Written and Illustrated by Koriander Bullard Racial injustice has been illustrated to me very well recently.
MMA fighter Kimbo Slice died suddenly on June 6th. Reports are inconclusive, but ESPN is claiming he may have been waiting for a heart transplant at the time of his sudden death. Just three days earlier, Muhammad Ali had also died after a long battle against Parkinson's syndrome with the official cause rumored to be septic shock while he was hospitalized. And just how did the internet offer their condolences? By posting a meme of the two fighters in Heaven, being refereed by Harambe the Gorilla. And why was the gorilla chosen? Because Harambe died recently too. And Blacks and gorillas look alike. Ha ha” said the internet. And who said we should get over it and like the jokes? The Caucasians who made the joke, and then encouraged their non-ethnic friends to laugh at this “joke” which hasn't been funny since the 1930's. Just a week earlier, my husband and I went out on a date night to watch the new X-Men movie, X-Men Apocalypse. On a post-film walk to the local Speedway for a soda, we watched a white pick-up truck slam against a bumper in front of the store, while a white car parked dangerously close behind it. A large woman came out of the car, slamming the door behind her. She went to the pick-up truck, ripped open the door, and started screaming at an elderly man and the young lady inside the truck. Clearly fearful, the younger woman took a stuffed animal and ran inside the Speedway while the large woman shouted obscenities at her, then turned back to the old man. Taking a deep breath, the woman screamed at the top of her lungs “I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LEFT ME FOR THAT N****R LOVING WHORE!!” She then drags the old man out of the truck to scream at him, while the younger woman sneaks back inside the truck and slams the door. The larger woman then races to her car, speeding up and blocking the truck from leaving safely. The elderly man drives onto the curb, turns the car, almost hitting another parked car, and has to see-saw himself out of the spot to get away from the mad woman. As the old man tried to get away, I kissed my husband and snapped a selfie mid-kiss. The flash of my ZTE Maven caught the attention of the mad woman, who started screaming in our direction that the world was going to “Hell” in a hand-basket, because of savage N****r lovers. She was starring at my tan when she said it. After the Jerry Springer fugitives left, I overheard someone saying from afar “Now yew don't mind people like her. Bless her heart, she's just ignorant. She don't know no better.” I beg to differ. She appeared to be old enough to remember the 1980's. That makes her old enough to not only know better but to behave better as well. Returning to Muhammad Ali for a spell, the internet has been re-tweeting a tweet from Donald Trump from December 6th, 2015: “Obama said in his speech that Muslims are our sports heroes. What sport is he talking about, and who? Is Obama profiling?” June 3rd, he's not only posting an “RIP Ali” tribute on his page, he announces the next day that he intends to attend the services for Muhammad Ali, and expects the family to embrace him. His fans are demanding we like, accept, love and laugh at his words and cheer him on for supporting his racist, anti-Muslim sentiments. This is where we are at with the state of racism in the United States. People on the internet are demanding and insisting we view these random acts of ignorance as “harmless jokes” instead of the clear and obvious prejudices that they actually are. Left and right, we are being denied the right to protest this verbal abuse. When we stand up against prejudice, we're told we're acting “butthurt” and we're being too “soft” and easily offended. The definition of rape culture and rape acceptance is that we are supposed to lie down, take this abuse and like it. Now even a 3rd grader can tell you that this is not sexual assault, and certainly not even in the same ballpark as actual rape. But this rampant, unwarranted, unwanted racial injustice is a rape on our senses as adults. Our minds are being assaulted, our senses attacked, and we are expected to accept and like it? No. And no means no. As Americans and as adults, our job is to say “no” to this injustice and fight back. To set a better example for the rest of the world and to raise our children to accept the fact that this is unacceptable and contradictory to America being the great melting pot as we are told it is in public school. And yet ever since Barack Obama became president, this type of blatant, juvenile disregard for human tolerance, has become a plague. Not only are we accepting the abuse, we are teaching out youth to accept and produce the same, if not worse abuse in the form of these tasteless comments. It's gotten so out of hand, that hardly a year of Obama's twin term run has gone by without at least one news story about minors under the age of 17 being caught wearing blackface on school grounds as a harmless prank” and rampant are the ills of tweens and teenagers on social media, mimicking their parents' monkey and gorilla jokes, simply because they are told it can;t hurt anybody, because it's a meme and not a bomb. We are living in a backwards society. Strong are those who protest and stand against the current of racial intolerance, weak are the pebbles that float aimlessly down it's river. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
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Written and Illustrated by Koriander Bullard Gamers in general are a whiny lot this decade.
