Miscarriage of Justice

Like the history of modern medicine and its marginalization of traditional home-based herbal remedies that used to be the expertise of women (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2016/02/bad-medicine.html), women's healthcare has been similarly co-opted by disordered interests, rife with harmful hidden agendas. When was the last time a prominent urologist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urology) was murdered for performing a vasectomy (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasectomy) on a man, or his patient publicly vilified for receiving such a procedure? No? There you go! That's all the answer you ever needed.

When I was in school, we studied the intricacies of debate and logic to dismantle false constructs as quickly as possible, given the normal mental capabilities of the particular human we would be in conversation with, or maybe not. Even at my teacher's college in upstate New York, "Special Needs" and "Special Education" were separate coursework from the regular curriculum, designed for average Liberal Arts students, that formed the basis of our freshman and sophomore years, before the student chose a Major (and/or Minor) to specialize in.

In short, we're taught to tell a normal person about the flaws in their perceptions as grounds for their re-education, even in extreme cases of the most cult-like indoctrination present in the minds of the people who've been brain-washed (perhaps in social isolation), manipulated for someone else's benefit besides their own. That's unfortunately where healthcare for women has ended in America: stuck in the worst minds we have as human beings, creating bizarre social distortions that feed public fears about the human body from a steady diet of ignorance and hype that's typical of mentally ill households. Who holds sway there? The biggest strongest douchebag, that's who.

Even worse for most average American families were the men who loved their women enough to take care of them, or speak up for their human rights. Every single intellectual argument I've ever had about women's healthcare that's still seen as "controversial" I have won (and I mean, EVERY SINGLE ONE), so this is not an open invitation to you, as my reading public, to become a right rotten cunt to me about something that I solved using ancient Aristotelian logic at S.U.N.Y. Oneonta, at 19-years old (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Term_logic). 

It was such a huge victory for me that the entire class came up to me to talk about it, because my boyfriend and I had planned to argue "pro" and "con" sides of any argument we had within class beforehand. Like I'd written before, we were so good at masking our romantic relationship that the entire class was fooled, though one cool homeboy from 'round the way in Brooklyn told my boy to tap my ass, " 'Cause she's feelin' you, man! You got her all worked up tho', bro!" After which time, at the end of our very last class for the summer, we told him the truth: that we were boyfriend-and-girlfriend all along. He. Freaked. Out. "I knew it! I knew it!", he shouted out to the rest of the class.

To reiterate old scholarship from my teenage years, let's go over some key points ONE MORE TIME (for yo' dumb ass, and not mine): Roe vs. Wade* will not be overturned by The Supreme Court, no matter how many partisan games are played. Okay? Time to grow up about "icky" female bodies, because they exist whether you like it or not. Women are not sexual slaves for public consumption, and I expect you to understand that as clearly as I have explained it here, again. If you do not, and you respond to reason with artificially-heightened rhetoric at any point in the future, I will immediately understand that you have mental problems, just like you've read in my prior works on this site. 

Sexuality is not a crime in these modern times, and as such, it is not actionable as a just cause on its own. You still have to prove malicious intent, which you will not, because women are not always aware of their inner workings (like a man isn't), because we do not come with specialized, high-end, digital-imaging equipment, nor do we have an instruction manual attached to our bodies (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Obstetrics_and_gynaecology). We do, however, come to the table educated nowadays, because health and hygiene classes begin in grade school. If you have a fifth-graders knowledge twisted, once again, I will know (as will many others) that you are sick-minded.

Here are some simple numbers that even a high-school drop-out like you should be able to process: "Unlike men, who produce new sperm daily throughout most of their lifetime, women are born with all their eggs in one — okay, two baskets (ovaries). To be more precise, a woman is born with about one to two million immature eggs, or follicles, in her ovaries. - Jun 12, 2015" (Columbia University)

If you continue prejudices against nature, you must then also include (in this era of civil rights) legal actions against men who choose not to reproduce: "...the average male will produce roughly 525 billion sperm cells over a lifetime and shed at least one billion of them per month. A healthy adult male can release between 40 million and 1.2 billion sperm cells in a single ejaculation.- Jan 24, 2013"

That means, every time a man knowingly prevents a pregnancy, he must be held accountable in the same way a woman is, because even though our biologies are different, our human rights are not. It's worth nothing that men have not been legally accused of murder for birth control in this country, ever. Given your (new) understanding of the numbers involved in our human reproductive systems, it then stands to reason that women are not "murdering" fertilized eggs during its earliest reproductive process, just like "Plan B" and other types of early-induced miscarriages are designed to be: not harmful to a later-stage fetus or the woman, but to accurately simulate the earliest stages of human gestation, a time when most women naturally miscarry anyway (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miscarriage). 

