Female Doctor Quotes

The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says: "It's a girl.

...You know, lots of female cyborgs are left infertile because of the invasive procedures, but from the looks of it, I don’t suspect you will have any problems.” Cinder sat on one of the exam tables, chin settled atop both palms. “Lucky me.” The doctor wagged a finger at her. “You should be grateful your surgeons took such care.” “I’m sure I’ll feel much more grateful when I find a guy who thinks complex wiring in a girl is a turn-on.

I think like Joss Whedon [Stephen Moffat] often mistakes ‘empowered’ for ‘strong in exactly the way I personally want to sleep with

Nowadays I’m really cranky about comics. Because most of them are just really, really poorly written soft-core. And I miss good old storytelling. And you know what else I miss? Super powers. Why is it now that everybody’s like “I can reverse the polarity of your ions!” Like in one big flash everybody’s Doctor Strange. I like the guys that can stick to walls and change into sand and stuff. I don’t understand anything anymore. And all the girls are wearing nothing, and they all look like they have implants. Well, I sound like a very old man, and a cranky one, but it’s true.

doctors were policing women who stepped outside society’s strictly defined gender spheres—work and intellect for men, home and children for women—in what could be described as a “medicalization of female behavior.

My name...my name is Mary. I'm here with a friend.' Rhage stopped breathing. His heart skipped a beat and then slowed. "Say that again,' he whispered. 'Ah, my name is Mary Luce. I'm a friend of Bella's...We came here with a boy, with John Matthew. We were invited.' Rhage shivered, a balmy rush blooming out all over his skin. The musical lilt of her voice, the rhythm of her speech, the sound of her words, it all spread through him, calming him, comforting him. Chaining him sweetly. He closed his eyes. 'Say something else.' 'What?' she asked, baffled. 'Talk. Talk to me. I want to hear your voice.' She was silent, and he was about to demand that she speak when she said, 'You don't look well. Do you need a doctor?' He found himself swaying. The words didn't matter. It was her sound: low, soft, a quiet brushing in his ears. He felt as if here being stroked on the inside of his skin. 'More,' he said, twisting his palm around to the front of her neck so he could feel the vibrations in her throat better. 'Could you... could you please let go of me?' 'No.' He brought his other arm up. She was wearing some kind of fleece, and he moved the collar aside, putting his hand on her shoulder so she couldn't get away from him. 'Talk.' She started to struggle. 'You're crowding me.' 'I know. Talk.' 'Oh for God's sake, what do you want me to say?' Even exasperated, her voice was beautiful. 'Anything.' 'Fine. Get your hand off my throat and let me go or I'm going to knee you where it counts.' He laughed. Then sank his lower body into her, trapping her with his thighs and hips. She stiffened against him, but he got an ample feel of her. She was built lean, though there was no doubt she was female. Her breasts hit his chest, her hips cushioned his, her stomach was soft. 'Keep talking,' he said in her ear. God, she smelled good. Clean. Fresh. Like lemon. When she pushed against him, he leaned his full weight into her. Her breath came out in a rush. 'Please,' he murmured. Her chest moved against his as if she were inhaling. 'I... er, I have nothing to say. Except get off of me.' He smiled, careful to keep his mouth closed. There was no sense showing off his fangs, especially if she didn't know what he was. 'So say that.' 'What?' 'Nothing. Say nothing. Over and over and over again. Do it.' She bristled, the scent of fear replaced by a sharp spice, like fresh, pungent mint from a garden. She was annoyed now. 'Say it.' "Fine. Nothing. Nothing.' Abruptly she laughed, and the sound shot right through to his spine, burning him. 'Nothing, nothing. No-thing. No-thing. Noooooothing. There, is that good enought for you? Will you let me go now?

Sometimes, I realised, the most important thing I could do as a doctor was to be kind.

I remember being thirteen years old, sitting in my room all night, listening to the same song over and over. I thought that if I could write something beautiful, something honest, I could make someone love me.

Give me priests. Give me men with feathers in their hair, or tall domed hats, female oracles in caves, servants of the python, smoking weed and reading palms. A gypsy fortuneteller with a foot-peddle ouija board and a gold fish bowl for a crystal ball knows more about the world than many of the great thinkers of the West. Mumbling priests swinging stink cans on their chains and even witch doctors conjuring up curses with a well-buried elephant tooth have a better sense of their places in the world. They know this universe is brimming with magic, with life and riddles and ironies. They know that the world might eat them, and no encyclopedia could stop it

Okay, you shouldn’t be able to sit up,” Manny muttered. Was he? Oh, hey, check it… And as for the doctor’s second dose of surprise? Nice guy, but he was being a dumb-ass human when it came to the feeding thing. With this kind of hunger for that particular female? Tohr was frickin’ Superman, capable of bench-pressing a Hummer while he juggled Smart Cars with his free hand.

Using this novel method, doctors could treat female patients without violating the honor of her family.

We never understood the tendency to underestimate us, we who had been baptized and delivered through pain, who grinned and bore agonies while managing to draw on wing-tipped eyeliner with a surgically steady hand. We plucked our eyebrows, waxed our upper lips, got razor burn on our crotches, held blades to the cups of our armpits. Shoes tore holes in the skin of our heels and crippled the balls of our feet. We endured labor and childbirth and C-sections, during which doctors literally set our intestines on a table next to our bodies while we were awake. We got acid facials. We punctured our foreheads with Botox and filled our lips and our breasts. We pierced our ears and wore pants that were too tight. We got too much sun. We punished our bodies in spin class. All these tiny sacrifices to make us appear more lithe and ladylike—the female of the species. The weaker sex. Secretly, they toughened our hides, sharpened our edges. We were tougher than we looked. The only difference was that now we were finally letting on.

In all developed countries, without exception, women spend fewer hours working. In the United States, female doctors work fewer hours than their male counterparts; the same is true for female lawyers.[403]

Incessant talking.” “Unusual zealousness.” “Strong will.” These were, in fact, textbook examples of female insanity in the nineteenth century. Doctors frequently saw pathology in female personality.

A young woman attending the best medical school in the world," Ransom mused aloud, "far from home, taking classes in a foreign language. You're a determined woman, doctor." "No medical school here would admit a female," Garret said pragmatically. "I had no choice." "You could have given up." "That is never an option," she assured him, and he smiled.

Women misjudged his pathology because of his prolific brain-games. He used gaslighting techniques to convince her she had a break with reality. Some survivors called it 'The Ultimate Mind Screw'--sending prominent female executives, attorneys, and doctors into mental institutions to recover from him. Coercion, psychological warfare techniques and Stockholm Syndrome symptoms have left survivors sawed off at the emotional knees by a smooth-talking and ear-to-ear grinning psychological terrorist.

Before you let your doctor give you testosterone shots or pills, try to boost it naturally by dramatically decreasing or even eliminating sugar, wheat, and processed foods from your diet. A sugar burst has been found to lower testosterone levels by up to 25 percent. If you and your sweetheart share the cheesecake at the restaurant, no one is likely to get “dessert” when you get home! Another way to naturally boost your testosterone level is to start a weight-training program. Building muscle helps your body increase its testosterone levels. The supplements DHEA and zinc can also help. Zinc is necessary to maintain

Although a male physician could quite easily, and convincingly, assert that ovarian cancer was “silent,” if you were to really listen to women who have had ovarian cancer speak, you’d find that it wasn’t so much that the disease process was silent—but that they were. Conditions that seem to lurk unnoticed in a woman’s body go unnoticed by others because, for one thing, they are an assumed part of womanhood, and, for another, women are taught to keep those pains private. I’ve often found it curious that when a woman is suffering, her competence is questioned, but when a man is suffering, he’s humanized. It’s a gender stereotype that hurts both men and women, though it lends itself to the question of why there is a proclivity in health care, and in society, to deny female pain.

The witch-burnings did not take place during the “Dark Ages,” as we commonly suppose. They occurred between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries– precisely during and following the Renaissance, that glorious period when, as we are taught, “men’s” minds were being freed from bleakness and superstition. While Michelangelo was sculpting and Shakespeare writing, the witches were burning. The whole secular “Enlightenment,” in fact, the male professions of doctor, lawyer, judge, artist, all rose from the ashes of the destroyed women’s culture. Renaissance men were celebrating naked female beauty in their art, while women’s bodies were being tortured and burned by the hundreds of thousands all around them.

These subtle preconceptions are reflected when we say things like female doctor or woman scientist, implying that such positions are inherently male, while models, nurses, and prostitutes are all default female.

Women, as we know, used to be judged incapable of medicine. That changed in 1876, when, after a tenacious fight led by Britain’s first female doctor, Elizabeth Garret Anderson, the law was changed to prohibit women’s exclusion from medical schools. Now, more than 140 years later, female medical students outnumber men. Yet, according to Lawson, our predisposition to avoid antisocial hours and put family before career means we are more

The network employs thousands of humans. Surely one of them must be a ...woman...female...I don't know what you call them...vagina doctor." Melanie laughed. "Vagina doctor?" He smiled, relieved to have lightened her mood a bit. "I've had very little contact with doctors in my lifetime. You know what I mean." "They're called OB/GYNs." "Thank you.

After a time he thought he knew. It was knowledge they craved; yet they could not admit to craving it, because it was forbidden knowledge — knowledge with a lurid glare to it; knowledge gained through a descent into the pit. He has been where they could never go, seen what they could never see; he has opened up women’s bodies, and peered inside. In his hand, which has just raised their own hands towards his lips, he may once have held a beating female heart. Thus he is one of the dark trio — the doctor, the judge, the executioner — and shares with them the powers of life and death. To be rendered unconscious; to lie exposed, without shame, at the mercy of others; to be touched, incised, plundered, remade — this is what they are thinking of when they look at him, with their widening eyes and slightly parted lips.

Siddhartha wants liberation, Dante wants Beatrice, Frodo wants to get to Mount Doom—we all want something. Quest is elemental to the human experience. All road narratives are to some extent built on quest. If you’re a woman, though, this fundamental possibility of quest is denied. You can’t go anywhere if you can’t step out onto a road… …(T)here is no female counterpart in our culture to Ishmael or Huck Finn. There is no Dean Moriarty, Sal, or even a Fuckhead. It sounds like a doctoral crisis, but it’s not. As a fifteen-year-old hitchhiker, my survival depended upon other people’s ability to envision a possible future for me. Without a Melvillean or Kerouacian framework, or at least some kind of narrative to spell out a potential beyond death, none of my resourcefulness or curiosity was recognizable, and therefore I was unrecognizable.

According to the legend an evil old doctor, who called himself God and us dogs, created the first boy in his adolescent image. The boy peopled the garden with male phantoms that rose from his ejaculations. This angered God, who was getting on in years. He decided it endangered his position as CREATOR. So he crept upon the boy and anaesthetized him and made Eve from his rib. Henceforth all creation of beings would process through female channels. But some of Adam's phantoms refused to let God near them under any pretext.

A curse. Been in our family for generations. The Lees have always been perverts. I shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands—the lymph glands that is, of course—when the baneful word seared my reeling brain: I was a homosexual. I thought of the painted, simpering female impersonators I'd seen in a Baltimore nightclub. Could it be possible I was one of those subhuman things? I walked the streets in a daze like a man with a light concussion—just a minute, Doctor Kildare, this isn't your script. I might well destroyed myself, ending an existence which seemed to offer nothing but grotesque misery and humiliation. Nobler, I thought, to die a man than live on, a sex monster. It was a wise old queen—Bobo, we called her—who taught me that I had a duty to live and bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love.

My very core clenches and spasms, my hips with a mind of their own, lurch. It is as if I no longer have control of any part of my body. ‘Ugh,’ I continue to groan in relief. And then, slowly, the rush is over and I am able to part my eyelids again. David is still looking at my face, a light sheen of sweat on his brow indicates that his task was not without effort. Finding his gaze too forthright in the current circumstances, my eyes move to the arm that still dwells beneath my skirts and the hand that clings viciously to his sleeve. My hand.