For example, if you give them a classic Sonic The Hedgehog game, they'll complain it's not edgy enough. Make it edgy and they'll complain they want the original back. Give them the original and they'll beg you to kill off the Sonic franchise. Stop making Sonic games and they beg for a sequel. These armchair, DeviantArt designers thrive off of complaining, and boy did developer NISA give them plenty to complain about. So after several petitions, NISA has finally gotten the greenlight to release Criminal Girls 2: Party Favors for the PlayStation Vita this September. For those who do not know, the game centers on a male protagonist as he “redeems” criminal girls and women of their crimes through “motivation” games, in which the player is allowed to sexually touch but not actually have sex with each of the girls. You can choose whether or not to gag the girls as you tease them, and for each mini game, the girl of your choice will earn better magic attacks, higher stats and will eventually grow closer to you. Imagine if instead of collecting and raising Pokemon, you were collecting and raising ex-convicts . Well if the game was to be released as-is, the ESRB would have slapped it with an AO rating. An AO would be the death knell for the series in the US, as most stores refuse to sell AO rated games. So in order for NISA to be granted an M rating, some changes had to be made. One change involves the Motivation system. In Japan, it's called the “punishment” system, and the longer you poke and tease the girls, the louder they beg you to stop. Rape, even if no actual sex is taking place, will earn the game an AO, so for the west, NISA changed the name of the action, deleted the sound files of the girls protesting, and replaced them with approving moans and heartbeat sounds, making the scenes consensual. But aside from this and a few minor changes in dialogue, again, making these segments about consensual sex rather than rape, came the art change for the character Tsukasa. In the Japanese port of the game, Tsukasa can be found tied up on a bed, fighting everything being done to her. Her legs and breasts are bound by a thick rope, and she fights back tears as you molest her. In the English cut of the game, Tsukasa is no longer tied up. Her pose is a little more relaxed, she isn't crying anymore, and she allows you access to her body without complaint. That was it. Gamers started to nerd-rage at the sight of Tsukasa's in-progress re-draw, and they immediately took to NISA's message board, Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr to not only complain, but to blame feminists for the changes. It was not long before these savages started carpet-bombing female gamers with rape and death threats, blaming everybody in the world for what happened. Taking immediate responsibility, NISA posted the following to their message board after an emergency house-cleaning of some of the comments: “The “censoring” of this game is in no way an attempt to “pander” or “market” to certain people. It is in no way a response to any anticipatory backlash by “feminists” or “SJWs”. Understand that these edits were done to bring the game down to an M (and equivalent) from an AO, not from an M to an M (but with less sexual content) or T. We know what game we’re making, y’all. It’s from our parent company. If this game required no edits whatsoever from the ESRB and was released with an M rating, I would love it. I would rejoice. All of the “SJWs” in the world could send me death threats over email, form a picket line outside the office, egg my house, set my car on fire, and write essays and give television interviews about how Criminal Girls 2 is the most abhorrent game ever made and no civilized person should ever play it and shame on everyone involved in its creation…and I would prefer it to having to deal with all of this “censorship” drama. Don’t ever, ever believe that we want to censor things.” Even more laughable is the fact that these male gamers are using this game as a poster child to show how “unfair” men are treated on a whole. This is the state of male gamers of all ages these days, in case you haven't noticed. Anytime I or another female talk openly about harassment we've been through, a male immediately has to throw himself a pity party. “WHAT?? Everybody gets attacked, NOT just women. This isn't about YOU!! It's about ME!! I'M the one being discriminated against. How dare you tell me to stop posting sexist things, you're bullying me, WAAAAAAH it's not fair!!” The male then tries to tell me (a female, by the way) the difference between a “real” feminist and a “fake” feminist. In case you're curious, a “fake” feminist accuses men of being sexist. Of course. Funny thing is, the game isn't being that badly censored, which is why the anti-feminist pity party is unnecessary. Have a look again at the above image. Yes, the rape imagery is gone, but take a closer look. Tsukasa is actually wearing LESS clothing than her Japanese counterpart. You're still getting overtly sexualized, nearly nude females, they're just less repulsed by your character now. And again, you are still encouraged to molest the girls, only now they are less hesitant to let you near their bodies. Isn't this more of a victory than a defeat? Considering that Tsukasa is a fiery “bad girl” type who is strong willed, the change to make her instances consensual actually fit her character more. She's a “naughty” girl who carries a giant club around in a prison for bad women. Again, isn't making her more welcoming of the sexual play a victory? These male gamers claim that there's no such thing as “rape culture” but their recent display in response to de-raping of the Criminal Girls 2 cast just proved them all wrong. And hiding behind the censorship debate and attacking total strangers online who happen to be feminists, when this is actually about turning rape into consent, is just plain criminal. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
To the woman on her cell phone, whom I have known now some two plus years. I need not name you, you should know by now who you are. At least, that’s how you carry yourself.