Truthfully, any woman will tell you that she's had as many miscarriages as she's carried full-term successfully, if you bothered to ask to her. It's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of! In fact, there are typically no real bodily signs for most women who miscarry, whether intentionally performed by their doctor, or without us even knowing it, because material rejected or expelled by women is usually incorporated into our next menstrual period. In which case, we didn't even know it happened, which is what we still insist on calling all "abortions" today, like the mischaracterized horrors certain sick minds want it to be, when it is so clearly not that (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2015/10/bride-of-chucky.html). We know you know that, by the way.

So, what will happen? Well, "welfare queens" will be rightly prosecuted for using their natural child-rearing capabilities as an excuse to make money from their children, just like selling a man's sperm without his consent would be actionable in a court of law. Then, the healthy women living happily among you, who voluntarily had minor medical procedures designed to keep their lives intact (and who care so much for all life on this earth that they willingly chose to become excellent women first before becoming mothers), will be given the credit they both deserve and earned for being socially responsible citizens. 

It also means your that bloodily-staged shows of the past will become the trite comic fodder it's always been for enlightened minds like mine. G-d wants us to be happy, healthy, productive, and (most importantly) part of His Loving Family. Planning parenthood wisely is about the most beautifully humane gift any woman can give her future family. You were wrong. You are wrong now. Adjust accordingly. That is all.

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

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roe_v._Wade

Sista-Mutha

It's often been noted derisively that our "ethnic" families are so large, that the older siblings are forced to become parents quite young (like I did), and that's true; my mother was to her much-younger sister, as were both of my maternal grandparents, as many Catholic families have done before them. In fact, raising children is so much a part of our lives, it's astonishing to me when people assume that I am merely another average single woman who's "childless", alone in a sea of sameness, when nothing could be further from the truth.

All of my life, people have told me that I am their only "healthy" or "normal" friend, which is in ironic contrast to another part of my family who still refuse to see me as their natural leader, which I am. In my professional life, leadership is a quality that you cannot live without, whereas in my personal life, it's often been wrongly assumed (because I don't wear my womanhood on my sleeve for something that's simply genetic) that I cannot care for children, a family, and a home, which is so far off from my actual reality, I find it quaintly charming at times.

Doing laundry doesn't make you a good housewife, anymore than giving birth makes you a good mother. We learned in the home from our first years about babies and children, because our larger families had all sorts of kids, of varying ages, sizes, and types. My mother's youngest sister was 16 when I was born because my grandparents had her so much later in life, just like my grandmother's older sister (my grand-aunt, who also lived near us in Rockland County), because later-in-life childbirth is more common among our ancient Mediterranean bloodline. I always expected to have a family later in life, which is turning out to be exactly how I predicted it would be, and I am so glad.

I can't imagine being as great a mother in my twenties or thirties, because my background in business has added that extra experience I really needed to excel at running an excellent home, made to fit to my exceptionally high standards. It isn't about not ever having dirty dishes in the sink (for the sake of keeping up appearances); it's about genuinely being there for someone who needs you to be reliable on their timetable, just like every person who's ever relied on me (and just me) to keep to a really tough deadline on a limited budget, which is pretty much everyone associated with me.

And so it was at home, too. I've done almost every type of housekeeping chore I can think of (and some chores you modern ladies have never heard of), because my mother channeled her fussiness (honed in a laboratory) to a house full of children and one very fluffy white dog, allergies included. It was onerous hard work, and it inspired me to be something more than a kitchen drudge for the rest of my life, because being stuck in the home while chained to a dishwasher is about the worst nightmare I can think of for anyone, let alone an extremely intelligent woman. 

I can hire someone to cook and clean (not that I would overmuch, given who I am, because you can imagine the pratfalls of having strangers in the home with someone like me), but what I can't outsource is me, the essence of who I am and everything I have to teach. Who better to educate your entire family than you? What would be the point of all that time spent learning and educating outside of the home? Making money for other people and their families, over me and mine? Oh, heck no! I don't think so. Not the way this Acadian girl was raised.

