I Write

Genetics is tendency, not destiny. 

–Dr. Neil Capretto, medical director of Gateway Rehabilitation Center

I have little fibrous masses riddled through both my breasts. They don’t bother me and they are benign. I know this because a few years ago, upon discovery, my thorough doctor did a mammogram noting each and every lump, then followed with biopsies of the most suspicious lumps in both breasts. 

That was fun. NOT!

As I suspected, all was well with the breasts. But, at the time, there was increasing talk about something called BRC1 and BRC2. Turns out, these are breast cancer susceptibility genes. In fact, they are known as tumor suppressors that can experience harmful mutations which increase a person’s risk of developing a disease, such as cancer. Not all mutations are harmful so the testing can only reveal the possibility of an increased risk of breast cancer.

My doctor suggested that I get tested because both my biological parents have had breast cancer.

I declined.

Perhaps this is where the scientific and spiritual divide clash most for me. I’m not against medical treatment. I absolutely believe that people who have faith should pray AND have surgery or whatever treatment a licensed medical professional prescribes. I am all for medical intervention.

BUT…

I declined to get genetic testing because I am not simply the genetic composition of my biological parents. Their destiny is not my own. I tried explaining this to my doctor. It was evident that she didn’t get where I was coming from because she thought I was afraid of receiving negative results. It wasn’t the results that mattered to me. If my destiny is to get breast cancer then so be it. Although I don’t believe that breast cancer is in the cards for me. I’ve got too much to do to be consumed with recovery.

I am not my genes. 

I also explained to my doctor that there were no healthier decisions that I could make for myself (and this was about a year before I became a vegetarian but I was only eating chicken and fish by this time). I don’t smoke or drink alcohol. I exercise weekly. So being forewarned that I might potentially get cancer was unnecessary. There was nothing about my life that I would alter. The only real difference would be that I would, perhaps, get more breast screenings after a certain age. I can do that anyway.

The more encompassing reality for me is that I see my parents as other. Other…sort of like alien. Other…like their primary role in my life has been served and we’re done. I just don’t see a connection. They are them. I am me. 

I am not my genes. 

I’m the kid who takes complete responsibility for her life, successes and failures. Most parents appreciate that. I hope mine do as well. But we are not really traveling this life journey together. You hear some parents and their children talk about an unbreakable bond. They are all up in and through one another’s lives. That’s not us. It’s not bad or good. It just is.

I am more than my genes. In fact, we all are. 

On more than one occasion, I found myself embroiled in a conversation with a group of guys—mostly friends—about what I would and would not do to “feed my baby.” 

Thankfully I do not have children so the choice of whether or not to strip for money to feed him or her has not arisen.  When these conversations took place, I always found myself reeling at the thought that men who I considered friends and who were usually quite forward-thinking about women’s rights were seriously letting me down.

These fools struck a nerve when they argued that I should be willing to do whatever it takes to feed my baby, including strip. They didn’t see anything remotely wrong with this logic even when I reminded them that I had a law degree!!!! I figured, at the very least, my law degree should make me employable outside of the adult sex industry.

They were not convinced.

Some of you may be thinking, “How did this conversation even come up?” Perhaps it was because I was living in Detroit where strip clubs are as prevalent as churches. Perhaps it was the guys I was hanging around who were a mix of both professionals and blue collar workers—each equally enthralled with strip clubs, strippers, and their stories of hustling to feed their kids or put themselves through college.

I have never really considered myself a feminist in any real way. But the conversation about stripping to feed my baby distanced me from men in a profound way that I had never experienced before. The men in my family had always held me up on a pedestal, believed in my intellectual and creative capabilities, and also let me play sports and work on cars with them. In other words, they treated me like a human-being.

After the strip to feed my baby argument, I realized that even men who claimed to see me as an equal could still place a greater value on my body than anything else. Dayum!!!! That shook me. And it made me trust men less—not all men but most men. 

I know that at least one of these guys has a young daughter now. And I wonder if he still thinks the same way. In truth, our society supports dissociative thinking when it comes to how men see women. They can easily love and respect their mothers, daughters, and sisters. Yet these same men can just as easily justify paying women for lap dances or sex. 

I guess my question for men is this: “Is it possible to demean some women without it adversely impacting how you see and act toward the women you say you love?”

I think not. I don’t think that human-beings can compartmentalize their thoughts so precisely without wreaking havoc in our psyche. But I’m just a woman, so what do I know?

— n Schtick[shtik]

slang any talent, style, habit, or other eccentricity for which a person is particularly well-known

Not long ago I shared with my BFF the fact that I was calling a moratorium on weird people in my life. I’ve spent a lifetime amassing weird friends and associates. Some weirdness is cool, quirky and fun. Other weirdness is just irksome. It’s the latter I seek to minimize.

The BFF shared this information with her daughter—my godchild. Her response, “Wait. What? But I’m weird.” The BFF then comforted her daughter by saying that I only meant that I was no longer accepting new weird people into my life. Uhm…that’s not what I said. But I’m letting it slide for now and I intend to monitor the godchild’s level of weirdness as she matures (e.g. she is not yet on solid footing with me but I will do my part to ensure that her weirdness remains at an acceptable level.)

In truth, we are all weird, right? I’ve got my schticks. One that I’m famous for is pretending that I’m invisible on elevators when I want to avoid talking to someone. That’s my thing. And even if someone insists on trying to talk to me, I can find a place deep within my being that silences the world. This, I see, as a fun and quirky weirdness.

A weirdness that I abhor occurs far too often among my vegetarian and vegan peeps. I only draw attention to this because their weirdness is transferred all too often to me. 

The vegetarian/vegan schtick that becomes an obsession so that you are dining with your meat-eating friends and feel the need to gag at their every bite of meat, sometimes even commenting that you don’t see how they can eat the dead animal flesh is both weird and obnoxious. The meat-eaters have every right to whip your a** or, at the very least, stop inviting you out to dinner. I don’t eat meat and I find you annoying. Live your life and let others live theirs.

This vegetarian/vegan schtick then makes people overly sensitive with me. They want to know if I’m bothered by the smell of meat cooking or if it makes me ill to see others eating meat. And really I could care less. Still others go on the attack—a preemptive strike—to suggest how they are going to slip me some meat. And you, my friend, will get your a** kicked. Yeah I don’t really fit the peace, love and granola vegetarian stereotype. Not so much.

The worst I’ve seen in reaction to the vegetarian/vegan schtick, however, is the t-shirt worn by Jessica Simpson and others that says Real Women Eat Meat! Vegetarians/Vegans we have no one to blame but ourselves. Sometimes the message gets lost in our madness. Just because we believe that killing animals to satiate our taste buds is wrong, it doesn’t give us the right to irk other people who don’t share our belief.

Do you! Being a vegetarian is a personal commitment for me. I really don’t care about what other people choose to do. I’m not recruiting. And I expect people who care about me simply to not try to slip me any meat and give me the same respect I give to them.

Real (Wo)men Don’t Attack Other (Wo)men Based On What They Eat or Don’t Eat.