I could hear you across the room. At your decibel, I could probably hear you from the moon. The point is I heard you, laughing. No. You were not laughing. You were cackling. Howling like a banshee and gossiping to your friends about your client. Your client was an older woman. Not yet elderly, but certainly on in years. She needed your help to clear a case for herself, and her son, who is handicapped. “What a LOSER!!” I heard you exclaim. And why? Because he still needs her to take care of him, even though he’s just slightly under me in age. “What kind of an invalid still lives at home with his mommy?” Is what I could hear resonating through the building. And on and on I have heard this from you about all in his position. And some are not even fully grown yet, but here you are, insisting that instead of relying on a cane or a crutch, they should just “quit being lazy” and live exactly like you do. I heard you make fun of the boy in his 20’s, who try as he might, just can’t seem to get a job. I heard you make fun of the mother of three, who should have learned not to ever let a man inside of her, to grant her those little ankle biters, and instead, just close her legs, fight the world off, and again, live just the way you do. To the woman on her cell phone, I’d like to have a chat with you. Of course, I will be denied this, as the only time you ever speak to me, is when my husband is in the room. Oh yes. You claim he’s not your type, and you beg him for advice because “he’s soooooooo brotherly” you swear, but when his back is turned, and I once more become invisible in your eye, I can hear you, again on the cell phone, talking about how sexy his voice is, how handsome he looks in those Rockabilly shirts, the coils of his freshly washed curls and the way his face is a a balance between smokey sensuality and boyish charm. Oh kind maiden. If you could only hear my voice when he is not present, if you would let me have audience with you outside of my invisible state, I could elaborate to you how high I have made that smokey, sultry voice of his crack in the bedroom, but I digress. To the woman on her cell phone, let me paint you a picture of why your chiding of the handicapped boys irks my very core. I have a little brother. Much like a practice son, he has been the apple of my eye since the first time I saw my mother’s stick turn blue in the bathroom of a restaurant we were not welcome in. I can still remember the sweet scent emanating from his bassinet the day he was born, a miracle in my then five years on this planet, after false contractions and family stress almost cost me the greatest thing to hit my childhood. But as he was growing up, I noticed his knees didn’t bend right. Climbing was a chore and he needed more help than the average boy. Then one day at seven, he collapsed, screaming that his knees wouldn’t hold him up anymore. We took him to a doctor, who sent him to a hospital, who stuck him full of holes and then left him in a dark room, before finally announcing he had Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. From there, we had to whisk him off to one quack after another, before finally getting him to Shriner’s, and onto the medication he needs to walk. Shriner’s is a wonderful hospital, but it is a charity. It’s the last ditch effort for those who couldn’t get on Medicaid. You’re greeted with a competent staff of doctors, but not before also being hounded by DCFS, a group of strangers who demand more and more paperwork, threatening to take your youngster away from you forever, unless you can prove to them that his inability to walk is medical, and not the cause of abuse. To the woman on her cell phone, I wish to spend a day with you, get to know you better, see what I can learn through your eyes, or better, have you see the world through mine. Perhaps you would like to travel back in time with me, and meet me at age twelve. Stand beside me as I am interrogated by men and women much older than my parents, asking me if I’ve ever broken his bones or abused him, and am I the reason he can’t walk, or is it mommy or daddy? Sit with me in the waiting room for four, five, six hours between tests, beside the father on crutches who is wheeling in his teenage boy, who can’t even turn his head. Sit alone while my mother coaxed my brother to get just one more needle to see-saw through that vein, while we hear the howls of a Mennonite woman, just beneath the age of twenty, holding a pillow and screaming, because her one baby is in the ground, a second will join him, and a third is in the ICU, a foreign term meaning a room full of lights and sharp objects going through your baby while you sit in a world your parents forbade you to understand. Maybe I could get you to play with me, join me for charity Bingo night, with a little girl who is bald from chemo, and a big brother who might not make it to see six. Or maybe you’ll wait outside for me, while you watch the 89 year old Shriner with a bad hip help a little girl who can’t speak English onto a gurney. Is the hospital too much for you? No problem. Come back to my house, which was balanced poorly on a beam with insulation made of newspapers from the Truman administration. As you breathe in the mold from my Posen, Illinois bungalow, you can help me fasten a new gauntlet on my brother’s wrist, slap a knee brace on him, and help him learn how to hold a pencil all over again. I’ll pour the cherry 7UP while you press firmly the pencil guards to the recycled No 2 Ticonderoga for him. To the woman on her cell phone, maybe you could say I am angered by your handicap jokes. Maybe it is because my doctor recently told me that now I am “one of them”. That I may need to be on medication for the rest of my life, to help me deal with a skin that rejects the elements and the brain that throbs hard enough for me to see stars. Or maybe it’s because I’m holding a memory of all the children who are no more, whom I used to see every other week at Shriner’s. Maybe I’m holding the smaller me, who held the smaller brother, who had to be told too early that sometimes medicine and a Pokemon card just can’t save everyone he plays with. To the woman on her cell phone, I see you hate on those who just didn’t get out of mom and dad’s house before twenty one. I apologize. It must be so hard for your simple mind to comprehend that not all of us are lucky in the job market. That sometimes your spotless credit score and PHD just can’t get you a better job than flipping burgers, or any job at all. That the 1960’s died out before your were born, and that the Baby Boomers who were handed jobs with little to no education, turned around and voted into office an ex-actor who instilled banker-friendly laws that added just a few more hoops to jump through when trying to grab that job that can make those ends meet. I’m sorry that you can’t grasp that the economy tanked several years ago, and that we are going on generation three to know a depression only made comfortable by the electronics and Wi-Fi we can’t afford, the same you use to convey your hatred of those not 100% like you. To the woman on her cell phone, may you continue to scoff at others. May you continue to howl and cackle, pointing and enjoying your brand of faux humor at those who are less fortunate than you. And may the world show you the same mercy your pristine pores are showing your concealer plastered skin, so that you know not what it feels like to step into the shoes of those you mock on the phone to your girlfriend. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
The recent divorce announcement between actors Johnny Depp and Amber Heard took a seriously disturbing turn last Friday when it became apparent that domestic violence allegedly committed by Depp was the root cause of their breakup. A LA County judge apparently felt the evidence was credible enough to grant Heard a temporary restraining order against Depp. According to court filings, Depp is alleged to have consistently physically and emotionally abused Heard during the entirety of their year-and-a-half long marriage. According to Heard’s testimony, things reached the breaking point in April, when Depp’s alcohol and drug consumption combined with his short temper to create a ticking time bomb. On April 21st, Depp no-showed his wife’s birthday party, finally making an appearance while under the influence of drugs and wine. They reportedly got into some sort of heated argument, likely due to him showing up after the party had ended with a wine bottle welded to his hand, with Depp throwing a temper tantrum and becoming physically violent towards Heard. After Heard threw him out of their home, Depp stayed away until May 21st, when he returned feigning peace. According to Heard’s testimony, midway through their conversation, Depp became unglued and started becoming aggressive and violent again. In response, Heard dialed a friend to get help. Depp became furious and allegedly slugged Heard in the right eye with her cell phone before smashing it and several of her other personal belongings. Photo Courtesy of TMZ.com Heard filed for divorce two days later. I can’t say that I blame her. For some bizarre reason only known to the judge in charge of the hearing, Heard’s request that Depp be ordered to undergo anger management and substance abuse counseling was denied despite it being apparent that even that he is in desperate need for both. I suppose then they believe that Heard slammed into a door, or used makeup then. Not helping is that the LAPD claim there is no credible evidence of abuse, as if we can trust the notoriously crooked and starstruck LAPD.
