thepsychoticfuckingbiotic asked: I know we are angryasiangirlsunited but I have to say... Sometimes I'm tired of being angry, you know? I want to be able to live my life without having someone carelessly walk over me, my identity, and my brothers and sisters. I just wanna exist without having to be made aware of my identity as an outsider on a regular basis. It's exhausting.
“The authors of the IOM report indicated that they found some evidence to suggest that bias, prejudice, and stereotyping by providers may contribute to differences in care. It is possible that food and nutrition practitioners have the same biases and are presented with the same systems challenges as the health care providers referenced in the IOM report. It is, therefore, also possible that food and nutrition practitioners may be at risk of contributing to health disparities. ” (From http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21338747)
It’s not “possible” - IT IS FACT. At least three of the other interns I work with have shown prejudices and biases. One is blatantly racist. I’ve seen preceptors and other RDs display biases that I think contribute to health disparities. Most of the AND information? Made for white people. There’s been some change, with some Spanish and Chinese information, but for the most part, if I need something in another language, I’m using a USDA or other .gov site.
"Sea of white female faces." TRUTH. At nutrition conferences, I tend to gravitate to anyone who isn’t a white, blonde female because it’s usually overwhelming to be in a crowd of women who looked like they stepped off the set of "Children of the Corn." Sometimes, I’m the only one who isn’t a white, blonde female.
At one conference, I eagerly went to a panel titled something along the lines of “Nutrition From Around the World.” The panel consisted of one white American who had married a British white guy talking about mainly Indian food. She was corrected a few times by an Indian lady in the audience. I walked out when she started talking about Asian cusine and her “experts” she had gotten advice from were her friends who had traveled to China and Japan.
I mean, really… “According to a 2007 ADA survey, 86.55% of the organization’s members are white; 3.69% are black; 4.08% are Asian, Native Hawaiian, or Pacific Islander; 3.34% are Hispanic; and 0.52% are American Indian/Alaskan. More than 96% of members are female.” (From http://www.todaysdietitian.com/newarchives/td_030909p26.shtml)
The Academy tries to do something about it. Kind of. From what I’ve heard of these programs, they’ve been failing because there aren’t that many older RDs who are POC to act as mentors. Maybe in a few years (when more of the RDs2Be who are POC become RDs) maybe then the programs will work. http://www.eatright.org/ACEND/content.aspx?id=6442452704
The truth of the matter is that the Academy is going to have address the fact that becoming a dietitian is incredibly expensive and that few POC can afford to go through school and then the internship.
And could we get an Asian MIG? Yes, I know there’s the Chinese, Asian Indian, and Filipino MIGs, but I think there would be more inclusivisity if there was an Asian MIG. And I’d also like to see an American Indian MIG.
These are the MIGs, most of which are new in the last few years:
Asian Indians in Nutrition and Dietetics (New MIG starting June 1, 2014)
Chinese Americans in Dietetics and Nutrition (CADN)
Fifty Plus in Nutrition and Dietetics (FPIND)
Filipino Americans in Dietetics and Nutrition (FADAN)
Jewish Member Interest Group (JMIG)
Latinos and Hispanics in Dietetics and Nutrition (LAHIDAN)
Muslims in Dietetics and Nutrition (MIDAN)
National Organization of Blacks in Dietetics and Nutrition (NOBIDAN)
National Organization of Men in Nutrition (NOMIN)
Thirty and Under in Nutrition and Dietetics (TUND)
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
— r.d. (via vonmoire)
this is all true and perfect and awful. and dudes, one of the worst things you can do in a situation where you witness “those guys” is say “not all guys are like that.” the last time a man screamed out his car window that i was a slut, an unknown man walking the other way turned to me and said, “i’m sorry that guy’s an asshole. have a good night, okay?”
if you feel you absolutely must comment on the situation, model yourself on that man. don’t make excuses for yourself or “guys” as a whole or, in fact, anyone. don’t center your concern on what this says about you or about what i might think of you in the face of your fellows’ abusive behavior. if you want to express concern or sympathy, center it around me and then shut up. any concern you have about what this says about you or about “guys” is valid, and you should probably think about it, but that is not my problem. i am not interested in affirming how good it is of you to have noticed that something bad happened or reassuring you that you’re not one of “them.” violence has just been done to me. either stay out of it or worry about me. keep your introspection to your damn self.
Oh god. I’ve been eagerly watching the final episodes of The West Wing season 4 (instead of doing my homework) because I remembered this was the season where Sorkin basically said “Fuck you!” to the people who fired him. “Let’s see you write your way out of this!”
But I had completely forgotten John Goodman was the Speaker of the House. Couple this with the fact that I just recced Alpha House to a friend a few minutes ago, I’m now cracking up.
Anonymous asked: How would Fitzsimmons act around the science bros? And/or vice versa?
Today in my Human Sexuality class we were discussing puberty, and our male teacher was talking about teen guys getting boners at the drop of a hat, and one of the female students said something like, “Yeah, but girls have to say to each other like, ‘Can you just double-check me and see … you know …?’” and the teacher was like, “Yeah, but I mean something other people can’t miss seeing,” and I came so fucking close to yelling, “SHE MEANS THAT SOMETIMES WE BLEED THROUGH OUR CLOTHES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.”
At least a boner goes away, blood stains are forever and periods don’t suddenly vanish by us sitting and thinking about baseball really intensely.
Just imagine. A world where women can just magically suck the blood back up by thinking about old people.
Oh man, just picture it. A world where nursing homes never need volunteers again, as everyone with a vagina pops up about once a month to spend all their free time overly focused on everyone there. It’d be perfect. Old folks get the care and attention they need and vaginas stop fucking bleeding when we don’t want them to.