Generations of women are ignorant, ignorant of the Quran and its teachings. If we don't inform ourselves as women, we don't know about the rights we can exercise, which are empowering to women actually, because Islam is such an egalitarian religion, Qanta! Islam gave women inheritance rights and property rights and the rights to divorce and to choose a marriage partner. Servitude never enters the equation. Beatings are Haram.” Maha

Why isn't every woman a feminist? Feminism tells a tale of female injury, but the average woman in heterosexual intimacy knows that men are injured too, as indeed they are. She may be willing to grant, this average woman, that men in general have more power than women in general. This undoubted fact is merely a fact; it is abstract, while the man of flesh and blood who stands before her is concrete: His hurts are real, his fears palpable. And like those heroic doctors on the late show who work tirelessly through the epidemic even though they may be fainting from fatigue, the woman in intimacy may set her own needs to one side in order better to attend to his. She does this not because she is "chauvinized" or has "false consciousness," but because this is what the work requires. Indeed, she may even excuse the man's abuse of her, having glimpsed the great reservoir of pain and rage from which it issues. Here is a further gloss on the ethical disempowerment attendant upon women's caregiving: in such a situation, a woman may be tempted to collude in her own ill-treatment.

She quoted Simone de Beauvoir once, during a staff meeting. She’d sworn when she dropped her pen, and Dr. Brenner said, ‘People are always asking me what it’s like working with a lady doctor, and if I ever meet one, I’ll be able to tell them.’ Dorothy laughed—she hardly ever laughed—and Margot snapped right back at him—I know the quotation off by heart now, in French, too—‘Man is defined as a human being and a woman as a female—whenever she behaves as a human being she is said to imitate the male.

It seems to me that women would make much better sailors,” Miss Ophelia interjected, setting aside her cup of rosehip tea. “You men are susceptible to all sorts of magical mischief, from mermaids to sirens to rusalki to whatever else has a female form and a nice voice. I have never heard of a woman wrecking a ship over some singing seahorse!

Education continued to come under particularly strong fire...: If women learned how to manage in the world as well as men, if they learned about history and politics and studied for a profession, of course they would soon be demanding a voice and a role outside the home. The medical doctors soon discovered that education was dangerous to a female's health.

Exactly. Though I consider myself adequately knowledgeable, I'm no doctor. Humans aren't my specialty.

The role of women was proscribed in medicine as in society, bolstered by the stereotype of the female nurturer: Doctors cured. Nurses cared.

The forbidden becomes much more enticing than what is always revealed.

Discrimination in fact is how many of the Saudis define themselves. Saudi Arabia is about separation of gender, race, tribe, fiefdoms.

What if you decide to do Doctors Without Borders, and your ability to save a life depends on knowing whether ‘the scalpel’ is male or female?

For decades the doctors in Barceloneta sterilized Puerto Rican women without their knowledge or consent. Even if told about la operación (the operation), the women were not informed that it was irreversible and permanent. Over 20,000 women were sterilized in this one town.4 This scenario was repeated throughout Puerto Rico until—at its high point—one-third of the women on the island had been sterilized and Puerto Rico had the highest incidence of female sterilization in the world.5 This campaign of sterilization stemmed from a growing concern in the United States about “inferior races” and the declining “purity” of Anglo-Saxon bloodlines.

When you are surrounded by death and disease, aggressive and drunk patients, and nurses (male and female) trying constantly to flirt with you, it can make working in A&E an interesting and often stressful environment

Sober for seven years, Spencer had replaced his heroin and methamphetamine addiction with martial arts even before he’d left for federal prison. The jujitsu practice had sustained him throughout his incarceration—even when his girlfriend dumped him and when his former martial-arts teacher and onetime father figure was arrested and jailed for taking indecent liberties with a teenage female student. Spencer stuck to his recovery and to his prison workouts, ignoring the copious drugs that had been smuggled inside, and he read voraciously about mixed martial arts. Using the Bureau of Prisons’ limited email system, he had Ginger copy articles about various MMA fighters—laboriously pasting in one block of text at a time—so he could memorize pro tips and workout strategies and, eventually, through her, reach out directly to fighters and studio owners for advice.

I don't think this is a good idea. We all live on one planet so we cannot segregate the genders. If the Holy Mosque in Makkah, which is the holiest place on earth, does not segregate women, then why would the Ministry of Health want to segregate them?” She also went on to object to the selection of a physician based only on gender and not competence, expressing her disdain as follows: “I prefer doctors who are professional in studying my situation and solving my problem, regardless of whether they are male or female. I cannot imagine a men's hospital without female nurses and doctors, and I also cannot imagine women's hospitals without men playing a role in them.

It has also been suggested that Kober’s doctors never told her precisely how ill she was. Given the low esteem in which the medical establishment of the period held patients—especially female patients—this, too, is possible.

One of my greatest fears is family decline.There’s an old Chinese saying that “prosperity can never last for three generations.” I’ll bet that if someone with empirical skills conducted a longitudinal survey about intergenerational performance, they’d find a remarkably common pattern among Chinese immigrants fortunate enough to have come to the United States as graduate students or skilled workers over the last fifty years. The pattern would go something like this: • The immigrant generation (like my parents) is the hardest-working. Many will have started off in the United States almost penniless, but they will work nonstop until they become successful engineers, scientists, doctors, academics, or businesspeople. As parents, they will be extremely strict and rabidly thrifty. (“Don’t throw out those leftovers! Why are you using so much dishwasher liquid?You don’t need a beauty salon—I can cut your hair even nicer.”) They will invest in real estate. They will not drink much. Everything they do and earn will go toward their children’s education and future. • The next generation (mine), the first to be born in America, will typically be high-achieving. They will usually play the piano and/or violin.They will attend an Ivy League or Top Ten university. They will tend to be professionals—lawyers, doctors, bankers, television anchors—and surpass their parents in income, but that’s partly because they started off with more money and because their parents invested so much in them. They will be less frugal than their parents. They will enjoy cocktails. If they are female, they will often marry a white person. Whether male or female, they will not be as strict with their children as their parents were with them. • The next generation (Sophia and Lulu’s) is the one I spend nights lying awake worrying about. Because of the hard work of their parents and grandparents, this generation will be born into the great comforts of the upper middle class. Even as children they will own many hardcover books (an almost criminal luxury from the point of view of immigrant parents). They will have wealthy friends who get paid for B-pluses.They may or may not attend private schools, but in either case they will expect expensive, brand-name clothes. Finally and most problematically, they will feel that they have individual rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution and therefore be much more likely to disobey their parents and ignore career advice. In short, all factors point to this generation

It’s a moment every clinician has inhabited and, all too often, pulled back from—a threshold we fear crossing. We imagine ourselves, [...], and recognize a double bind, a new doctor’s dilemma: if we ask about [a patient's interest/personal information], we fall hopelessly behind in administrative tasks and feel more burned out. If we don’t ask about [it], we avoid the kind of intimacy that not only helps the patient, but also nourishes us and keeps us from feeling burned out.

In a visit to San Salvador in February 1989, Vice President Dan Quayle told army leaders that death squad killings and other human rights violations attributed to the military had to be ended. Ten days later, the US-trained Atlacatl Battalion—which was believed to have a US trainer assigned to it at all times—attacked a guerrilla field hospital, killing at least ten people, including five patients, a doctor and a nurse, and raping at least two of the female victims before shooting them.

In case you weren't aware, my good fellow, you are in the company of one of the most skilled and accomplished women in England. In fact, I would say Dr. Gibson has a male brain in a woman's body." Garrett grinned wryly at his last comment, which she knew had been intended as a compliment. "Thank you, Doctor." "Despite my short acquaintance with Dr. Gibson," Ethan said, "her brain seems entirely female to me." The remark caused Garrett to stiffen slightly, as she expected a mocking comment to follow. Something about how a woman's mind was changeable, or shallow, the usual clichés. But as Ethan continued, there was no hint of teasing in his tone. "Keen, subtle, and quick, with an intellect strengthened by compassion- yes, she has a woman's mind." Thrown off guard, Garrett stared at him with a touch of wonder. In that brief, private moment, Ethan looked as if he really did prefer her to everything else in the world. As if he saw all of her, the good and the bad, and wouldn't change a thing about her.

The better I understood my education, the angrier I became that most working-class and poor people are denied one. Why are the children of doctors, lawyers, and engineers taught the mysteries of existence while the children of janitors and waitresses are taught fear? I developed a preoccupation with my own inadequacies, aided by a few professors of elitism. To combat my growing anxiety, I began to envision myself a class spy. I would soak up all of the information they could give me and run reconnaissance for my team.

fact that a woman cannot drive or travel without authorization, for example, gives a special sense of strength to the man. And this strength is directly connected to the violence. It creates a sense of immunity; that he can do whatever he wants, without sanction.

Transactivists try to liken single sex spaces and services to racial segregation or discrimination based on sexual orientation, but that is a false equivalent. Men being violent towards women is a well documented problem in our society. We have no evidence that people of certain races or sexual orientations are more dangerous than others. Therefore, a woman requesting a female doctor is both reasonable and justified in light of male pattern violence, while discrimination against a lesbian or a black doctor would clearly be wrong.

Ignominiously reined in by their ruler, the Ikhwan became deeply offended especially as they considered themselves the religious Army of God. The rude rebuff drove them to question their unwavering loyalty for their King. Thus the first crisis of clergy and King was conceived.

By removing the ability to drive themselves anywhere, women were at the mercy of male authority, compelled always to inform men of their destinations and returns, and in a country where women could not travel without prior authorization by men, they were effectively hostage to their male relatives. Rania

Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” an effervescent female voice asked above me. A stuffy male voice said haughtily, “Your highness, she’s lost seventy percent of the blood in her body. It will be a miracle if she wakes up in the next few days. She has been in a coma for three days and is disturbingly small, weak, and scrawny. Frankly, I don’t understand how she has survived as lon—” “Boo,” I said as I opened my eyes and shot up out of bed. The fae doctor screamed like a ninny and threw his clipboard against the wall. It rattled with a loud crack. “Not dead yet, bitch.” I made a duck face and held up two peace signs.

I wonder whether, just as we take recertification exams every few years, we might be required, at intervals, to rewrite our medical school admissions essays, to articulate at each stage of our careers just what sort of doctors we aspire to be. Origin myths are meant to be retold and reinterpreted again and again.

Dear Medical Schools: Please teach your male doctors to listen to their female patients. We know a thing or two about what goes on inside us, even if we may not know why, how, or what to call it. We also definitely know which medications have worked and not worked on our bodies in the past, so please treat that information as valuable.

And she continued to steal scones for him. Definitely courting behavior. Only Percy didn't know how to really do it. (Peahen, he eventually decided, was not a good name for one's beloved. He'd have to do better. What did the ancients use? Time to research.) Percy understood the mechanics of courting, of course. One ought to write a lady sonnets, send her flowers, and purchase the dd trinket or two. But the only flowers aboard the Custard were the potted sunflowers to help cleanse the aether of malignant humours. They ought not to be cut and presented to doctors. Besides, Percy had never understood the notion of gifting the dead sexual organs of a plant to females. It seemed oddly threatening.

Fitz must not know in advance, for he would try to stop her. He might simply lock her in her room. He could even get her committed to a lunatic asylum. A wealthy upper-class man could have a female relative put away without much difficulty. All Fitz would have to do was to find two doctors willing to agree with him that she must be mad to want to marry a German.

I thought Lady Helen was going to introduce you to the lady doctor who treated Pandora's shoulder." "Dr. Gibson? Yes, she's a marvelous woman. As a matter of fact, she came to visit Eversby Priory this summer." All Phoebe's pleasant feelings abruptly turned disagreeable. "Surely not without a chaperone." "Garrett Gibson doesn't bother with chaperones," West replied, his lips twitching as if at some private memory. "The usual rules don't apply to her. She brought a patient, Mr. Ethan Ransom, who was injured and needed to recuperate in peace and quiet." Poisonous jealousy flooded Phoebe. The female doctor was an accomplished and unconventional woman- exactly the kind who would attract his interest. "You must have found her fascinating." "Anyone would.

The base doctor had no charts; Cordelia’s medical records were of course all behind enemy lines in Vorbarr Sultana at present. He shook his head and keyed up a new form on his report panel. “I’m sorry, Lady Vorkosigan. We’ll simply have to begin at the beginning. Please bear with me. Do I understand correctly you’ve had some sort of female trouble?” No, most of my troubles have been with males. Cordelia bit her tongue.

Obstetricians also doubted the female intellectual capacity to grasp the anatomy and physiology of childbirth, and suggested that they could not therefore be trained. But the root fear was – guess what? – you’ve got it, but no prizes for quickness: money. Most doctors charged a routine one guinea for a delivery. The word got around that trained midwives would undercut them by delivering babies for half a guinea! The knives were out.