Of course, Depp is in full denial about being a drunken, perpetually stoned woman-beating creep. His legal team is doing everything possible to slander Heard as an opportunist who only wants money, especially since Heard has requested $50,000 a month in spousal support until she marries again. What is even more disturbing than Depp’s behavior is how the masses have instantly jumped to his defense despite the overwhelming evidence of heinous spousal abuse. Just a random sampling of some of the comments made by these armchair defense attorneys include some disgusting claims as: 1) Depp couldn’t possibly have punched her in the right eye because he’s left handed. 2) This is what happens when a man marries a lesbian. (Note: Heard is openly bisexual and was in a long term relationship with a woman prior to hooking up with Depp.) 4) That bruise was caused simply by running into a door. 4) She’s desperate for money and fame. 5) He’s such a talented actor. 6) We’re forced to blindly accept a woman’s claims, lest we be called sexist. 7) She’s a trailer park trash scam artist! 8) She showed up at the courthouse looking like she was Mother Theresa. With that look, who could think she was anything but innocent! 9) She’s spinning the story into something it wasn’t. 10) She is able-bodied and works for a living and did throughout that short union so for her to go rooting in his bank account is gold digging plain and simple. 11) He was deep in grief over losing his mother. 12) He’s so dreamy. She just can’t appreciate what she has! So in other words, according to these peons, Heard is solely to blame for this entire scenario, while the guy who has a history of violent behavior towards women and has battled drug and alcohol abuse gets off scot free. It’s yet another example of the disturbing pattern of blaming the woman whenever a domestic violence dispute emerges. Let’s debunk some of these disgusting remarks before we go any further. To claim that it is impossible for a left-handed person to hit someone in the right eye is beyond idiotic. Targets do not discriminate when it comes to receiving blows. The same goes for the running into the door excuse that is the most popular excuse given by domestic violence victims too scared to tell the truth for fear of being killed by their abusers. Heard’s sexual orientation doesn’t excuse for one minute what Depp did to her. The same goes for his supposed skills as an actor. Using Heard’s bisexuality against her is just a convenient excuse for those who hate and fear the LGBTQ community to engage in what they like to do best. Acting brilliance doesn’t excuse deplorable behavior against an individual’s spouse. As for claims she’s desperate for fame and money, with a $9 million personal net worth and instant name recognition, I dare say that Heard already has plenty of both as is. I believe her request for spousal support is an attempt to hold him accountable for his actions, which is something Depp has managed to evade with every single one of his broken relationships to date. In her divorce filing, Heard also made mention that Depp has prevented her from accepting several plum acting roles in a bid to control her. The pro-Depp contingent have leapt upon this as proof that she’s lying, but a quick look at Heard’s credits on the Internet Movie Database reveal that she may be telling the truth. In the 15 months since marrying Depp, she only has two completed films and is currently filming another. She had appeared in five 2015 theatrical releases, but those were all filmed before her marriage to Depp. A mere three movies for an actress who was very prolific and in-demand in the years BEFORE marrying Depp is definitely a sign that something was amiss. As far as the idea of being forced to believe Heard’s claims because she is a woman and to oppose her would brand one a sexist, I say it is truly sexist to use such an excuse to discredit a clearly battered woman. So are the childish insults that Heard dressed up like a saint or that she’s trailer park trash. Depp’s legal team has been pulling every trick in the book in an attempt to discredit Heard. Well, of course they would. Would you expect them to admit he’s a booze swilling, dope taking woman beating creep? Their official statement to the press states that: “Given the brevity of this marriage and the most recent and tragic loss of his mother, Johnny will not respond to any of the salacious false stories, gossip, misinformation and lies about his personal life.” So they’re using the length of the marriage and the loss of Depp’s mother as convenient excuses. No surprise there. Nor will it shock you that his legal team is alleged to have leaked an item to the tabloids that alleges that Heard was having an affair with model/actress Cara Delevigne. It’s awfully convenient since Delevigne is an openly bisexual actress who is a close friend of Heard’s and a favorite target of the mass media. Naturally, the news media have swallowed this unproven tripe with relish. I have no stomach for anyone who makes excuses to justify abhorrent behavior such as domestic violence. There is absolutely no excuse or circumstance that justifies and excuses domestic violence. I have no respect whatsoever for any man who beats a woman unprovoked. In fact, I have no respect for any spouse of either gender that abuses the other. I believe the primary reason why so many have leapt to Depp’s defense is something I call the starstruck factor. People often become so starstruck by a person’s charisma, talent or cachet in Hollywood that they are willing to overlook a creep’s flaws. How else to explain why the cinema world still fawns over director Roman Polanski, despite the fact he is an unrepentant rapist who raped a 13-year old girl four decades ago? Despite being the box office equivalent of fugu (the Japanese blowfish that is extremely toxic when poorly prepared), Depp still commands respect and acclaim as a brilliant actor who is a colossal hunk. You’ll hear about how dreamy he is. I guess some people haven’t realized that even dreamboats can become nightmares. When I see a woman who is visibly bruised and clearly distraught, I believe her when she says she was physically abused. I believe Heard, not the so-called brilliant heartthrob actor. This is a woman in deep physical and emotional pain. The fact that so many are blindly defending Depp is yet another sign of how far we have devolved as an enlightened society. Written and Illustrated by Koriander Bullard Not too long ago, a friend of mine joined a Facebook community for book lovers. For the sake of protecting her privacy, let's pretend her name is “Mina”.
