had was, "How was this man ever allowed to make decisions about my education?" And the second question was, "How does this thing even work?" Presently, I still have no answer to my first question, but I wish I hadn't found the answer to the second. 

     To open a bottle with the "ButtleOpener," one must insert the bottle under the female rear, where the actual bottle opener is located. I think it's important to stop for a second and consider the visual involved here. What does this action seem to imply? Maybe it's just me, but the image of a bottle being placed in a woman's rear-end doesn't seem quite as harmless as Gregory wants us to think it is. To me, this is a sexually-charged, if not explicit, image. And, in my humble opinion, it has an undercurrent of imagery suggesting elements of a particularly cruel form of sexual assault. 

     This being said, now is probably an appropriate time to mention that, in instances of sexual assault within Williamson County schools, the responsibility of investigating the assault falls to none other than the Williamson County Board of Education. A Board of Education that is now chaired by the man who invented such a degrading novelty as the "ButtleOpener." An invention that was conceived after Mark and his brother ogled the behind of a woman who was serving them in a restaurant. They reduced that server to her behind, too. 

     I have a thirteen year old sister who is currently attending school in Williamson County. I am uncomfortable with the knowledge that her education is being determined by a man like Mark Gregory. But I am even more disturbed by the thought that if, God forbid, my sister ever found herself the victim of a sexual assault or harassment, the outcome of her case would be determined by the likes of a man who sees no problem with sticking a bottle in a plastic rear-end because it's funny and "boys will be boys." 

     From a legal perspective, Gregory's presence on the board has opened quite a can of worms for Williamson County Schools because the credibility of the board with respect to sexual assault and harassment has been completely undermined by his revolting invention. How can the school board make any fair decisions about what is or is not appropriate behavior when the board itself is under the control of a man who seems to have no concept of what is appropriate?

     Frankly, it makes me sick to think that this man has been on the school board since I was in the 4th grade. If a student ever exhibited such sexually inappropriate behavior, he/she would have faced serious consequences. The same is true for teachers. So why should a member of the school board be allowed to engage in such behavior and still maintain such a position of power? 

     If Mark Gregory wants to invent and distribute an objectifying, tasteless novelty item, that is his prerogative. However, as chairman of the school board, he should be held to a much higher standard. I will be encouraging my friends and family with ties to Williamson County Schools to voice their dissatisfaction with Mark Gregory's position as chairman. If the board is supposed to reflect the values of its constituents, then the constituents' opinions should be of the utmost importance in such a matter as this. Personally, I believe the "ButtleOpener" speaks volumes about Mark Gregory's opinions of women and, consequently, his ability to effectively govern a diverse student body in one of the greatest school systems in the country. 

     Gregory and his "ButtleOpener" are a disgrace. 

     My little sister deserves so much better. 

Sincerely, 

Delaney Amatrudo

Fred J. Page High School Class of '13  

This is (Not) a Blog About Gay Marriage

I have a lot of Conservative friends on Facebook, and, consequently, I often run across articles and things that they have posted, liked, commented on, etc.

Recently, for example, I saw more than one person post articles about Buger King's new "Proud Whopper." This was a temporary promotion Burger King ran at one single, solitary store in San Francisco around the time of the gay pride parade there. If you don't live in San Francisco/you don't frequent this one particular store, this will not impact your life in any way. Yet somehow, this became a HUGE deal to those who oppose gay marriage.

This is not a blog about gay marriage, though.

This is a blog about kindness.

Because the responses I read to this story were absolutely revolting.

I debated whether I should include any of the negative comments because they are incredibly offensive. But I have decided to quote some of them here to make a point. So here are a couple of things people wrote in response to articles about one (1) Burger King supporting gay rights during Pride Week.

"Will 1 in 5 of the Whoppers contain HIV, just like gay men in real life?"

"Filthy homosexuality is nothing to be 'proud' of. 'Pride'?!? More like a complete absence of any shame whatsoever."

"I wonder if the "Proud Whopper" comes with a fruit salad?"

"I crossed Subway off my list for their all-halal menu. Now I'll cross BK off my list, too."

Those are just a couple of them. I left out the more offensive/graphic/profane ones. 

But now it's my turn to respond. 