Who would be better than me for my family? Nothing outperforms love, as every woman who's ever sought validation in the workplace (like a man) has found out, because children grow up so quickly, that you can <blink> and miss it. For women, there's no choice between her, her man, her home, her children, and some job, because work often represents money needed for food, clothing, shelter, and health insurance for those pricey medicines needed to combat common childhood illnesses. We've never needed ego gratification from strangers to fill our needs. Family does that for us.

For all the mothers raising other people's kids, I read you loud and clear: https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=Teachers%27+Day&oi=ddle&hl=en

Hieroglyphics

"Gifting", with strings attached.

For years, I've doodled little shapes and swirly glyphs until they covered a page. It was something I typically did during a boring class, or in attendance at yet another dopey meeting for people at much slower speeds, so there was no point in me paying attention with the full force of my consciousness. Of course, I'd learn later on that's exactly what you're supposed to do with massive amounts of mostly useless data: use other parts of your brain to take in information, which has the unfortunate effect of giving my a memory recall so profound, it's like a party trick for me now: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/06/12/doodling-benefits_n_7572182.html.

But they sometimes took on a deeper meaning to the people around me. One year, my former RISD classmate turned housemate used them to make fun Christmas cards."They're like wrapping paper", she said dismissively to me, and then took them to her day job to work on and show her co-workers, which was weird, since she was so paranoid about people ripping her off without getting paid. I didn't care, because she photocopied them onto colored paper and colored in the Christmas tree, so I used them for cards that year, too.

The pens bled through, creating a constellation of dots on the other side.

Sometimes people noticed me drawing in meetings, like they had in school, but given my chosen profession(s), it hardly seemed worth mentioning to an artist/designer like me, so no one did. Until the year I began working for a small Jewish family that had great book packaging deals with the retail conglomerate Barnes & Noble. It put a whole new focus on me, as their star designer for a major American retailer. People jumped out of their skin around me, with their claws fully out, just like in art school.

They had a dysfunctional receptionist ("No, I'm an 'Office Manager'", and then she'd tell everyone around her that she didn't do office work), who clung to me voraciously, with the desperation of the drowning. She left me alone for awhile, until she got her "best friend" from high school fired, and then she turned her obsessive focus elsewhere, which naturally fell on me, the shiniest object in the room. I knew she was mentally ill because of her twitchy mannerisms and oddly disjointed way of speaking, plus she interrupted my work in the middle of a major deadline, which is the largest taboo we have in my industry. 

Magical dancing snowflakes, forever etched into my mind.

My look registered such shock at her brute assertion into my face for attention (over a banal relationship thing or another email about her poor socialization skills), that she immediately blurted "Oh, I'm bipolar" because it was that out of place for someone to do that to me at that point in my career. She promptly tried to retract it later on, when she turned on me (which I knew she would), after embodying every single facet of her original medical diagnosis many times over, for 10+ years on the job. After many a run-in with the psycho co-worker, I laid some serious ground rules with her in that first intimate conversation about personal matters, which she promised to abide by, but of course, couldn't fulfill.

Anyway, the owner was pushing me hard to befriend her, with a twinkle in his eye, because he used her gossip like a seeing eye dog would, which was fine by me. I got coveted face-out shelf space to promote my imprint (which is actually part of the job), and he could pick her straw head about whatever weirdo thing he wanted to. I knew the game of "Telephone" like a pro. And so we hung out a few times after work, but she couldn't get the necessary dirt she wanted to have as leverage over me with my genuine after-hours bonhomie.

Windmill toys, like the ones we played with as children.

Besides that, she had briefly attended F.I.T. for painting, and it's also part of my job to mentor junior design staff. She could never be a designer because of her learning impairments, but she could do basic illustration work, and so I allowed her to grow closer to me, while I was the one with the authority to careful demarcate appropriate adult boundaries. I still needed good press at the time, and her dull PR about me would help me buoy up a imprint that had lay fallow, so I could have time to turn it into a major moneymaker for the company.

It worked like a charm. She sung like a canary to anyone who would listen to her, and I got to pull a very lucrative project out of the fire, to infamous success. And, I did really like any person with creative aspirations (as I've been taught to do) who want to learn and do better, which she did seem to have, in spurts that came and went with the ups-and-downs of her serious brain disorder. It was really therapy for her, but that was fine, too: RISD masters in degree programs like Art Therapy and Art Education. The better I could break through to the rough spots on her mind, the better I got at my job.

You're a major star, baby!