Now Mina is a very friendly and generous lady. She didn’t just want to promote her own book, she wanted to promote the books of authors she thought were really cool. So she would share their links, talk about how wonderful their stories are, and then she would buy a book or two, read it and then offer a spare copy in online giveaways. Her community is set to “open” so I could read for myself that she is always minding her P's and Q's and doesn't troll. Then one day, it happened. I log onto Facebook to find that some psycho has started a social media campaign against Mina. Let's call the psycho woman “Avery”. From what I can piece together from the long-winded ramblings Avery posted, at one point, Avery considered herself to be Mina's Facebook “friend”. (Note the quotations?) One day, Avery took a comment Mina made about a romance novel WAY out of context, thinking it was about her and not about the fictitious character Mina was talking about. Then she threw a hissy fit because Mina shared a picture Avery had set to “public” and had the nerve to say it was a cute photo. Before anybody could figure out what was going on, Avery launched a Twitter and Facebook campaign, accusing Mina of trying to steal her husband, (who lives three states away and had no clue this was going on) trying to seduce her son (who is turning one next week) and of trying to claim one of her books as Mina's book (a book that by the way, was ripped off of someone else) and sell it on Amazon (which at the time, Mina did not have access to) while demanding Mina be blacklisted by every book community around the globe. A week earlier, my brother told me of another “community crisis” involving two men over the age of 25 on one of Capcom's forums. The two fought over which interpretation of Mega Man was the best and whether or not Capcom was hiding pro-Muslim sentiment in the background of a game they released two PlayStation consoles ago. The same day, my husband told me of a public meltdown he saw a 22 year old man had on a Fallout Facebook group over someone else's fan-fiction, and I had to ban nine people from one of my Sailor Moon pages when I caught them (ages 19-35) hurling slurs at each other because they couldn't agree on what level of Transgender Sailor Uranus is. The streets of my home town are still stained with dried blood splatters over countless fights among tween and teenage girls (and 25-45 year old men who behave like tween girls) over which boy band was hotter, Jacob vs. Edward and whether or not John Cena belongs in the Hall of Fame. The sad part is that this is all very normal in the average fan community. Back in 2010, I started receiving death and rape threats, because I made a three minute music video where I dressed up a CGI model of Vocaloid's Miku Hatsune in a Hello Kitty costume. I was hacked several times, earned a hate shrine on the internet, and then had strangers send death threats to my family members. It wasn't until the ring leader came out as a 30+ year old math teacher who was also stalking several tween girls that I saw a break in the madness, and the emails themselves didn't cease until I started sharing around my wedding photos, proving I was now under the watch of a gun owner. And why did my family and I get harassed? Because I offended a “community” I never even asked to be part of. Worldwide, we have always had problems with fan based communities, ever since the first “fan club” was ever created. Fans of anything imagine a list of “rules” they insist complete strangers obey in order to enjoy the same thing(s) as the rest of the hive, and when they catch someone not 100% like they are, they rally their troupes for an all out war. Then, they flip the script, pretend to be a victim, and claim they're only “protecting” their concept of “art” in the form of stalker behavior. And if we are going to claim the title of adulthood, then we need to stop accepting this madness as “normal fandom” and start rejecting it. The celebrities and companies responsible for our fandoms already did, and decades ago. Have you ever seen a celebrity reaction when they hear about their own fan clubs? For as much money as people have dumped into fan clubs over the years, it never has gotten them any closer to their favorite stars. These clubs, half fan-made and the other half marketing scheme, sometimes charge exorbitant fees to get a membership card and a t-shirt, and yet not one single, solitary member has ever been on a first-name basis with their favorite star or creator. Not a single fan-Wikia has ever gotten anybody a better spot in line, better concert seats or even a mention on an official album, video game credit roll or even a spot as a gopher for the merchandise table of a Power Ranger at a Comic Con. In fact, the average celebrity doesn't even know they have a fan community or club, and they never see a dime from either. And certainly not from those fan-drawn shirts being hawked all over the place. Don't believe me? Just mention your fan community to a celebrity at the next convention, and watch as their eyes widen, they open-mouth smile a “WOW um thank you!” and then dart their little, overpaid pupils in the direction of the next fan or security, depending on their level of discomfort. Trust me, all that Facebook drama you put yourself through is just not worth it. Let's pretend that I'm a fan of Captain Folder and his sidekick Manilla Mike, the Legal Lad. My Facebook profile is a picture of me, wearing my Captain Folder cap, a Captain Folder t-shirt while holding my Captain Folder and Legal Lad action figures. I share this photo on Twitter. If Ka-POW comix (publisher of this pretend series) likes my picture and re-tweets it, cool. If Belvadere Twizzlestix Esquire (the pretend creator) likes my picture and thanks me for being a fan, that's beyond awesome! If a few people happen to “Like” my picture, hashtag and share me, great! But I really don't need to join a community to like Captain Folder and Legal Lad. I don't need a group of strangers harassing me all day and night about whether or not my picture is “offensive” to them, or if I'm wearing a shirt now deemed “uncool” or dictating to me how to address Legal Lad's budding sexuality. He's ten years old. I don’t need some fashion challenged hipster psycho-analyzing Captain Folder, trying to convince him or herself that the power suit and cape are all a part of his super-ego “persey” any more than I'd want to listen to a long-winded speech about whether or not the story takes place in an alternate reality in which the Foldermobile is a real-life hybrid, or if this series is all just a fantasy Frank Folder is having in a dream somewhere, after coping with the loss of his secret Mistress, Penny Pencil. I don't need some Emo kid with “daddy issues” and a sexually confused DeviantArt page bombarding me with their depressing re-imaginings of the characters, when there's a movie studio already working on it. I also don't need their graphic and age-inappropriate “Loli” digital tracings of Legal Lad in his underwear. If a fellow Captain Folder fan wants to befriend me, awesome! I'll be glad to chat all day with you about Legal Lad helping to foil the plot of The Stormy Stapler in order to rescue Damsel Deadline. I'd also be happy to look up the answers to any question you have about the characters. But don't be surprised if I skip out on joining the Facebook Community. There's just not enough hours in the day to handle that much fan-created drama. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
It's three in the morning.