No matter what you believe, no matter what deity you worship, no matter how old you are, no matter how well-educated you are, you do not have the right to belittle or degrade another human being.

I am sick and tired of politics serving as an excuse to speak to and about people like they are less than human.

And if you think your beliefs give you license to speak negatively about people who believe differently than you, than all I can say to you is: Shame on you. 

I know what you're going to say: 
"I have freedom of speech. I have freedom of expression. I have freedom of religion."

You're darn right you do. But my question is this: 

Is your right to "speak your mind" more important than the feelings of the people who stand to be hurt by your words? 

It is time to grow up, America. It is time for ALL of us to show some respect for one another. We are all people. We deserve to be treated as such. There will always be people whose beliefs and ideals differ from yours. But when you choose anger, when you choose to be unkind, you are weak. To sit behind a computer screen and write horrific things about another human or group of humans is the greatest demonstration of weakness that I can imagine. 

And you are wrong. You are wrong to be so blinded by hate that you would compromise the feelings of a living, breathing individual. 

It is time to stop treating politics and society as some enormous battleground. It is not a war to be won. At our core, we all seek to be treated fairly and equally. And we deserve to be treated as such. 

If you can't say something nice (read: constructive) don't say anything at all. Because on the other side of that computer is a person with feelings. There is no excuse to be anything less than kind. Ever. Your beliefs don't give you a free pass. You aren't "speaking God's truth" if you are too busy calling people names and typing up denigrating comments on your tablet.

Because, whether you like it or not, we ARE all the same inside. And I won't stand to see people treated unfairly anymore.

And hopefully neither will you.

A Crafty Metaphor

I have asthma.

I have had asthma for about as long as I can remember.

I struggled for years trying to get it under control. I've tried just about every medication under the sun, largely without luck. Until a couple of years ago when I was prescribed a medication called Flovent. It was the first medication that ever kept my asthma comfortably under control. It's a preventative medication to keep me from having asthma attacks. I could probably live without it, but in order to do so I would have to refrain from physically exerting tasks and activities.

Anyways.

About a year ago, I went into my local pharmacy to get my Flovent refilled. When I went to check out, I was informed that my insurance policy no longer covered this medication (a medication with no generic equivalent). And in order to walk out with this medication today, (which had been prescribed to me by my doctor) I would have to cough up $70 out of pocket.

So now I had to make a choice. I was sort of painted into a corner because my two options were as follows:
1. Come up with $70 today to take home my inhaler. And then come up with $70 every month or so to refill it.
2. Walk away without my prescribed medication and go back to the drawing board trying to find a medication that works for me.

Tough choice, right?

I'm a college student in New York City. As much as I wish I could have come up with the capital to pay for that medicine, the reality was that I couldn't afford it. So I walked away from the pharmacy empty-handed that day.

"Well," you say, "if you can't afford your asthma medication, maybe you shouldn't go for a run.*"

I suppose that's one kind of preventative measure. But, if you ask me, I shouldn't have to quit doing something that I have every right to do. Nor should I have to quit doing something that I enjoy doing just because a corporation decided my medication wasn't worth covering. Someone devised this medication so I could go for a run or take a dance class without running the risk of having an asthma attack. And I have medical insurance to cover me for my day-to-day medical needs. So why is gaining access to that medication suddenly so difficult?

Unfortunately, finances play a huge role in most people's decisions, including mine. If I had the $70 kicking around, I totally would have spent it on that medicine (a medicine that isn't necessarily life-saving but certainly makes my life a lot easier). But since I didn't (and don't) have that kind of money, I essentially had no choice other than to walk away and try to figure out something else.

I had no right to choose. The only "person" whose choice was honored in this situation was the corporation who chose to no longer pay for my medication.

I doubt Flovent was taken off the list of preferred prescriptions for any religious reasons. But if someone is ever going to deny me medication based on the corporation's religious beliefs, I sure hope they do everything they can to make sure those values are upheld in every aspect of their business.

Because if it's THAT important to you, you should have no problem divesting in companies with opposing beliefs. And you should also have no problem with only outsourcing your labor to countries who share your ideals.

Sure, it'll probably cost you more money.  But that's your problem, right? Your right to choose.


*Okay, okay, I don't run. It was just for the sake of the metaphor, geez.