This has just came in from high command.  There will be no loitering on the beachhead.  Anyone found skinny dipping or fishing with grenades will be put on a charge.  Two marines have already been disciplined for this offence.’  A few men laughed and he smiled.  ‘Also there will be no fraternisation with the local female populace.  This will not be tolerated.  High command believe they may well carry some exotic disease our doctors may not be able to treat.’  That brought a little more laughter.  ‘Again two marines have already been disciplined,’ the rest of his sentence was drowned out by the laughter.  He waited until it died down again.  ‘In their defence the marines stated that the females plied them with a local beverage made from coconuts.  As there doesn’t seem to be any coconut trees in space the high command disbelieved their story.  So don’t try it, you won’t get away with it.

This embittered thought brought to her mind the several occasions upon which she might, had she been the kind of female his lordship no doubt admired, have kindled his ardour by a display of sensibility, or even of heroism ... To have thrown herself between the foils, when she had surprised the Earl fencing with Martin, would certainly have been spectacular, but that it would have evoked anything but exasperation in the male breast she was quite unable to believe. She thought she need not blame herself for having refrained upon this occasion; but when she recalled her behaviour in the avenue, when the Earl had been thrown from his horse, she knew that nothing could excuse her. Here had been an opportunity for spasms, swoonings, and a display of sensibility, utterly neglected! How could his lordship have been expected to guess that her heart had been beating so hard and so fast that had felt quite sick, when all she had done was to talk to him in a voice drained of all expression? Not even when his lifeless body had been carried into the Castle had she conducted herself like a heroine of romance! Had she fainted at the sight of his blood-soaked raiment? Had she screamed? No! All she had done had been to direct Ulverston to do one thing, Turvey another, Chard to ride for the doctor, while she herself had done what lay within her power to staunch the bleeding.

For a long time being female was treated by science and medicine as being akin to having a serious psychological disorder. Women were routinely prescribed hysterectomies or anxiolytics like valium to treat the symptoms of hysteria which is a syndrome with symptoms that are suspiciously similar to the symptoms of being of human female who has to deal with stupid sexist bullshit. Although scions and medicine has come a long way since these sorts of practices were common place every woman i know has had an experience of being treated as less rational version of a man. Sometimes even by our own doctors simply by virtue of our gender. There belief that women are irrational and therefore underserving of the same rights as men is something that has lingered in the public consciousness in a huge way. And women are very aware of this. We have to listen to a lot of people say a lot of dumb shit about our hormones and about whether we deserve the right to control our own fertility. These types of claims particularly when combined with sciences and medicine mishandling of women for so long have made it very difficult for anyone, even female scientists, to have thoughtful conversations about things like women's hormones and fertility regulation. These topics unaddressed by science are often met with suspicion by anyone who has ever owned a pair of ovaries or is an ovarian sympatist.

For as long as I can remember, I have been on a quest for self-understanding and self-improvement. I am driven to figure myself and other people out. I have analysed myself as far back as I can remember, reanalysed myself, been to many psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors and psychics. I love self-help books, courses, anything to improve myself. My special interest is self-improvement, quantum physics, medicine, anything to do with bettering oneself and self-help.

For many years, discussing female sexuality in the doctor’s office was taboo, but that oppression is not a failing unique to medicine. In 1938, a Los Angeles teacher, Helen Hulick, was held in contempt of court for daring to show up in pants to testify as a witness and for refusing to change into a dress when the male judge insisted. She was given a five-day jail sentence. Much of women’s health, especially sexual health, was deemed unimportant or irrelevant because that is how women were viewed.

Here at Hajj, I was experiencing a taste of the same poison. While the women in my tent weren't nearly as wealthy or polished as the bewitching woman at al-Multaqa, they subscribed to the same view, deciding (based on skin color and ethnicity) that I surely must be a handmaid or at best nanny to a poor Saudi family who couldn't afford the much better Filipina maids, having instead to resort to Pakistani or worse, Bengali help. In fact I did remember one Saudi woman in the tent asking me if I was Bengali.

Boys and girls are only little men and women. And WE are much harder and hardier than they are--" (Peter liked the "we." Perhaps the Doctor had known he would.)--"and much stronger, and things that hurt THEM don't hurt US. You know you mustn't hit a girl--" "I should think not, indeed," muttered Peter, indignantly. "Not even if she's your own sister. That's because girls are so much softer and weaker than we are; they have to be, you know," he added, "because if they weren't, it wouldn't be nice for the babies. And that's why all the animals are so good to the mother animals. They never fight them, you know." "I know," said Peter, interested; "two buck rabbits will fight all day if you let them, but they won't hurt a doe." "No; and quite wild beasts--lions and elephants--they're immensely gentle with the female beasts. And we've got to be, too." "I see," said Peter. "And their hearts are soft, too," the Doctor went on, "and things that we shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully. So that a man has to be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're awfully brave, you know," he went on. "Think of Bobbie waiting alone in the tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing- -the softer and more easily hurt a woman is the better she can screw herself up to do what HAS to be done. I've seen some brave women-- your Mother's one," he ended abruptly. "Yes," said Peter. "Well, that's all. Excuse my mentioning it. But nobody knows everything without being told. And you see what I mean, don't you?

Trying to kill yourself never pans out the way it does in films. In hospital they do ask you if you meant to kill yourself but it's such a factual box-ticking exercise that to answer with any kind of emotion would be mortifying. There's no 'It was a cry for help' box but there should be. I feel like the doctors and the general public need to raise awareness of how embarrassing most suicide attempts are. When you're in a backless hospital gown with your worst pants on it's really hard to hold your nerve and say, 'I wanted to die?

When I'm dressed like this, people will say I don't look like a doctor." Garrett paused before continuing wryly. "On the other hand, they already say that, even when I'm wearing a surgeon's cap and gown." Carys, who was playing with the left-over glass beads on the vanity table, volunteered innocently, "You've always looked like a doctor to me." Helen smiled at her little sister. "Did you know, Carys, that Dr. Gibson is the only lady doctor in England?" Carys shook her head, regarding Garrett with round-eyed interest. "Why aren't there others?" Garrett smiled. "Many people believe women aren't suited to work in the medical profession." "But women can be nurses," Carys said with a child's clear-eyed logic. "Why can't they be doctors?" "There are many female doctors, as a matter of fact, in countries such as America and France. Unfortunately, women aren't allowed to earn a medical degree here. Yet." "But that's not fair." Garrett smiled down into the girl's upturned face. "There will always be people who say your dreams are impossible. But they can't stop you unless you agree with them.

How very small she seemed, tucked in the corner of the library with her knees drawn up. For the past hour and a half, she had been a commanding figure, strung tight with energy, her gaze stern and steely. She had worked in millimeters, doing tiny, crucial things to veins and cellular tissue with astonishing precision. Although West knew nothing about surgery, he'd understood that he was witnessing someone perform with rare skill. Now, in her exhaustion, the brilliant surgeon resembled an anxious schoolgirl who had taken a wrong turn on the way home. West liked her a great deal. In fact, he was rather sorry now that he'd kept shrugging off Helen's efforts to introduce them. He'd envisioned the female doctor as a severe matron, probably hostile toward men, and Helen's assurances that Dr. Gibson was quite pretty hadn't been at all convincing. Helen, with her completely unjustified affection for humanity, loved to overestimate people. But Garrett Gibson was more than pretty. She was riveting. An intelligent, accomplished woman with an elusive quality... a suggestion of hidden tenderness... that intrigued him.

It’s unnecessary and undesirable to limit our readings to medically related texts (she notes that when reading Ivan Ilyich doctors get bogged down arguing about whether the title character of Tolstoy’s novella had gastric cancer or pancreatic cancer, missing the point entirely); that literature helps dismantle the “hidden curriculum,” the teaching that our patients are somehow fundamentally different from us and we from them; that immersing ourselves in imaginary worlds populated by imaginary people and investing emotionally in their problems is excellent training for empathy.

You have to imagine what it was like to be on the receiving end of vicious antagonism: sneering, contempt, ridicule, slights about one’s intelligence, integrity and motives. In those days, women even ran the risk of dismissal for their opinions. And this treatment came from other women, as well as men. In fact, “in-fighting” between various schools of nurses who had some sort of training in midwifery was particularly nasty. One eminent lady – the matron of St Bartholomew’s Hospital – branded the aspiring midwives as “anachronisms, who would in the future be regarded as historical curiosities”. The medical opposition seems to have arisen mainly from the fact that “women are striving to interfere too much in every department of life”.* Obstetricians also doubted the female intellectual capacity to grasp the anatomy and physiology of childbirth, and suggested that they could not therefore be trained. But the root fear was – guess what? – you’ve got it, but no prizes for quickness: money. Most doctors charged a routine one guinea for a delivery. The word got around that trained midwives would undercut them by delivering babies for half a guinea! The knives were out.

It seems obvious that throughout history, as one of the few professions open to women, midwifery must have attracted women of unusual intelligence, competence, and self-respect§. While acknowledging that many remedies used by the witches were “purely magical” and worked, if at all, by suggestion, Ehrenreich and English point out an important distinction between the witch-healer and the medical man of the late Middle Ages: . . . the witch was an empiricist; She relied on her senses rather than on faith or doctrine, she believed in trial and error, cause and effect. Her attitude was not religiously passive, but actively inquiring. She trusted her ability to find ways to deal with disease, pregnancy and childbirth—whether through medication or charms. In short, her magic was the science of her time. By contrast: There was nothing in late mediaeval medical training that conflicted with church doctrine, and little that we would recognize as “science”. Medical students . . . spent years studying Plato, Aristotle and Christian theology. . . . While a student, a doctor rarely saw any patients at all, and no experimentation of any kind was taught. . . . Confronted with a sick person, the university-trained physician had little to go on but superstition. . . . Such was the state of medical “science” at the time when witch-healers were persecuted for being practitioners of “magic”.15 Since asepsis and the transmission of disease through bacteria and unwashed hands was utterly unknown until the latter part of the nineteenth century, dirt was a presence in any medical situation—real dirt, not the misogynistic dirt associated by males with the female body. The midwife, who attended only women in labor, carried fewer disease bacteria with her than the physician.

And as I watched her lengthening out for the test, I saw, but hoped that she did not see, the bishops and the deans, the doctors and the professors, the patriarchs and the pedagogues all at her shouting warning and advice. You can’t do this and you shan’t do that! Fellows and scholars only allowed on the grass! Ladies not admitted without a letter of introduction! Aspiring and graceful female novelists this way! So they kept at her like the crowd at a fence on the race-course, and it was her trial to take her fence without looking to right or left. If you stop to curse you are lost, I said

In the early 1970s, racial and gender discrimination was still prevalent. The easy camaraderie prevailing in the operating room evaporated at the completion of surgical procedures. There was an unspoken pecking order of seating arrangements at lunch among my fellow physicians. At the top were the white male 'primary producers' in prestigious surgical specialties. They were followed by the internists. Next came the general practitioners. Last on the list were the hospital-based physicians: the radiologists, pathologists and anaesthesiologists - especially non-white, female ones like me. Apart from colour, we were shunned because we did not bring in patients ourselves but, like vultures, lived off the patients generated by other doctors. We were also resented because being hospital-based and not having to rent office space or hire nursing staff, we had low overheads. Since a physician's number of admissions to the hospital and referral pattern determined the degree of attention and regard accorded by colleagues, it was safe for our peers to ignore us and target those in position to send over income-producing referrals. This attitude was mirrored from the board of directors all the way down to the orderlies.

Official USSR Government figures state that 30 men and one female security guard died as a direct consequence of the accident. That list only covers the people at the site within the first few hours of the explosion who died from acute radiation syndrome or burns. It ignores all military personnel who died due to exposure from the clean-up operation, civilians living in the surrounding area, and many others who entered the Zone shortly after the accident (journalists, doctors etc). Those whose bodies were recovered are buried in welded zinc coffins, to prevent their radioactive remains from contaminating the soil.

Women continued to be criticized for wondering about the wrong sorts of things, and were still considered unfit for the new method of inquiry. And the curious women whose smarts men couldn't deny faced the disturbing likelihood that they would become scientific curiousities themselves. Medical doctors at the time were persuaded by Galen's theory that women were colder than men and had slower thoughts. Women who had quick thoughts must not be female but rather hybrids they termed freaks of nature. When Astell wrote that learned women were "star'd upon as Monsters, Censur'd, Envy'd, and every way Discourag'd," she was being literal.