My husband is massaging my neck for the sixth time in less than an hour. I'm wearing dark sunglasses in a dark room, loosening or just taking off my clothing, until I'm just about beach ready. Around me are cups of peppermint tea, something caffeinated, hot packs, cold towels, a bucket with two shopping bags inside, a half eaten plate of food, chocolate, IcyHot, Vapo Rub and the brightly lit screen of my HP Laptop or ZTE Maven, either one has a “Mother Nature” or WebMD article up on self-treatment for migraine. I'm off and on nauseous. Depending on the type of migraine, I'm either dangling my head over the heating vent, trying to nuke the pain, or I'm shivering under an ice towel, about to go back to the heating vent. It comes in waves. I can be bright and cheerful one minute, and making my peace with Elvis the next. I might be dizzy. Or I might be trying to overcome the pressure that comes with the pain. Against better judgment, I might be running for the bathroom to either vomit or dry heave. If it's the latter, then I stand in front of the mirror. I wiggle my fingers over my head, stick my tongue out and repeat “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane.” Why am I doing this? To make sure I didn't just have a stroke, which can start off as a piercing migraine. Assured my senses are all in check, I go back to suffering on the couch. I'll start to doze off, only for the pain to jolt me awake a half hour later. I can't cry, because that will actually start a secondary, cluster pain in the base of my neck. One that medicine ignores. But I can whimper really, really loudly. Not that I would want to, but the pain is so hot, sharp and intense, I don't know what else to do. Usually, I can take Excedrin or it's generic, 6-hour equivalent. It's a mix of aspirin, acetaminophen and caffeine. Separately, the three have little effect, except for acetaminophen, which on it's own, speeds my heart rate up to near heart-attack levels, but combined, they can reduce the pain greatly. At least 80% of the time. It's the only medication my doctor will allow. Except.. not anymore. The moment I discovered it was messing with my monthly cycle, my doctor decided it was time to ween me off. Besides, my husband and I want a family. So no fetus-killing drugs for me. And no Imitrex, the flavor of the month drug every third friend I have seems to be on for everything from a minor headache to a migraine episode like my usual ones. My doctor has noted that I am a lightweight. Imitrex, Vicodin, Zofran and the hard to spell wrestler-killer Percocet, are all on the “NO” list for me, as is anything with Ibuprofen, which gives me hives. So no Motrin and no Aleve. The luxury of having an immune system made of silly string. Hours go by. I sleep from five in the morning until three the next afternoon. And as I type this, I'm still in severe pain. Only now the pain has gone from my right side to my left. I go into town to buy a sports drink, hoping the electrolytes will do for me what purified water and a full breakfast did not. I wear colorful sunglasses, a suggestion from not only my current doctor, who has written so many notes for this, but by doctors and specialists I've seen since I had my first migraine at five years old. My eyes are strong enough I don't usually need prescription strength, but I still need to wear something. Why am I wearing sunglasses? Because right at the start of a migraine episode, everything gets ultra bright to me. So bright, nothing looks black anymore. It's all gray. Sunglasses mean I can function. I can read. I won't be useless. I choose to wear colorful glasses, sometimes with funny shapes. I do this so I can take control of my disability. It's my way of saying “Hey, I have this issue, but it doesn't have me.” I can dress up my disability the same way a person with a broken leg can draw on their cast as if to say “You don't own me.” I don't have to be the stereotype of the “sad” handicapped person we see in dozens of TV ads, wearing muted tones and plain glasses. I can say I'm handi-capable and if I can't make this disease go away, I can at least coordinate it with my t-shirt. And I've explained this story and my reason for the glasses hundreds of times since I was a kid. It's to the point where the above paragraph is so well rehearsed, my husband has caught me repeating it in my sleep. My doctor even repeats the story under her breath now as she writes me another note. And yet, no matter how many times I tell the tale of the sunglasses and the migraine, no matter where I go, I am still treated like a social pariah. People call me “crazy” and lie, claiming I'm making this all up. People laugh at me. Some have even tried to take my glasses from me, because my disability is “offensive” to them. They feel like my illness is mocking them. “So what if you have a headache?” I get headaches ALL the time, I can't see what makes YOU so special.” Is a statement I have heard time and again. I'm treated like I'm stupid. I've been called worse, and people really, honestly believe this is all imaginary. I wish it was. But this is the life I lead and have lived for a long time. I've had CAT scans come back with the good news that I'm cancer-free and stroke-free. But the bad news that I have unlucky genetics. My mother and father suffer from migraines, and swear by Excedrin and Aleve respectively. So I sit on the couch now, drinking a cup of coffee after having a cold Gatorade. The caffeine has hit my stomach, meaning I need to eat or the hunger will cause the ice pick migraine to stab harder. A cold shower has proven ineffective, and medicine hasn't helped. Usually, the culprit is easy to control. Too much hard cheese, eating the wrong foods, not sleeping or eating enough are usually triggers I can control. But today, it's the weather. It's sunny and perfect now, but we have a storm coming later in the week, which is causing the barometric pressure to spike up, triggering my now two-day episode. All I can do is ride it out. I can't sleep, so I try to work through it, like it's not even there. I know I'll be screaming later, but for now, I want to feel useful. On Facebook, someone has shared the song “Return to Pooh Corner” which has the lyric “chase all the clouds from the sky” as an action phrase. I wish I could. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
It's unusually warm outside one recent day in April. I'm outside on a daily stroll, when all of a sudden, I freeze up.
