socialism even works sometimes

The San Francisco Department of Public Health requires all health care workers (including mental health) to pass a tuberculosis (TB) test before working face-to-face with San Francisco residents. In order to fulfill this and finally be able to see clients at my practicum agency, and without health insurance of my own, I have gone to the:

1. Berkeley Free Clinic over Labor Day. Since this is volunteer gig for the workers there, the medical staff did not show up on a holiday weekend.

2. Back to the Berkeley Free Clinic a week later, to hopefully do the skin test for TB. Got that done, thank god.

3. Back to the Berkeley Free Clinic a week after that, to get my skin test results. Not surprisingly, because I've had a TB vaccine as an infant in Russia, the skin test was positive (at least I know the vaccine is still in there working?). This means that I don't have clearance and must get chest x-rays taken in order to verify that I do not indeed have TB (the working vaccine and lack of any symptoms apparently are not enough for a rule-out diagnosis).

4. A week later, off to the Berkeley Department of Public Health, which was listed under resources who might do x-rays without insurance, as given to me by the Berkeley Free Clinic. Turns out, this is a government building without medical equipment or medical staff. Go to the county hospital, crazy lady!

5. The same day, show up at the County Hospital, who allegedly provides services to the uninsured. And yes, they do, they could even do those damn x-rays, except not today. How about an appointment in a week?

6. Show up for my x-ray appointment, while skipping other scheduled responsibilities, because this is my only chance, clearly. After a few hours of jumping through bureaucratic hoops, I finally get a chest x-ray! The process of which takes less than 2 minutes. Oh, but they have to develop the x-ray and have a medical staff look at it, so come back in another week to get the final results.

7. Here I am. Next week is October and I started this whole ordeal over Labor Day. I still have no proof that I don't have TB, but I hope that the end is in sight. Wish me luck that the x-ray and TB gods will smile on this last leg of my journey as an uninsured consumer of public medicine.

But just imagine that even after all this, I am still a firm supporter of socialized healthcare. I am even pretty excited that in this country of extreme capitalism, run in part by banks and insurance companies, I am fairly able to have my needs met in hard financial times when I cannot pay extra for medical coverage. We have a lot to learn, of course, about how to run socialized programs, but giving up on them is not a way to get to a place where people are taken care of regardless of income.

on being bisexual

Huh, I haven't thought or said this out loud in years. Because even I, much like the rest of the world, have fallen into the trap of thinking that just because I am a woman married to a man, I must be heterosexual. But of course, it's not really true, and I need to stop letting my relationship define my identity*.

This summer, what with the whole Prop 8 debate and various movements for social change springing up across the country, the APA Convention featured research specifically on LGBT topics. As I sat through lecture after lecture from leading scientists in this field, it became apparent how important claiming one's identity and finding a community is for psychological health. I felt empowered. Scared, and slightly embarrassed of my easily disguised as majority status, but also ready to be more vocal.

Because there are a lot of misconceptions, or simply unknowns, about bisexuality. Most people tend to think of it either as adolescent experimentation that fades into heterosexuality or as a gateway to homosexuality, but not as a stand-alone orientation. I guess these assumptions might stem from our need to categorize and the simplicity of labeling a relationship by the two sexes involved. But we need to understand and educate ourselves about this phenomenon that affects a good number of people, so that it might bring us closer to a more enlightened, peaceful and accepting world.

*Meaning that the person I chose to share my life with happens to be a man, and because we are in a monogamous relationship, I haven't given my attractions a lot of thought lately. But when I am honest and genuine with myself, my fantasies include both men and women. Both sexes have a equal potential for hotness.

expanding

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Three of my 5.5 work days I spend all the way in the Outer Richmond area of San Francisco. It takes me nearly two hours to commute to this distant neighborhood by climbing various hills and riding various buses and metro systems. Although I am generally surrounded by water, it used to be a rarity that I saw the Pacific Ocean. The Richmond is known for some of the worst weather in the city, which is also known to be worse than Berkeley. And usually, when people say "bad San Francisco weather"--meaning cold and misty, I translate it into "pleasantly cool and refreshing". Except in the Richmond. There, the rolling fog from the ocean never lifts above the tree line and the whole neighborhood feels like a dry ice incubator. So I take four hours of my day to transport from the sunny land of tie-dye shirts and Birkenstocks to the North Pole of the Bay Area. All to help immigrants adjust to their lives in the US, among other things.

It's a dang good thing I love my work. And the clients better be worth it; it's all I'm saying.

It is stunning out there though. Once I adjust to having to wear an extra sweater, and perhaps a hat, I'll fully appreciate the beautiful views and character of this neighborhood. The Outer Richmond is raised a bit on a hill, so as you turn in a circle from any one point, you go from gazing at the ocean to the Golden Gate Bridge to the sparkling downtown skyline to the forest of the Golden Gate Park. But because of how far this area is (with a commute of 1-1.5 hrs to anywhere within the city even), it remains rather unpopular by general hipsters San Franciscans. This leaves it quiet, peaceful, and undisturbed. There isn't even a Starbucks out there, and all the small businesses are locally owned by the Russians, the Vietnamese, the Chinese, and Thai people. It is enough removed from the hustle and bustle of inner city life, but still maintains an urban atmosphere. Yeah, I could even see myself living out there someday.

***

Dear giant,

We are close, and you know just how to cut me.

I know I do it, too, but my weapons seem like measly butter knives: weak, unformulated, flat. You come at me with full-on sharp and dangerous machetes. Articulated and precise, you are confident. You are calculating. We both see that you know how to bring me down.

There's nothing but a ring of panic in my ears. I flinch, I throw my punches in fear and desperation. As always, there is no shield. I run, I shrivel, I look up.

You stab and I bleed, even if I can't really cry. All that's left to say is: congratulations, you won.

Love and un-love,
female

back

So, it's been two months since I last wrote here, and in that time I've been to Mexico and back. I meant to write in that time, of course I did. And actually, I did write, mentally, in my head. But my mind was far too often far too overwhelmed and tired by the time I was anywhere near a computer, and nothing materialized here.

So I am back. And I guess I'll start at the end and go backwardly from there.

I was nervous about coming back to the US. I always suffer from a severe culture shock when I return from foreign countries. Most of it having to do with the richness and greediness and the utter sterility and, often, a lack of soul that becomes so apparent about life in the US. I know that people experience this country differently, and in fact, most people love the comforts and the availability of stuff. But I get melancholic. Food starts to taste bland, the landscape only offers sprawling strip malls and oversized houses. Driving, again, becomes a necessity. Conversations start to seem trite and everyone around me carries an air of entitlement. And I don't even live in the most typical place of America. I live in the Bay Area, what with all its ocean life and redwoods, and naked people protesting something or other on almost every street corner. Yes, it's easier than usual to find some sort of meaning to life in this 30 mile radius. But even still, I remember coming back from England (the land of trains, and sheep, and pubs) last year, in tears, as we descended from the Sierra Mountains into the developed, oppressive valleys of Central California.

But this time, we landed in LA (I know, LA! The culture shock should be worse!) and I was quickly scooped away, past all the smog and vanity of the city and into a more rural life along the coast line. There I was met with ocean-fresh air and the smell of pine trees. I could go to the beach, and eat fresh sushi, and feel the dry heat on my shoulders. People were happy to see me, and I was glad to be exactly where I was.

For the first time in my busy two months, I breathed deep down and exhaled loudly. It was good to come home, after all.