Divinely sanctioned wife-beating “There is no basis in Islamic theology to support domestic abuse of any kind,” declared Qanta A. Ahmed, author of In the Land of Invisible Women: A Female Doctor’s Journey in the Saudi Kingdom, in May 2009.43 But it all depends on one’s definition of “abuse:” wife-beating exists in all cultures, but only in Islam does it enjoy divine sanction. The Koran tells men to beat their disobedient wives after first warning them and then sending them to sleep in separate beds (4:34)—a punishment that suggests the Koran regards women as sexually insatiable and needing to be kept under control. This is, of course, an extremely controversial verse, so it is worth noting how several translators render the key word here, waidriboohunna:              Pickthall: “and scourge them”              Yusuf Ali: “(and last) beat them (lightly)”              Al-Hilali/Khan: “(and last) beat them (lightly, if it is useful)”              Shakir: “and beat them”              Sher Ali: “and chastise them”              Khalifa: “then you may (as a last alternative) beat them”              Arberry: “and beat them”              Rodwell: “and scourge them”              Sale: “and chastise them”              Asad: “then beat them”              Dawood: “and beat them

But I can cite ten other reasons for not being a father." "First of all, I don't like motherhood," said Jakub, and he broke off pensively. "Our century has already unmasked all myths. Childhood has long ceased to be an age of innocence. Freud discovered infant sexuality and told us all about Oedipus. Only Jocasta remains untouchable; no one dares tear off her veil. Motherhood is the last and greatest taboo, the one that harbors the most grievous curse. There is no stronger bond than the one that shackles mother to child. This bond cripples the child's soul forever and prepares for the mother, when her son has grown up, the most cruel of all the griefs of love. I say that motherhood is a curse, and I refuse to contribute to it." "Another reason I don't want to add to the number of mothers," said Jakub with some embarrassment, "is that I love the female body, and I am disgusted by the thought of my beloved's breast becoming a milk-bag." "The doctor here will certainly confirm that physicians and nurses treat women hospitalized after an aborted pregnancy more harshly than those who have given birth, and show some contempt toward them even though they themselves will, at least once in their lives, need a similar operation. But for them it's a reflex stronger than any kind of thought, because the cult of procreation is an imperative of nature. That's why it's useless to look for the slightest rational argument in natalist propaganda. Do you perhaps think it's the voice of Jesus you're hearing in the natalist morality of the church? Do you think it's the voice of Marx you're hearing in the natalist propaganda of the Communist state? Impelled merely by the desire to perpetuate the species, mankind will end up smothering itself on its small planet. But the natalist propaganda mill grinds on, and the public is moved to tears by pictures of nursing mothers and infants making faces. It disgusts me. It chills me to think that, along with millions of other enthusiasts, I could be bending over a cradle with a silly smile." "And of course I also have to ask myself what sort of world I'd be sending my child into. School soon takes him away to stuff his head with the falsehoods I've fought in vain against all my life. Should I see my son become a conformist fool? Or should I instill my own ideas into him and see him suffer because he'll be dragged into the same conflicts I was?" "And of course I also have to think of myself. In this country children pay for their parents' disobedience, and parents for their children's disobedience. How many young people have been denied education because their parents fell into disgrace? And how many parents have chosen permanent cowardice for the sole purpose of preventing harm to their children? Anyone who wants to preserve at least some freedom here shouldn't have children," Jakub said, and fell into silence. "The last reason carries so much weight that it counts for five," said Jakub. "Having a child is to show an absolute accord with mankind. If I have a child, it's as though I'm saying: I was born and have tasted life and declare it so good that it merits being duplicated." "And you have not found life to be good?" asked Bertlef. Jakub tried to be precise, and said cautiously: "All I know is that I could never say with complete conviction: Man is a wonderful being and I want to reproduce him.

Yet I couldn't connect this racial purity with the warmth of the toothless, lined Bedouin women who showed me such affection in the hospital. I thought about the Bedouin patients I had attended in Riyadh and what they had taught me of acceptance. Surely these Bedouin were the purest Saudis of all, Daughters of Arabia, borne of tribal forebears who had roamed Arabia before the slick of oil wealth suffocated their culture, washing them up like half-dead seagulls into the new urban metropolis of modern Saudi Arabia. I decided it had to be wealth which made the stark difference. All I had to do was think back to the “real” Saudis I had met in Riyadh, so different than the women sharing this tent with me.

Meanwhile in Wichita, Kansas, Dr. George Tiller, one of the few doctors who performs late-term abortions—only about 1 percent of all procedures but crucial when, for instance, a fetus develops without a brain—is shot in both arms by a female picketer. He recovers and continues serving women who come to him from many states. I finally meet Dr. Tiller in 2008 at a New York gathering of Physicians for Reproductive Choice and Health. I ask him if he has ever helped a woman who was protesting at his clinic. He says: “Of course, I’m there to help them, not to add to their troubles. They probably already feel guilty.” In 2009 Dr. Tiller is shot in the head at close range by a male activist hiding inside the Lutheran church where the Tiller family worships each Sunday. This is done in the name of being “pro-life.

Dear Young Black Males, If you’re going to be sexual active, please strap up. Wear a condom. STD rates amongst African-American males and females are ridiculously higher than any other ethnic group. Did you know that African-Americans are the most affected by HIV? Yes, it’s true! You’ve got to educate yourself. There’s no reason for you to be uneducated about safe sex. You can Google information from reliable sources, go on YouTube, or visit your doctor to get helpful information. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, be afraid of what STD(s) you can get. And for the record: If you contract HIV, you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life. Many people think that they’re immune when it comes to catching something, but nobody’s exempt. Believe that! Protect yourself or risk being infected. Just because somebody looks good, doesn’t mean that they’re safe or cool to fool around with. Don’t be fooled!

The technological efficiency of daughter-proofing a pregnancy may make it seem as if the girl shortage is a problem of modernity, but female infanticide has been documented in China and India for more than two thousand years.119 In China, midwives kept a bucket of water at the bedside to drown the baby if it was a girl. In India there were many methods: “giving a pill of tobacco and bhang to swallow, drowning in milk, smearing the mother’s breast with opium or the juice of the poisonous Datura, or covering the child’s mouth with a plaster of cow-dung before it drew breath.” Then and now, even when daughters are suffered to live, they may not last long. Parents allocate most of the available food to their sons, and as a Chinese doctor explains, “if a boy gets sick, the parents may send him to the hospital at once, but if a girl gets sick, the parents may say to themselves, ‘Well, we’ll see how she is tomorrow.

These girls aren't wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They're over it. *I am not a melodramatic person.* God help the woman who is. What I'll call "post-wounded" isn't a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect---these women are aware that "woundedness" is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: don't cry too loud, don't play victim, don't act the old role all over again. Don't ask for pain meds you don't need, don't give those doctors another reason to doubt the other women on their examination tables. Post-wounded women fuck men who don't love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blase about it, more than anything they refuse to care about it, refuse to hurt about it---or else they are endlessly self-aware about the posture they have adopted if they allow themselves this hurting. The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic. It's full of jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick-on-the-heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects; sarcastic, apathetic, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect. *I should rather call is a seam.* We have sewn ourselves up. We bring everything to the grindstone.

Who will I be when I have fewer patients? When I have no patients at all? It's often noted that "practice" as it relates to medicine has two meanings: the act of caring for patients and the doctor's never-ending process of perfecting his or her craft. But there's a third meaning, too, one I'm only now appreciating as I contemplate the end of my career. Medicine is a practice in the way that yoga or meditation is for many people, an activity repeated so often that it becomes a kind of incantation. I have, for so long, stood to my patients' right sides as physicians have done for centuries, palpated the lymph nodes in their necks, armpits, and groins; auscultated their hearts and lungs; asked the same questions I first learned to ask nearly forty years ago—What makes the pain better? What makes it worse? These rituals are for me an anchor without which I fear I might simply drift away. Of course I suspected all along that what I feared wasn't abandoning my patients, but myself.

The most widely cited figure for the number of women suffering from Female Sexual Dysfunction comes from 1999: according to this, some 43 per cent of all women have a medical problem around their sex drive.27 This survey was published in the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA), one of the most influential journals in the world. It looked at questionnaire data asking about things like lack of desire for sex, poor lubrication, anxiety over sexual performance, and so on. If you answered ‘yes’ to any one of these questions, you were labelled as having Female Sexual Dysfunction. For the avoidance of any doubt about the influence of this paper, it has – as of a sunny evening in March 2012 – been cited 1,691 times. That is a spectacular number of citations. At the time, no financial interest was declared by the study’s authors. Six months later, after criticism in the New York Times, two of the three authors declared consulting and advisory work for Pfizer.28 The company was gearing up to launch Viagra for the female market at this time, and had lots to gain from more women being labelled as having a medical sexual problem.

One particularly distressing example of the high cost to feminist progress exacted by the war is what happened in Pakistan after the capture of Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad, Pakistan, in 2011. In the run-up to his capture, the CIA and the U.S. military allegedly worked with the charity Save the Children in hiring Dr. Shakil Afridi, a Pakistani physician, to run a fake Hepatitis B vaccination program as a front for their surveillance operations.15 Per CIA instructions, Dr. Afridi and a female healthcare worker visited the bin Laden compound under the guise of administering vaccinations and managed to gain access, although they did not see bin Laden. In 2012, all foreign Save the Children staff were expelled from Pakistan, and in 2015, the entire organization there was required to shut its doors, despite having denied (and continuing to deny) that it was involved in this effort. The CIA managed to get their guy, but when the Pakistanis, irate at not having been told about the raid, expelled U.S. military trainers from Islamabad, they were immediately threatened with a cut of the $800 million aid package that the U.S. had promised, thus exposing yet again the coercive power that aid wields. The loss of aid money was not, however, the worst impact of the tragedy. As the British medical journal The Lancet reported, the unintended victims of the tragedy were the millions of Pakistani children whose parents now refused to have them vaccinated amidst rising rates of polio, a disease that vaccination had essentially extinguished in Western countries by the mid-twentieth century.16 In their view, if the CIA could hire a doctor to run a fake vaccine program, then the whole premise of vaccinations became untrustworthy. Within a few years of the raid, Pakistan had 60 percent of all the world’s confirmed polio cases.17

Well, Doctor Dillamond seemed to think they were in questionable taste, given the Banns on Animals Mobility." "Doctor Dillamond, alas," said Madame Morrible, "is a doctor. He is not a poet. He is also a God, and I might ask you girls if we have ever had a great Goat sonneteer or balladeer? Alas, dear Miss Elphaba, Doctor Dillamond doesn't understand the poetic convention of irony. Would you like to define irony for the class, please?" "I don't believe I can, Madame." "Irony, some say, is the art of juxtaposing incongruous parts. One needs a knowing distance. Irony presupposes detachment, which, alas, in the case of Animal Rights, we may forgive Doctor Dillamond for being without." "So that phrase that he objected to - Animals should be seen and not heard - that was ironic?" continued Elphaba, studying her papers and not looking at Madame Morrible. Galinda and her classmates were enthralled, for it was clear that each of the females at opposite ends of the room would have enjoyed seeing the other crumble in a sudden attack of the spleen. "One could consider it in an ironic mode if one chose," said Madame Morrible. "How do you choose?" said Elphaba. "How impertinent!" said Madame Morrible. "Well, but I don't mean impertinence. I'm trying to learn. If you - if anyone - thought that statement was true, then it isn't in conflict with the boring bossy bit that preceded it. It's just argument and conclusion, and I don't see the irony." "You don't see much, Miss Elphaba," said Madame Morrible. "You must learn to put yourself in the shoes of someone wiser than you are, and look from that angle. To be stuck in ignorance, to be circumscribed by the walls of one's own modest acumen, well, it is very sad in one so young and bright." She spit out the last word, and it seemed to Galinda, somehow, a low comment on Elphaba's skin color, which today was indeed lustrous with the effort of public speaking. "But I was trying to put myself in the shoes of Doctor Dillamond," said Elphaba, almost whining, but not giving up. "In the case of poetic interpretation, I venture to suggest, it may indeed be true. Animal should not be heard," snapped Madame Morrible. "Do you mean that ironically?" said Elphaba, but she sat down with her hands over her face and did not look up again for the rest of the session.

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

You don’t get frightened of these furious, violent winds, oh Eagle! These blows only to make you fly higher. —Allama Iqbal, 786

money campaign then unrivaled in US history.20 McCaskill was losing in the polls until one August day when Akin, asked on TV whether abortion is justified in cases of rape, proclaimed: “It seems to be, first of all, from what I understand from doctors, it’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut the whole thing down.”21

On either side, tumble-weed and desert bushes fell away to interminable sand, an earth-bound Sea of Tranquility on a nocturnal moonscape.