Right in front of me, is a wasp. Now granted, it's not a very big wasp compared to most, but it's a wasp nonetheless, and it seems to think my red Felix The Cat t-shirt must be a cherry-flavored new flower, because it's speeding towards me at a breakneck pace. All at once, my usual demeanor disappears, and I revert to being six years old. I pull my arms inside, under my breasts, clench my teeth, clench both fists, stretch my mouth into a thin, long frown, and I shut my eyes, whimpering. And as I am standing still, petrified, I have a sea of adults around me also reverting to a kindergarten-first-grade-split. Only nobody else is whimpering in fear of being stung. Instead, the other adult children begin pointing and laughing. As a slightly braver adult walks up and swats the wasp dead, I am scolded in front of everyone as though I just farted in church..... loudly… and on a nun's head. "Oh honestly, Koriander!!" Says an adult, stamping their feet as my eyes slowly pry open. "You are so much BIGGER than that little old thing over there. Can't you take care of it yourself?" More and more, the chiding continues. "Afraid of a widdle ol' wasp?" Laughs a distant voice. "What would happen if you were all alone? SOMEDAY you'll have to learn to take care of this all by yourself." Chides another. On and on, until finally, I hear a country bumpkin exclaim something my father used to chide me with. "Dat's a city girl for you. Dey can't handle nothing like a country BAH." Granted, my father has spent zero percent of his life in the country, so I never understood why he would say that, but I get why the "local yokels" would say that to me amid pointing and laughing. I've met enough "Pappaws" and "Memaws" to know that underneath the sweet sounding "Bless your heart" statement is a bitter sentiment of fear equating to stupidity that they were taught to accept growing up. Finally, if not the pointing or the laughing is to blame, the resonating teasing of my father from twenty plus years behind me causes me to snap. Taking a deep breath, I yell out "I AM ALLERGIC TO WASPS!!" with the timber of a woman who is very flustered and embarrassed. Suddenly, the laughter and pointing stops. A cock-eyed glance heads my direction. "Well EVERYBODY swells up with a wasp sting. What makes YEW so special?" Again flustered, though now with a chest puffed up with oxygen, I pout and explain. "If I get stung, I will die. I am HIGHLY allergic to wasps, bees and tiger mosquitoes. The last time the latter stung me, I was rushed to the ER and had potato sized welts all over my arm for a month. My throat closed up and I had to be cut out of my favorite t-shirt as they stuck me with an antidote." The non-believer turns on his heel, chastising me for not carrying an Epi Pen with me at all times, while the other naysayers soften their gazes upon me. I hear a few calming "bless your hearts" again, but no apologies. I am to "have a sense of humor" grin and bear it. I am told I don't deserve the right to be angry at them, nor should I be allowed to be afraid of the insect that could end me with a simple sting. I'm the one who needs to grow up and like the torture. They're allowed to make fun of me. And subsequent jokes are snickered behind my back for all of eternity. This is how we are taught to handle an episode of phobia-started anxiety. Our parents and grandparents contradict themselves constantly. We are told in one breath that people are different, and it's not okay to make fun of people who aren't like you. But in the next breath when someone different does appear, that same parent or grand will teach us via their own actions that pointing and laughing, along with beating your chest and starting a long-winded story with "When I was YOUR age" and prattling on about the "good" old days, is how you "cure" someone's fear. Or, the more scientific of the lot teaches us that the best way to cure a person of their fear, is to lock them in a dank room with the thing they are afraid of, stick a camera in their face and turn them into a YouTube sensation as punishment for being afraid. I'm not sure what angers me more. The fact that this childish behavior is again, contradictory to the adulthood we were all told existed in childhood, or the fact that this unwarranted and unproductive teasing contradicts modern psychology. Any physician or psychologist worth their $25 co-pay will tell you up front that none of the above is how you treat a phobia, which is a very real anxiety disorder. In some people, their mental health is so badly hindered by a phobia, that medication and in rare cases, surgery ends up being the main ways to treat it once regular therapies prove ineffective. Doctors, whose job it is to treat anxiety, often remind us that the teasing, no matter how funny a person looks when they are in a state of fear, is counter-productive, does not make the anxiety magically go away, and actually helps the patient regress further into an even worse anxiety episode, and therefore should be avoided at all costs. And yet despite how real they are, we still exist in a society where we are told not only is it alright to chide someone because they have an anxiety, that failing to engage in the teasing and name-calling would render you a "softie" or my favorite, a "no good bleeding heart liberal ruing mah countrah" the latter of which I am always accused of being. Aside from therapy and medication, education is the only other verbal medicine allowed for the treatment of phobia based anxiety. In my case, I know my Spheksophobia (fear of wasps) stems from two real-life incidents from childhood. The first strike was when I was five. I was bit by a tiger mosquito while checking out my dad's garden, and wound up in the ER. A test was done on me, and the doctor told my mother in front of me that I am allergic to bees, wasps and the thing that stung me. When I asked the doctor what would happen if a bee stung me, she very flatly looked in my direction and without any gentility stated "Well honey, you would die. Period. Want a lolly?" Five years old by the way, is a very young age to be told about your mortality. The second strike that created my Spheksophobia came just a few, very short weeks later, after I turned six. My father rented the movie "My Girl" and watched it with me while breaking the news that we were moving away from Indiana