I used her as a training tool, to better my conversations with a staff that was sub par for big city publishing in the tri-state area, and that was also part of my job, because the owner of the company told me that on my very first review. And so I signed concepts like "books" and "design" and "art" over and over into their hands, realizing that his employees dysfunctions mirrored those of his family, and not me or mine, because I met a lot of his family during my employ.

Their admin used me to gain artistic insight into creative genius, and I used her as a mouthpiece to telegraph whatever aspect of me that I felt the rest of the staff needed to know. She gained inspiration from me and my labors, which is also very typical for someone like me, too. I didn't mind. As I lectured to her at the reception desk, I could feel the entire company leaning in to listen to me, which was the gold in the bank that helped me to gain confidence and break through. I had an entire audience in the palm of my hand, every single day of my life, which has naturally led me here to you all.

A screw loose or two, or is it three, or...how many more?!

She was genuine in her admiration of me, as I was skillful in schooling her with the rest of the Special Needs adults who worked in the fringes of media. The first year of our acquaintance, she gave me a notebook, with the requisite hidden agenda attached: why don't you draw something we can sell to make money off of? I did no such fucking thing, because I was already making major bank that they could coattail off of, but I always enjoyed doodling. She once asked me what my scribblings meant, and I hesitated....who cares? But, as she eagerly awaited my answer, I gave her the most honest reply I could think of at the time: "I don't know....it doesn't really matter to me what they are. I call them 'hieroglyphics'".

A Keith Haring-inspired paramecium dancing in primordial fluid.

And now here we are years later, on a spiritual journey that has brought me back to very essence of my family's historical and cultural roots, buried deep in my DNA, but still very, very real: that time from our most sacred human area in a fertile river valley, tied forever to the lands of Ancient Mesopotamia, then Egypt, then the Greco-Roman era, onto modern Normans (be they Italian, Irish, or French-Swiss), and then my tribe that turned right and went east to India, walking (or sledding) over the Bering Land Bridge with our ancient dogs, to finally meet a boat of French men from Western Europe on the Americas most eastern shores, men who married the M'ikMak squaws from Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia, people who drew the cuneiform shapes that resembled the ancient language for those of us who have always loyally worshipped The Great Spirit. 

A "commercial artist", indeed.

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0e/Mikmaq_sample_%28ave_Maria%29.jpg

 

RISD’s Ongoing Mission

The mission of Rhode Island School of Design, through its college and museum, is to educate its students and the public in the creation and appreciation of works of art and design, to discover and transmit knowledge and to make lasting contributions to a global society through critical thinking, scholarship and innovation.

Original Mission Statement
On March 22, 1877, the Rhode Island General Assembly ratified “An Act to Incorporate the Rhode Island School of Design.” The corporation, comprised of a forward-thinking group of men and women, artists and business leaders, educators and politicians, was formed “for the purpose of aiding in the cultivation of the arts of design.” The original bylaws set forth the following key objectives for RISD:

First. The instruction of artisans in drawing, painting, modeling, and designing, that they may successfully apply the principles of Art to the requirements of trade and manufacture.

Second. The systematic training of students in the practice of Art, in order that they may understand its principles, give instruction to others, or become artists.

Third. The general advancement of public Art Education, by the exhibition of works of Art and of Art school studies, and by lectures on Art.

http://www.risd.edu/About/History_Mission_Governance/Mission/

No Budget

I'm often greeted with amazement about my prodigious prowess, along with fear, awe, hatred, ignorance, and trepidation. "Is it magic?!"
Sure, let me wave my friggin' fairy wand. The truth is: it is, and it isn't. It's in my nature, and when great people do great things through their good works, together we can move mountains. I work with a zero budget to produce this service free of charge to you, and I pledge to you today that it is my strong desire to continue to keep this an open resource for all, with no prejudices against you, because I believe in the power to change more than any other force.

The other simple truth is that I am far from alone, although at times it may seem that way to someone who does not live independently like a healthy, mature adult does, but the other reality is this: I see other strong people of faith working their "miracles" almost daily, far from the sight of the afflicted among us. Case in point: Master Educator, Healer, and Builder Michael Konstalid, who collects old materials to create special needs furniture for our beautiful children of New York on NO BUDGET. That's rights, folks: zero money down.
 
 

Michael Konstalid: educator, healer, builder, thinker, and doer.

Today is about you, Michael. I thank you for your great service, without the media's cameras, or an industry's gold statue, or even a nod of the head kindly in your direction on some days (far from it, truth be told), as so often happens for those of us who love more than we despise, because we are an actively living faith.  I see you.

http://nyti.ms/1b1xFU6