The system didn’t want to say that I’m intersex. That I’m not female or male. The doctors wanted to choose a gender for me and then make my body agree with their ideas about who I should be.

It is a well-known fact, and one that has given much ground for complaint, that after women have lost their genital function their character often undergoes a peculiar alteration, they become quarrelsome, vexatious and overbearing, petty and stingy, that is to say that they exhibit typically sadistic and anal-erotic traits which they did not possess earlier during their period of womanliness,” Sigmund Freud declared in 1913.8 Well, you can argue that he was a man of his time; the first couple of decades of the twentieth century weren’t exactly known for their respect for women’s finer qualities. But unfortunately, the nonsense didn’t stop there. “The unpalatable truth must be faced that all postmenopausal women are castrates,” pronounced American gynecologist Robert Wilson in a 1963 essay;9 he then elaborated fulsomely on this theme in his 1966 bestseller Feminine Forever.10 This frighteningly influential book, it later emerged, was backed by a pharmaceutical company eager to market hormone replacement therapy. “Once the ovaries stop, the very essence of being a woman stops,” psychiatrist David Reuben wrote in 1969 in another bestseller, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask.11 The postmenopausal woman, he added, comes “as close as she can to being a man.” Or rather, “not really a man but no longer a functional woman.” Half a century on, has anything really changed? Sadly, I don’t think so. It might not be acceptable in most circles to write that kind of thing anymore, but menopausal women are too often the butt of men’s jokes for me really to believe that the attitudes themselves have shifted. They’ve just gone a little more underground. So if these are the stories men are telling about us, where are the stories we’re telling about ourselves? Unfortunately, they’re not always very much more helpful. A surprising number of self-help or quasi-medical books by female authors toe the male line, enjoining women to try to stay young and beautiful at all costs, and head off to their doctor to get hormone replacement therapy to hold off the “symptoms” of the dreaded aging “disease” for as long as possible. Their aim, it seems, is above all a suspension of the aging process, an exhortation to live in a state of suspended animation. And although more women are beginning to write about menopause as a natural and profoundly transformational life-passage, in the culture at large it is still primarily viewed as something to be managed, held off, even fought.

The line of travel is a good guide. Bucks tend to walk in a straight line, while does tend to wander somewhat irregularly as they walk. Female deer generally walk pigeon-toed, and their tracks demonstrate an erratic line of travel. A buck’s feet, however, turn outward slightly, and this can be easily seen in the tracks.

The war on menopausal sexuality is, of course, nothing new—no breast cancer required to enter. According to Elaine Showalter’s The Female Malady, in Victorian England women who expressed an interest in sex after menopause were ridiculed and derided, and their husbands were advised to “withhold” any sexual stimulation. Some pioneering doctors “treated” oversexed (by which I mean sexed-at-all) middle-aged women’s malady of desire with “a course of injections of ice water into the rectum, introduction of ice into the vagina, and leeching of the labia and the cervix.” It’s no doubt not unrelated that, when women tried to avail themselves of the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857, one doctor began performing clitoridectomies after which, Showalter notes, the patients each “returned humbly” to their husbands. The squelching of women’s desire has always been one of the main tentacles of patriarchy, and nothing squelches desire more effectively (well, sparing clitoridectomy) than sending a woman a clear message that she will never be desirable again.

ChiroCynergy - Dr. Matthew Bradshaw, Dr. Hilary Rutledge - Chiropractor Leland, NC The road to better health starts with ChiroCynergy the best Chiropractors in Leland, NC. Why choose us? ChiroCynergy is dedicated to improving the health and wellness of the Cape Fear Region….naturally. What we treat? If you suffer from back, neck, arm, leg or other musculoskeletal pain, we can help alleviate it through chiropractic care. At ChiroCynergy Leland, NC Location, our doctors first consult and then examine patients one-on-one to determine their injuries. We then embark on a specific course of state-of-the-art treatment based on those injuries. The goal is to get the patient out of pain and back to optimal function as quickly as possible – simple as that. Of course, some injuries take longer than others, and we use predetermined milestones to evaluate our success and the patient’s success with treatment. We are a patient-centric office, meaning that everything we do is for your benefit. Our mission remains: “Reintroduce our patients to the pain-free life they have been missing.” ChiroCynergy - Leland, NC location has two female chiropractors. Call us: (910) 368-1528

The scandal of a cross-dressing woman, apparently, was nothing compared to the horror of a female in the lecture room.

ChiroCynergy - Dr. Matthew Bradshaw - Chiropractic in Leland, NC CHIROPRACTIC “NO CRACKING” MANIPULATION Chiropractic is a health care profession that focuses on disorders of the musculoskeletal system and the nervous system, and the effects of these disorders on general health. Chiropractic care is used most often to treat neuromusculoskeletal complaints, including but not limited to back pain, neck pain, pain in the joints of the arms or legs, and headaches. Doctors of Chiropractic – often referred to as chiropractors or chiropractic physicians – practice a drug-free, hands-on approach to health care that includes patient examination, diagnosis and treatment. Chiropractors have broad diagnostic skills and are also trained to recommend therapeutic and rehabilitative exercises, as well as to provide nutritional, dietary and lifestyle counseling. Call us: (910) 368-1528 #chiropractor_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_Leland_nc #chiropractor_near_ Leland_nc #chiropractic_in_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #chiropractic_near_me #chiropractor_near_me #family_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #female_chiropractors_in_Leland_nc #physical_therapy_in_Leland_nc #sports_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #pregnancy_chiropractor in_Leland_nc #sciatica_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #car_accident_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #Active_Release_Technique_in_Leland_nc #Cold_Laser_Therapy_in_Leland_nc #Spinal_Decompression_in_Leland_nc

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I could be a better doctor by simply listening, and caring.

ChiroCynergy - Dr. Matthew Bradshaw | Chiropractic in Leland, NC Cutting-edge, state-of-the-art treatments. We don’t know any office that offers what we offer: Erchonia Percussor chiropractic adjustment tools, spinal decompression, cold laser therapy, gentle “no-popping” chiropractic, active release technique (ART), clinical nutrition, detoxification footbaths, acupuncture, ergonomic instruction, yoga instruction … ALL UNDER THE SAME ROOF by the best chiropractic in Leland, NC - ChiroCynergy! Almost 50 years of chiropractic experience (between our 4 Doctors). Schooled at the top-rated Chiropractic Colleges in the country. Treatments that fix the cause of your pain. Instead of masking your symptoms with medications and injections, we get to the underlying cause of your ailment/injury and correct it by using our all-natural, state-of-the-art treatments. We never use medications, injections or surgery. Call us: (910) 368-1528 #chiropractor_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_Leland_nc #chiropractor_near_Leland_nc #chiropractic_in_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #chiropractic_near_me #chiropractor_near_me #family_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #female_chiropractors_in_Leland_nc #physical_therapy_in_Leland_nc #sports_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #pregnancy_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #sciatica_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #car_accident_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #Active_Release_Technique_in_Leland_nc #Cold_Laser_Therapy_in_Leland_nc #Spinal_Decompression_in_Leland_nc

ChiroCynergy - Dr. Matthew Bradshaw | Active Release Technique (A.R.T.) in Leland, NC What exactly is Active Release Technique (A.R.T.)? ART is a patented, state-of-the-art, soft tissue management system developed by Dr. Michael Leahy (an Air Force engineer/chiropractor) that treats problems occurring with: - Muscles - Tendons - Ligaments - Fascia - Nerves Injuries to these tissues can occur in 3 different ways: Acute trauma injury – a sprained ankle playing racquetball is a great example of this type of injury. Compression injury – an example of a compression injury would be back stiffness and pain and/or numbness down the leg (sciatica) caused by sitting behind a computer frequently and for long periods of time. Sitting causes reduced oxygen flow to the tissues, which in turn causes the numbness and/or pain. Overuse injuries – frequently seen in people whose jobs involve typing all day. The repetitive motion can produce wrist and hand pain (i.e. carpal tall syndrome) due to the accumulation of small tears in the tissues. Each of these changes causes your body to produce tough, dense scar tissue in the affected area. This scar tissue binds up and ties down tissues that need to move freely. As scar tissue builds up: Muscles become shorter and weaker. Tension on tendons causes tendonitis. Nerves can become trapped. This can result in reduced ranges of motion, loss of strength, and pain. With trapped nerves, you may also feel tingling, numbness, shooting pains, burning sensations, weakness, muscle atrophy and circulatory changes. Even when most doctors say medications or surgery is the only answer, ART may still be able to resolve the symptoms and put you back on the field or back to work and into your best game. ChiroCynergy can help! We offer Active Release Technique (A.R.T.) in Leland, NC. Call us: (910) 368-1528 #chiropractor_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_Leland_nc #chiropractor_near_Leland_nc #chiropractic_in_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #chiropractic_near_me #chiropractor_near_me #family_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #female_chiropractors_in_Leland_nc #physical_therapy_in_Leland_nc #sports_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #pregnancy_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #sciatica_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #car_accident_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #Active_Release_Technique_in_Leland_nc #Cold_Laser_Therapy_in_Leland_nc #Spinal_Decompression_in_Leland_nc

ChiroCynergy - Dr. Matthew Bradshaw | Pregnancy Chiropractor in Leland, NC Back Pain 30 million people nationwide suffer from neck and/or back pain, and this year alone, they will spend $40 billion to try and solve it. ChiroCynergy can help, whether the cause of your pain is down to a muscle/ligament pull or because of a subluxation (misaligned bone) in your spine. Let us help you get back to a pain-free life – by getting to the root of the problem instead of relying on painkillers and anti-inflammatory. ChiroCynergy - Pregnancy-Induced Back Pain Chiropractors in Leland, NC Back pain is common during pregnancy due to the changes occurring in your body. As your baby grows, the biomechanics of your body and your posture alter to make room for the baby. The additional weight and change in posture can lead to increased stress on the spine. Chiropractic can help ease the pain and prepare the body for a more natural birth process by keeping the spine and pelvis in optimal alignment for your baby’s journey. Let us take care of both you and your baby during and post-pregnancy with safe and specific hands-on care. Call ChiroCynergy the best pregnancy chiropractor in Leland, NC to schedule your free consultation with one of our doctors. We can properly assess any injuries you may have suffered – and possibly save you from years of chronic arthritic pain in the future. Call us: (910) 368-1528 #chiropractor_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_Leland_nc #chiropractor_near_Leland_nc #chiropractic_in_Leland_nc #best_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #chiropractic_near_me #chiropractor_near_me #family_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #female_chiropractors_in_Leland_nc #physical_therapy_in_Leland_nc #sports_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #pregnancy_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #sciatica_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #car_accident_chiropractor_in_Leland_nc #Active_Release_Technique_in_Leland_nc #Cold_Laser_Therapy_in_Leland_nc #Spinal_Decompression_in_Leland_nc

Just as he’d predicted, my body felt ruined for future men, spoiled by the touch of the sexy doctor.

What isn't seen at all, anywhere: contraception a female can use. I didn't even notice this until my own cousin Savannah pointed it out when she and her family were visiting, bringing the news from another foreign land (Oregon). Apparently, there, even if she's underage, and even if she's unmarried, a female can just get birth control. Here, if you're not married before you're eighteen, you need to be brave enough to tell your parents you want pills or whatever, and they have to be brave enough to tell your doctor. But, hey, the dudes can protect themselves. With options, Savannah had said, pointing to the wide choice of condoms, purple foil, gold, red cellophane, ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, even.

I have often thought that unless we had more to do than what seemed possible for us to accomplish, we should not perform all that we might.

But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial, the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the dragon’s teeth had been sown broadcast, and had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore. What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year One of Liberty—the deluge rising from below, not falling from above, and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened! There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the head of the king—and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned widowhood and misery, to turn it grey. And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected, which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing; these things became the established order and nature of appointed things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old. Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundations of the world—the figure of the sharp female called La Guillotine.

If she happened to pass this initial hurdle, the real test would begin. Her Asian girlfriends all knew this test. They called it the “SATs.” The Asian male would begin a not so covert interrogation focused on the Asian female’s social, academic, and talent aptitudes in order to determine whether she was possible “wife and bearer of my sons” material. This happened while the Asian male not so subtly flaunted his own SAT stats—how many generations his family had been in America; what kind of doctors his parents were; how many musical instruments he played; the number of tennis camps he went to; which Ivy League scholarships he turned down; what model BMW, Audi, or Lexus he drove; and the approximate number of years before he became (pick one) chief executive officer, chief financial officer, chief technology officer, chief law partner, or chief surgeon.