and into Virginia Beach, where wasps, bees and tiger mosquitoes were more dominant than the other flying things. Ironically, would you like to know what happened to the little boy played by Macaulay Culkin in the movie 'My Girl'? Spoiler alert, as my doctor told me, he died. Period. I most certainly wanted a lolly after that one. It kept my teeth from gnashing together in a panic. I have many friends who have different anxieties. Some seem harmless, others stem from real life events like mine. But all are real problems we tend to ignore. If not for the greater good, then maybe just for the sake of common decency, we should try to behave like the adults we were told existed in childhood, and learn that the more feet stamping, chest beating and name calling we do, the more we are exacerbating an existing phobia much more than we are to help hinder it. The next time you see someone having a panic attack, lend a helping hand. Lend a hug. A soothing voice to say "it's going to be alright" which is an act that takes less time and uses fewer muscles than pointing, laughing and video blogging does. Or at least, lend a flyswatter, then pat the individual on the back and wish them the best of luck. Even half of a kind gesture is worth more than a full act of ignorance. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook!
We've all been hearing about the horror stories as of late. North Carolina's harassing new law that banishes transgender people from the restroom of their choice is just one more in a long slue of laws and policies designed to rip away American freedoms from the LBGTQ community, under the fake guise of religious "freedom" which of course, ignores anybody not a straight, Christian, Caucasian male of anything resembling freedom. Not too long ago, I remember reading an article that had my blood boiling. Sing along if you know it. A public school threatened to suspend a little boy, because he is transgender. A custodian caught him trying to go to the bathroom in the room designed for little girls, and he was so offended, that he told everybody in the school, and made sure faculty would block the boy (who dresses as a girl, mind you) from entering the "wrong" bathroom. Now, if you are watching mass media, you're caught up on one side or another. You either think this is somehow enforcing "good" or maybe even "Christian" morals, or like the little boy's flustered parents, you are angry. You feel the slight of injustice for the little boy, and you are outraged that here we are in 2016, and we're still stuck in mid 20th century ideals, trying to bully children out of their bathroom time. But if you're like me, then you're looking at the bigger problem these schools, laws and policies are supporting. And you have one, very good question. Who is allowing these perverts to genital-check people in the bathroom? Think about it. Think very hard. The child in the public school story I mentioned was wearing a dress. His hair was done like a girl. His outfit was again, girlish. In order for the custodian to have known the boy was not really a girl, he would have had to look up the little boy's dress, or worse, asked him to drop his pants. This means we don't have an identity problem. We have a pedophile problem. If you are a Christian, and you believe in Christian morals, shouldn't you be angered and disgusted that a fully grow adult went looking up the skirt of a little child? Regardless if this was a boy or a girl, odds are good that if he looked up the boy's skirt, it's not because he was worried the boy was confused. It's because he's looking for a little girl to prey upon, and by making a brouhaha out of whether or not LBGTQ kids deserve to pick their own potty, you are in fact ignoring and allowing a clear and obvious pedophile to gender-check little children. And that by the way, is not only immoral, it's illegal and it's a form of harassment. The custodian was looking for a girl to sexually assault. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be gender checking little children in the bathroom. No longer should it matter what gender the little boy wants to be, when there is a predator in the hallway, allowed by the school to hang around children's bathrooms without being monitored. The Christian right are praising this man as a "hero" for protecting their idea of "value" when they should be asking if the remaining children are safe being at a school that is allowing strangers to check inside their pants. Excusing religious freedom a moment, there are a few American rights here that should be at the forefront. For starters, we have laws against gender-based harassment. We also have a declaration of independence that specifically states we as Americans have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The latter of which is a broad term that should imply by it's writing that if an LBGTQ person wants to use a boy or a girl bathroom, based on how he/she feels about themselves personally, then it shouldn't matter to you or anyone else because it is part of their "God given" right to pursue their own happiness with themselves. Therefore, it is simply un-American terrorism to deny these people their right to use the bathroom they feel the most comfortable with. Again, I must point out that the bigger problem is that we have perverts, disguised as "Good Samaritans" who are checking the pants and skirts of every complete and total stranger they come across in the bathroom. We have perverts and pedophiles gender-checking children, and not only are they expecting the right to hide behind "the good book" while doing it, they demand your respect and praise, when they have done nothing of value to earn such prestige. The next time you read an article about someone raising a stink over who stinks up the bathroom, ask yourself this question: why are you looking at their crotch? In all the years since I've been potty trained, I've never thought to ask for anything other than an extra roll of toilet paper. I simply obey a code of conduct every parent has given their child since the dawn of time. I mind my own business. I don't pants-check strangers to view theirs. Koriander Bullard is an author, cartoonist and human rights advocate. Keep up with her on Facebook! |
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March 2017
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