When a sixteen-year-old female epileptic patient was undergoing brain surgery in the late 1990s, the neurosurgeon Itzhak Fried kept her awake so she could respond to what was happening.[58] This was feasible because there are no pain receptors in the brain.[59] Whenever he stimulated a particular spot on her neocortex, she would laugh. Fried and his team quickly realized that they were triggering the actual perception of humor. She was not just laughing as a reflex—she genuinely found the present situation funny, even though nothing humorous had occurred in the operating room. When the doctors asked her why she was laughing, she did not reply along the lines of “Oh, no particular reason” or “You just stimulated my brain,” but instead would immediately find a cause to account for it. She would explain her laughter with a comment like, “You guys are just so funny—standing around.”[

In January 2017, doctors diagnosed metastatic prostate cancer; for a while, I was shocked to hear that since I went to the urologist in 2016 for the entire year, the doctor did not consider it seriously that I had bleeding in my urine and burning. Consequently, I became a victim of chronic cancer, and doctors cannot cure it; treatment only can prolong life. However, I am a true believer that miracles can cure every disease with the grace of Allah. In that situation, I started to write my autobiography and completed it in a few months. Waseem Malik, the editor-in-chief of Daily Dharti, published that in its online news portal. The characters that caused me distress, harassment, and criminal attempts to gain their immoral and ugly motives are still busy practicing such activities. I cannot believe such mindless criminals and scoundrels, with fake female names on their profiles, try to victimize sincere people.

Well, sir, it normally happens when a male and female have intercourse," the doctor said to him, and the look on Justice's face was priceless. “Nigga! I know how the hell you get pregnant! You know what? Get yo’ non-helpful ass outta here and go get the damn people.” The doctor nodded and stood up.

In the mid-eighteenth century, some gloriously titled reformist books by women were published, such as: *Woman Not Inferior to Man* (1739) by the anonymous "Sophia," and *Inquiry into the Causes Preventing the Female Sex from Studying* (1742) by Dorothea Erxleben, the first female medical doctor in Germany. However, these works were hard to find a few decades later when, after the Reign of Terror in France and the execution of women's rights defender Olympe de Gouges, a more conservative movement gained ground across Europe and numerous philosophers, doctors, and anthropologists agreed that women were different from and inferior to men.

The Lottery by Stewart Stafford It was New York, 1984, The AIDS tsunami roared in, Friends, old overnight, no more, Breathless, I went for a check-up. A freezing winter's dawn, A solitary figure before me, What we called a drag queen, White heels trembled in the cold. "Hi, are you here to get tested?" Gum chewed, brown eyes stared. This was not my type of person, I turned heel and walked away. At month's end, a crippling flu, The grey testing centre called, Two hundred people ahead of me; A waking nightmare all too real. I gave up and turned to leave, But a familiar voice called out: "Hey, you there, come back!" I stopped and turned around. The drag queen stood there in furs, But sicker, I didn't recognise them, "Stand with me in the line, honey." "Nah, I'm fine, I'll come back again." "Support an old broad before she faints?" A voice no longer frail but pin-sharp. I got in line to impatient murmurs: "If anyone has a problem, see me!" Sylvester on boombox, graveyard choir. My pal's stage name was Carol DaRaunch, (After the Ted Bundy female survivor) Their real name was Ernesto Rodriguez. After seeing the doctor, Carol hugged me, Writing down their number on some paper, With their alias not their real name on it: "Is this the number of where you work?" "THAT is my home number to call me on. THAT'S my autograph, for when I'm famous!" "I was wrong about you, Carol," I said. "Baby, it takes time to get to know me!" A hug, shimmy, the threadbare blonde left. A silent chorus of shuffling dead men walking, Spartan results, a young man's death sentence. Real words faded rehearsal, my eyes watered. Two weeks on, I cautiously phoned up Carol. The receiver was picked up, dragging sounds, Like furniture being moved: "Is Carol there?" "That person is dead." They hung up on me. All my life's harsh judgements, dumped on Carol, Who was I to win life's lottery over a guardian angel? I still keep that old phone number forty years on, Crumpled, faded, portable guilt lives on in my wallet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Since euthanasia is illegal in Britain, when someone has a stroke and isn’t going to survive, the doctors starve and dehydrate them to death.

Heightened emotion potentially posed another threat more serious than bad skin: hysteria. Doctors diagnosed the condition as a woman’s disease, believed to originate in the womb and to demonstrate female frailty and fallibility. Girls around puberty were particularly susceptible, doctors worried, to the fits and seizures hysteria could induce. How important it was, then, for a young woman to exercise self-restraint and to remain in a limited arena: the home.

sleeplessness, anxiety, irritability, racing thoughts, a fast pulse, breathlessness, weight loss despite an increased appetite, feeling too hot for no clear reason, and always feeling as though somebody set the thermostat too high, you could have an overactive thyroid. In extreme cases, you might see the classic systems of a goiter (a growth on the thyroid), weight loss, bulging eyes, and an intense staring gaze. Your thyroid is a small butterfly-shaped gland located in your lower neck. When your doctor runs her hands along the base of your throat, she’s checking to see if there are any noticeable problems with the size of your thyroid. But you can’t really tell what’s going on without a blood test. And it can take some adjusting to get your thyroid optimized. The main thyroid hormones—TSH, T3, and T4—all have to be in the right balance. It is estimated that tens of millions of people worldwide (5–25 percent of the world’s population) have thyroid problems. Thyroid problems are more common as we age and they seem to be increasing in the population.

My last experiment was impregnating a female Doberman with the sperm of a polar bear. Both of the original species were capable of extreme violence and uncanny stamina. But, by combining them, I created a creature of staggering ferocity.” Mia tried to visualize the monstrosity and returned her gaze to the first mount she’s seen on the wall. Could that be a cross between a Doberman and a polar bear? Turning back to the doctor shrouded in shadow, she remarked, “I hate to say it, but your research sounds more like The Island of Dr. Moreau than Shelley's Frankenstein.

My nurse told a female patient, ‘Strip to the waist and put this over your head.’ Then she handed the patient a folded paper gown. “A few minutes later I came into the room and the lady was sitting on the examining table stripped to the waist, with the gown, still folded in a small square, laying on top of her head.

General Butler was invoking Blacks’ natural proclivity for violence and criminality to avoid punishment for the massacre he had carried out. But hardly any congressional investigators questioned his motive for expressing these racist ideas, which at the time were being codified by a prison doctor in Italy. Cesare Lombroso “proved” in 1876 that non-White men loved to kill, “mutilate the corpse, tear its flesh and drink its blood.” His Criminal Man gave birth to the discipline of criminology in 1876. Criminals were born, not bred, Lombroso said. He believed that born criminals emitted physical signs that could be studied, measured, and quantified, and that the “inability to blush”—and therefore, dark skin—had “always been considered the accompaniment of crime.” Black women, in their close “degree of differentiation from the male,” he claimed in The Female Offender in 1895, were the prototypical female criminals. As White terrorists brutalized, raped, and killed people in communities around the Black world, the first crop of Western criminologists were intent on giving criminals a Black face and the well-behaved citizen a White face. Lombroso’s student, Italian law professor Raffaele Garofalo, invented the term “criminology” (criminologia) in 1885. British physician Havelock Ellis popularized Lombroso in the English-speaking world, publishing a compendium of his writings in 1890.20

Abruptly, the sea of people parted . . . and then there they were. Bella, with Nalla in her arms, Z standing beside his girls. Beth broke down all over again as the female came forward. God, it was impossible not to remember how Nalla had started this, putting into motion the need that had become undeniable. Bella was tearing up, too, as she stopped. “We just want to say yay!” At that moment, Nalla reached out to Beth, a gummy smile on her face, pure joy radiating out. No turning that down, nope, not at all. Beth took the little girl out of her mother’s arms and positioned her on her chest, capturing one of the pinwheeling hands and giving kisses, kisses, kisses. “You ready to be a big . . .” Beth glanced at Z and then her husband. “. . . a big sister?” Yes, Beth thought. Because that’s what the Brotherhood and their families were. Close as siblings, tighter than blood because they were chosen. “Yes, she is,” Bella said as she wiped under her eyes and looked back at Z. “She is so ready.” “My brother.” Z shoved out his palm, his scarred face in a half smile, his yellow eyes warm. “Congratulations.” Instead of shaking anything, Wrath shoved that ultrasound picture into his Brother’s face. “Do you see him? See my son? He’s big, right, Beth?” She kissed Nalla’s supersoft hair. “Yes.” “Big and healthy, right?” Beth laughed some more. “Big and healthy. Absolutely perfect.” “Perfect!” Wrath bellowed. “And this is a doctor saying it—I mean, she went to medical school.” Even Z started laughing at that point. Beth gave Nalla back to her parents. “And Dr. Sam told me she’s delivered over fifteen thousand babies over the course of her career—” “See!” Wrath yelled. “She knows these things. My son is perfect! Where’s the champagne? Fritz! Get the fucking champagne!

codified by a prison doctor in Italy. Cesare Lombroso “proved” in 1876 that non-White men loved to kill, “mutilate the corpse, tear its flesh and drink its blood.” His Criminal Man gave birth to the discipline of criminology in 1876. Criminals were born, not bred, Lombroso said. He believed that born criminals emitted physical signs that could be studied, measured, and quantified, and that the “inability to blush”—and therefore, dark skin—had “always been considered the accompaniment of crime.” Black women, in their close “degree of differentiation from the male,” he claimed in The Female Offender in 1895, were the prototypical female criminals. As White terrorists brutalized, raped, and killed people in communities around the Black world, the first crop of Western criminologists were intent on giving criminals a Black face and the well-behaved citizen a White face. Lombroso’s student, Italian law professor Raffaele Garofalo, invented the term “criminology” (criminologia) in 1885. British physician Havelock Ellis popularized Lombroso in the English-speaking world, publishing a compendium of his writings in 1890.20

My dance, I believe?” “Are you sure you’ve danced with every other female in town, from the oldest to the youngest?” Sarah asked archly. He raised a brow, and in that moment she knew she’d made a mistake. “Ah, so you were watching,” he said, grinning. “I most certainly was not,” Sarah insisted. “I never sat down myself, except when the musicians took a break. I only just realized that you hadn’t made good your threat to claim a dance.” “Threat?” he echoed. “I believe I only requested a dance, as proof of your goodwill. And I was waiting for a waltz, Miss Matthews.” “Oh? Why?” she asked. Was this girl asking the daring questions really herself? Again, the raised brow. “If you have to ask that, Miss Sarah Matthews, then it’s no wonder the South lost the war.

I saw a doctor. I went in case there were any remnants of the summer inside me—sticky, slender fish bones that needed to be scraped into the bin. He was dismissive of my concerns and said my body would have let me know by now. Did I have what was known as female intuition? I said I'd had my feminine intuition somewhat scrambled in the past.

The origins of the Mutawaeen therefore were never to be an anti-Western mine-sweeping tool, rather a means of policing the state for the security of the precarious monarchy that had conquered it.

The men were not watering the grass; they were spraying it an emerald green. This was Ireland in an atomizer. The workers were coloring the dead, hurrying to finish before the Crown Prince's gaze would zoom by, perhaps peering through the bullet-proofed, tinted, heavily-armored glass of his German car. So much about the Kingdom concerned outward appearances. Veneer was as important as substance, perhaps more so.

Even when critically, I learned, hiding her face was of paramount importance. I watched, entranced at the clash of technology and religion, some version of my religion.

Even when critically ill, I learned, hiding her face was of paramount importance. I watched, entranced at the clash of technology and religion, some version of my religion.

Did an unconscious sickly Muslim have the same responsibilities as a conscious, able-bodied one?

In Riyadh, I would be licensed to operate procedures on critically ill patients, yet never to drive a motor vehicle. Only men could enjoy that privilege.

I knew my hips were showing, noisily announcing my sex. I wished I had something to engulf my debilitating gender. I almost wished I was a man.

Such forced incarceration of womanhood is a form of female infanticide.

While these veils conceal women, at the same time they expose the rampant, male oppression which is their jailor. Polyester imprisonment by compulsion is ungodly and (like the fiber) distinctly man-made.

Inexplicably, the Kingdom's clerics compel non-Muslim women to veil also, a rule which is not to be found codified in the Quran.

The driving in Riyadh was deadly. Turbocharged testosterone without creative or sexual outlet translated into deadly acceleration.

I was slowly becoming aware that chauvinism and sexism was just as marked among many of the Western attendings as it was amongst many of the Saudi and other Arab physicians, as though the climate of the workplace promoted an infectious transmission of male supremacy.

Worse, they suggested this was a considerate move for the protection of women, conveniently disguising their discrimination with a thin veneer of patronizing gallantry.

I looked at the pilgrims kissing the Black Stone. I was disturbed by the paganistic and ritualistic qualities of the scene. But I knew this was an ancient rite utterly distinct from the stone worshippers of centuries earlier. Muslims are very clear that only God is worthy of worship. The stone is only honored because Muhammad (PBUH) demonstrated his reverence for it by kissing it, but never worshipped it, worshipping only his Maker,,, so I found, as I would time and again in the days ahead, that in this of holiest of Islamic rites, deeply pagan rituals had survived the passage of time, persisting even after the dawn of Islam.

In the night light, the golden Thuluth Arabic calligraphy glittered on the Kisweh, its brilliance enhanced by the velvet blackness of the surrounding silk. I was bewitched by its beauty. With the distortions of Wahabi extremism, beautification of any object was considered an offense, resulting in a Kingdom without ornate decorations, other than repetitive geometry which peppered public walls and even highway underpasses. Anything else was considered futile vanity by Wahabis, but at least the Wahabis had not eroded what seemed the final remaining evidence of Islamic craftmanship: unparalleled calligraphy. For the first time in the Kingdom, I appreciated beautiful Saudi craftmanship.

The efforts of the Ikhwan would replace this primitive culture with the clarity of their furious Islam. A convenient military strategy was therefore cloaked in a righteous enforcement.

Religious zealotry therefore became the anchoring fabric weaving fractious fiefdoms together into a Kingdom.

Like the clichéd serial killer, Gosnell kept souvenirs of his crimes. All of those little baby feet in formaldehyde-filled glass jars were trophies. Kareema Cross was so disturbed by them that she took photos of them as far back as 2008. If anyone from the Pennsylvania Department of Health had bothered to inspect the Women’s Medical Society, they would have seen them at once. Gosnell didn’t hide them. But the feet were not his only trophies. Gosnell also collected pictures of women’s genitals. He snapped pictures when his patients were unconscious during their abortions. Steve Massof testified that he often saw Gosnell take out his cell phone and take pictures, ostensibly for “research” or for “teaching.” Gosnell was not in fact conducting any research that Massof was aware of, nor did he teach. The doctor told Massof that he had an academic interest in female genital mutilation...

Spiders are by no means the only creatures that need to fear the parasitic wasps’ coercive tactics. And drugs are not the wasps’ only weapons for gaining the compliance of their victims. Ampulex compressa, better known as the jewel wasp because of its iridescent blue-green sheen, performs neurosurgery to achieve its aims. Its quarry is the annoyingly familiar American cockroach (Periplaneta americana). Not to be confused with the comparatively diminutive German roach common up north, this species prefers warmer climes and can grow as big as a mouse. Though dwarfed in stature by its prey, a female jewel wasp that has caught the scent of an American roach will aggressively pursue and attack it—even if that means following the fleeing insect into a house. The roach puts up a mighty struggle, flailing its legs and tucking in its head to fend off the attack, but usually to no avail. With lightning speed, the wasp stings the roach’s midsection, injecting an agent that will temporarily paralyze it so that the behemoth will stay still for the delicate procedure to follow. Like an evil doctor wielding a syringe, she again inserts her stinger, this time into the roach’s brain, and gingerly moves it around for half a minute or so until she finds exactly the right spot, whereupon she injects a venom. Shortly thereafter, the paralytic agent delivered by the first sting wears off. In spite of having full use of its limbs and the same ability to sense its surroundings as any normal roach, it’s strangely submissive. The venom, according to Frederic Libersat, a neuroethologist at Ben-Gurion University in Israel, has turned the roach into a “zombie” that will henceforth take its orders from the wasp and willingly tolerate her abuse. Indeed, the roach doesn’t protest in the least when she twists off part of one of its antennae with her powerful mandible and proceeds to suck the liquid oozing from it like soda from a straw. The wasp then does the same thing to its other antenna and, assured that the roach will go nowhere, leaves it alone for about twenty minutes as she searches for a burrow where she’ll lay an egg to be nourished by the roach. Meanwhile, her brainwashed slave busies itself grooming—picking fungal spores, tiny worms, and other parasites off itself—providing a sterile surface for the wasp to glue its egg. When the wasp returns, she seizes the roach by the stump of one of its antennae and “walks it like a dog on a leash to her burrow,” said Libersat. Thanks to its cooperation, she doesn’t have to waste energy dragging the massive roach. Equally important, he said, she doesn’t “need to paralyze all the respiratory system, so the thing will stay alive and fresh. Her larvae need to feed five or six days on this fresh meat, which you don’t want to rot.” The

They were matched almost immediately with a female. She was a young, highly-educated physician in the same practice as their doctor.

Just being female made women candidates for perpetual medical care, because doctors began treating all the normal passages of their lives—puberty, menstruation, childbirth, and menopause—as illnesses.

It’s possible that a connection existed between the increasing independence of many women and the surgical assault on them. But it’s even more likely that doctors started removing women’s sexual organs simply because the arrival of anesthetics had made it safe to do so. Doctors had always regarded female reproductive organs as the source of all women’s medical problems.

It’s so bad that all I can do is work and go home and go to bed. I never feel like doing anything but sleeping—I’m not even hungry! On the weekends I sleep 12 hours a night and still wake up tired. I take naps when I can and stay up for a few hours before I crash again. My other doctors tell me I’m healthy, but I don’t feel healthy! I feel so depressed. Something is not right.

Which statements are true according to the passage? A) Science, governments, and your doctor should be trusted. B) 'Comforting her deep into the night' is a euphemism for sneaking candy. C) The ugliest phrase used in this passage is 'female.' D) Bad things really do come in threes.

Explain,’ the troll hissed. ‘Explain what? I was just…’ Harry pointed back the way he’d come. ‘Let me go, please, sir. I won’t breathe a word about what I seen. Not about you nor the dead body.’ ‘Explain the dead body,’ the troll said, shaking Harry so violently that his teeth rattled. ‘It’s a body,’ he said when he could finally draw breath. ‘And it’s dead. A woman, in a coat, bleeding.’ ‘What colour fur?’ the troll demanded. ‘It’s not fur, it’s probably wool.’ The creature’s eyes narrowed even further. ‘Not the coat,’ it rasped. ‘On its head – what colour was the fur on the female’s head?’ Harry frowned, struggling to understand. ‘You mean her hair?’ ‘Hair, fur, protective cranial grafting – whatever term you use on this primitive planet. What colour was it?’ ‘Sort of… brownish.’ ‘Brownish.’ ‘And quite long. I think.’ Despite the tight grip that the troll maintained on his shoulders, Harry managed to get one hand up high enough to show how long the dead woman’s hair had been. ‘About this long.’ The grip on his shoulders loosened and Harry felt himself sag. Then he stumbled forwards under a near-crippling slap on his back. ‘Good lad,’ the troll said. ‘Your observational skills are adequate. You would make a good forward sniper.’ ‘Oh, um, thank you, sir.’ Harry swallowed. ‘Can I go now?

women were considered instinctual nurses in this generation—the field had received exciting publicity during the Spanish-American War when an Army Nursing Corps had served overseas in the Philippines. Clara Weeks-Shaw, the author of a popular textbook on nursing, promoted the field as “a new activity for women—congenial, honorable and remunerative and with permanent value to them in the common experience of domestic life.”3 In readable language, Weeks-Shaw presented nursing as an artful balance between self-reliance and submission. Overall its practices were an extension of maternity, requiring the classic female behaviors of cheerfulness (to the patients) and obedience (to the doctors). “Never leave a doctor alone with a gynecology patient except at his request,” went one injunction.

They are impressed with you, Qanta, because you are a doctor. Until they found out about last night, they thought you were just a Pakistani maid.” She went on, even more bluntly. “They look at your dark skin, Qanta, dark as an Indian, and they noticed your friendliness to Rashida and Haneefa, the Hijazi maids, and assumed like those black girls, you were also a servant. They probably think you serve a family in Riyadh. They looked down on you because of your Pakistani blood and the fact that as a servant they didn't think you belonged in this tent. Don't worry, Sherief, my husband, gets this all the time too. He is dark-skinned and he is constantly mistaken for a Pakistani or Indian too. When they find out he is Egyptian, it's not much better, though.

You know the Saudis hate the Egyptians the most and vice versa. It's to do with the economic inequality in our countries. Most Egyptians come to work in the Gulf countries like the Kingdom for economic reasons so Saudis regard them as poor. And on the other hand, the Saudis like to vacation in Egypt, where they unfairly get a reputation of womanizing and drinking, so the Egyptians look down on them, very unhealthy

Skin color, previously something I had never considered in my years of living in the United States or England, had somehow invited discomfort to me in Riyadh already. It was while I worked among the Wahabis that I first noticed how some Saudis discriminated, first among themselves and then among the expatriates. Discrimination in fact is how many of the Saudis define themselves. Saudi Arabia is about separation of gender, race, tribe, fiefdoms. I had developed a theory based on my crude observations, which explained the Wahabi Saudi ecosystem surrounding me in Riyadh. Perhaps it reached here too, in a tent full of Saudi orthodox Wahabi women from Riyadh.

This was hardly so very different than many Western societies, I thought, recalling frosty, pooch-carrying, anorexic cadavers scuttling up and down Madison Avenue. So Saudi Arabia had a similar culture of frosty exclusion, a claim to superiority based on economics and tribal origins. The purity that the mysterious woman mentioned was actually an expression of Saudi aristocracy.

(they seemed so thick) completed the ensemble,

wondered idly if male nurse was a sexist term, like woman doctor or female police officer. No one ever said female nurse or male doctor.

In the past (and often still), parents would take their female-identified male child to doctor after doctor, only to be told the child needed intensive therapy or should be delivered to a psychiatric hospital.

We disembarked the plane in a tumbling mass,

counted scores of Saudi planes lined up, waiting to deplane.

this diversity, finally I belonged. Islam was many-faceted and I was simply one. Our diversity had obliterated the Wahabiism of the Najd,

This was Islam: Hajj! Not the Muttawa with their nightsticks and nihilism. Equality in the eyes of our Maker, whether we be men or women, rich or poor, able-bodied or deformed, black or white, was all that mattered. The frenzied, fascist supremacy of Wahabiism had simply been washed away by a torrent of truth: the multiracial, spiritually hybrid Muslims now flooding Mecca. As

but here at Hajj, just like everywhere else, women talk and try to find solutions for problems by networking!

I tried to be as helpful as possible, unused to being waited upon. After eating I always returned my plate and utensils to the bucket in which everything was collected and taken away for washing, and would just get up to retrieve my own cold drink from the refrigerator cabinet in the corner of the tent, rather than ask a maid to fetch me one.

the first research study on abused wives was published by the King Saud specialist Medical Center and it found ninety percent of the women in the study had seen their mothers go through the same abuse?

the mandated veiling and the prevention of women driving in the Kingdom are not the disease itself; they are merely symptoms of the very serious illness at the center of our country. They are merely clinical signs of a much more significant syndrome.

The core issue is not the violence itself. It is this immunity for men, the idea that men can do what they like. It is the society of which the violence is an expression.” Rania

Majeed was a self-confessed Holocaust denier. I had witnessed his indignant nihilism about the six million condemned to be extinguished infinitely in countless narrow minds like his. Despite his intelligence, he possessed capacities I had never previously encountered. I

In a roiling Muslim sea, my lifelines were cast by Jewish hands. I was grateful for their solidarity toward me and felt glad that Allah had blessed me with such Jewish goodness in my life. I felt no shame for my allegiances with Jews in the way so many Muslims around the world are wrongly raised to express, especially after 9/11.

Both Saudi and non-Saudi Muslims felt free to express their hate to me, even as some planned to flee to their Virginia homes with blue passports in hand.

For all his scholarship of the Quran, I realized it hadn't reached further than his throat. It hadn't touched his heart.

he would never be able to debride his own devitalized hatreds that encased his glossy world. His hates would never heal. They would only propagate.

unsoftened even by the responsibility to preserve the innocence of his child.

Maybe it was my condition, but I was even more sensitive about cruelty to wildlife. When we journeyed to New Zealand to protest whale hunts, we viewed a documentary about whales attacking the whaling ships, trying to defend the females and their young. Whales are like elephants of the sea. They have family structures, mannerisms, and habits that are similar to our own. In the midst of this very emotional work in Wellington, I felt the baby move for the first time. Soon the baby was dancing around inside me both day and night. All my checkups came back favorable, and the doctor said Steve was more than welcome to glove up and help deliver the baby when the time came. Until then, though, there was stacks of filming to be done. We filmed sharks just off the Queensland coast, near where Steve’s parents had retired. Some of the crew were typical Aussie blokes. As soon as I got on board and they saw that I was very obviously pregnant, they decided to embark on “Project Spew.” To attract sharks, they mixed up a large container of chum--a gory stew made of fish oil, blood, fish skeletons, and offal. The crew would pass it right underneath my nose in an effort to make me sick. I countered them by sitting down and eating lunch right next to the putrid-smelling chum container. I knew they couldn’t break me!

We walked through the hospital corridors on the way to these sessions hoping that we wouldn’t be mistaken for doctors—and also hoping that we would.

She looked bored. "Do I need to take my shirt off, ma'am?" I was hoping I could keep my pants on. It was embarrassing enough standing around in my boxer shorts in front of a male doctor, with a female doctor it was worse. I mean, I didn't want my friend to be obviously happy to see her, if you know what I mean. But maybe it was worse if he didn't rise to the occasion. The doctor was cute, and I was a healthy guy, so I felt that out of respect for her I should at least have a semi-

Morality has its equations too - they graph the curve of compassion between the quick and the dead.

The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says: It's a girl.

Wolf’s phrase life in the body, a phrase that separates the theoretical potential of femaleness in the age of equality from the actual, lived reality of it. Born into the first generation of girls whose political and civic equality was already assumed, you are told from the earliest age that you can become an astronaut, a doctor, the president of the United States (if you work hard enough). The potential for your life supposedly has no bounds. But by your twelfth birthday, you have a sinking feeling. You can’t do life in this body. Not this body, the one that is appearing slowly, then suddenly before you in the mirror. This body is a stranger; you don’t know it, you don’t like it. It’s certainly not the body you would have ordered from a catalog. You have a new vision of yourself, a vision of what you are actually going to look like as a woman. And in that vision—a short-legged, big-thighed brunette with monstrous eyebrows and a crooked smile—you no longer see a place for yourself in the world.

Why isn't every woman a feminist? Feminism tells a tale of female injury, but the average woman in heterosexual intimacy knows that men are injured too, as indeed they are. She may be willing to grant, this average woman, that men in general have more power than women in general. This undoubted fact is merely a fact; it is *abstract*, while the man of flesh and blood who stands before her is *concrete*: His hurts are real, his fears palpable. And like those heroic doctors on the late show who work tirelessly through the epidemic even though they may be fainting from fatigue, the woman in intimacy may set her own needs to one side in order better to attend to his. She does this not because she is "chauvinized" or has "false consciousness," but because *this is what the work requires*. Indeed, she may even excuse the man's abuse of her, having glimpsed the great reservoir of pain and rage from which it issues. Here is further gloss on the ethical disempowerment attendant upon women's caregiving: In such a situation, a woman may be tempted to collude in her own ill-treatment.

In my year, twenty-five per cent of us were female; this was twenty-five per cent too many for the Prof. He was one of life’s bullies.

In January 2017, doctors diagnosed metastatic prostate cancer; for a while, I was shocked to hear that since I went to the urologist in 2016 for the entire year, the doctor did not consider it seriously that I had bleeding in my urine and burning. Consequently, I became a victim of chronic cancer, and doctors cannot cure it; treatment only can prolong life. However, I am a true believer that miracles can cure every disease with the grace of Allah. In that situation, I started to write my autobiography and completed it in a few months. Waseem Malik, the editor-in-chief of Daily Dharti, published that in its online news portal. The characters that caused me distress, harassment, and criminal attempts to gain their immoral and ugly motives are still busy practicing such activities. I cannot believe such mindless criminals and scoundrels, with fake female names on their profiles, try to victimize sincere people.

Women helping other women deliver babies is as old as humanity. It makes sense. So why do mainstream American doctors and hospitals act like midwifery is some radical, dangerous, medically-irresponsible quackery? In Scandinavia, the UK, and the Netherlands, female midwifery is a thriving occupation. Yet in America, it has been constructively outlawed as a profession, for 100 years.

Doctors at Johns Hopkins Medical Institutions have stated, “[F]emale- to-male transsexuals appear to be individuals who are fundamentally homophilic but cannot consciously accept their sexual orientation” (Fagan, Schmidt, and Wise, 1994). I can see it now: in a clinical setting, a transman desperate to be allowed to transition tries to express his “normal” sexual- ity by asserting his attraction to women and denying that he is a lesbian. Yes, he’s telling the truth from the perspective of his gender identity. But what the doctors hear is filtered through their own belief that the body tells us who we are, and this transman in front of them wants to change his body so he can change the abhorrent nature of his lesbian sexuality. These clinicians don’t understand that it isn’t necessarily his sexuality that is abhorrent to him. Even if this patient fell in love with a man, it wouldn’t necessarily change his relationship to his own body: in his own self-per- ception he might then be homosexual after all, even if his body were still female and the body of his partner were male. That wouldn’t necessarily change his need to transition.

What the doctors hear is filtered through their own belief that the body tells us who we are, and this transman in front of them wants to change his body so he can change the abhorrent nature of his lesbian sexuality. These clinicians don’t understand that it isn’t necessarily his sexuality that is abhorrent to him. Even if this patient fell in love with a man, it wouldn’t necessarily change his relationship to his own body: in his own self-per- ception he might then be homosexual after all, even if his body were still female and the body of his partner were male. That wouldn’t necessarily change his need to transition.

What the doctors hear is filtered through their own belief that the body tells us who we are, and this transman in front of them wants to change his body so he can change the abhorrent nature of his lesbian sexuality. These clinicians don’t understand that it isn’t necessarily his sexuality that is abhorrent to him. Even if this patient fell in love with a man, it wouldn’t necessarily change his relationship to his own body: in his own self-perception he might then be homosexual after all, even if his body were still female and the body of his partner were male. That wouldn’t necessarily change his need to transition.

What the doctors hear is filtered through their own belief that the body tells us who we are, and this transman in front of them wants to change his body so he can change the abhorrent nature of his lesbian sexuality. These clinicians don’t understand that it isn’t necessarily his sexuality that is abhorrent to him. Even if this patient fell in love with a man, it wouldn’t necessarily change his relationship to his own body: in his own self-perception he might then be homosexual after all, even if his body were still female and the body of his partner were male. That wouldn’t necessarily change his need to transition.

At a medical convention, a male doctor and a female doctor start eyeing each other. The male doctor asks her to dinner and she accepts. As they sit down at the restaurant, she excuses herself to go and wash her hands. After dinner, one thing leads to another and they end up in her hotel bedroom. Just as things get hot, the female doctor interrupts and says she has to go and wash her hands. Once she comes back, they go for it. After the sex session, she gets up and says she is going to wash her hands. When she comes back, the male doctor says, "I bet you are a surgeon." She confirms, and asks how he knew. "Easy," he remarks, "you're always washing your hands." "That's very clever!" she says, "I bet you're an anesthesiologist." "Wow, how did you guess?" he asks. And she replies, "I didn't feel a thing!

Brother, you and I both know that you’re one of those guys who could go either way.  You could be the nice guy, who settles down with a nice wifey, and some brats.  Or you could end up being the guy who terrorises the fucking female population.  At least I just fuck them, and move on.  You’d end up keeping one as a fucking pet.  You remember what the doctors said back then.  Obsessive.  Borderline psychotic.

In fact, Elizabeth didn’t blame men for women’s subordinate social position. She felt women could stand to express a deeper desire to broaden their own horizons and often found her female companions frustratingly interested only in idle gossip.

Chapter Seven The Franciscan Genius: The Integration of the Negative You can show your love to others by not wishing that they should be better Christians.88 —Francis of Assisi We must bear patiently not being good…and not being thought good.89 —Francis of Assisi Yes, you read the quotes above correctly. The first quote was considered so untrue, so impossible that Francis would write such a thing, that for centuries we deleted the “not” in the text! In the second quote, the point seems to have largely been ignored or denied until the very same thing was taught by a later female doctor of the Church, St. Thérèse of Lisieux, in the nineteenth century. Maybe you would have automatically deleted the “nots” yourself, as I would have, which is why I italicized them.

Of their first twenty patients, seventeen were female. This bias would continue for decades, with doctors across the country and internationally lobotomizing women disproportionately, at a rate estimated variously to be between 60 and 84 percent,16 even though men slightly outnumbered women as patients in America’s psychiatric hospitals.

This practice—of doctors and midwives massaging female clitorises—carried on for centuries. Physicians didn’t consider women capable of orgasm, which is why the treatment described was so clinical, without even a reference to sexuality. By the early twentieth century, doctors began complaining about their fingers hurting from the therapeutic practice which, combined with the invention of electricity, led to a new invention: the vibrator.

Kingdom (in stark contrast to the monolithic Najd). The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) was the modern reformer of Hajj, and his personal efforts dispelled the heinous pre-Islamic associations with idolatry. He restored the Ka'aba as the House of God and cleansed it of statues and symbols of pagan worship, which were sometimes stored even within its hollow core. He returned monotheistic worship to Mecca, making Hajj the pinnacle of Islamic worship, as the Quran

persistence in and of itself. In a moment of clarity, I knew at once I wanted to visit Hesham's home and express my condolences. It was the only way I could express penance for my

As we shall see, the hardcore anticorset contingent included many (but by no means all) doctors and many (but by no means all) feminists. Medical ambivalence about corsetry may well have been "related, at least, in part, to the profession's general opposition to feminist claims". But feminists and female doctors were themselves ambivalent about corsetry

I’ve seen no clear evidence of sexuality among women. I believe it to be smoke and mirrors. Why would it exist? The male initiates sexual congress and is gratified at its conclusion. What need has Nature to reward the object of his desires? No, no, females suffer the consequences of sexual congress; they do not participate in its pleasures. The female counterfeits delight to please her mate, but she feels nothing other than, depending on the form of sexual congress, discomfort or pain.” Doctor Forbes smiled a wry smile.

When The Marriage Guide; or, Natural History of Generation: A Private Instructor for Married Persons and Those about to Marry, both Male and Female was published in 1851, written by a quack doctor called Frederick C. Hollick of Philadelphia, it advised readers to write in for the author’s patent aphrodisiac. It contained hashish and, with the book which was republished in nearly two hundred subsequent editions, made Hollick’s fortune. This was not the only time cannabis was recommended to those in wedlock. Some women’s temperance societies advocated it in place of alcohol: their reasoning was that drunks hit their wives, but cannabis users did not. At the American Centennial Exposition of 1876, in Hollick’s home town of Philadelphia, there was a Turkish hashish stand at which passers-by could try it out: pharmacists throughout the town stocked up in anticipation of an increase in demand.

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Medical licensing radically cut the number of black and female doctors.

Sara’s interest in Charlotte and Elizabeth prompted us to look for other women medical pioneers and heroes, leading us to Dr. Rebecca Lee Crumpler, the first black woman doctor in the United States. Born in Delaware in 1831, she grew up in Pennsylvania watching her aunt care for sick people in their community. Rebecca worked as a nurse until she was accepted to medical school. After she graduated in 1864 from the New England Female Medical College, she started her career as a physician caring for low-income women and children in Boston. When the Civil War ended, she moved to Virginia, where she worked for the Freedman’s Bureau to care for freed slaves

According to critical thinkers like Zola and Illich, one of the functions of medical ritual is social control. Medical encounters occur across what is often a profound gap in social status: Despite the last few decades’ surge in immigrant and female doctors, the physician is likely to be an educated and affluent white male, and the interaction requires the patient to exhibit submissive behavior—to undress, for example, and be open to penetration of his or her bodily cavities. These are the same sorts of procedures that are normally undertaken by the criminal justice system, with its compulsive strip searches, and they are not intended to bolster the recipient’s self-esteem. Whether consciously or not, the physician and patient are enacting a ritual of domination and submission, much like the kowtowing required in the presence of a Chinese emperor. Some physicians, unsurprisingly, see