Agent Double Oh Carrot and M

The internet is great for anonymity. I have several user names out there, including the play on the word Anonymous: Anon the Mouse. Over the years I have picked up friends online. Some people scoff at the notion of friends you have never met in person. I used to think it was silly but I have truly bonded with some of these people. I am also aware of their humanity, the text based nature of the internet can dehumanize, leading to bullying. It can also lead to the shy person, or the person with a speaking related disability, or even muteness communicate with equality.

I have a friend, who we will call M. M gave me permission to write about him. Every day we have conversations that are full of little things from his parents all the way to mine. We talk about everything. M also has helped me stave off starvation, homelessness, and has yet to pester me about the money I owe him. He is one of the people I consider great. Great men do not always lead countries. The last eight years taught most Americans that.

M is an Immigrant. He lives over in LA, and is of Indian descent. His parents left India, went to Canada, and he came here. A very lengthy journey. M is shy, he at times questions why he feels things at all. Some of this is a reflection of the stigmatization by the psychiatry industry to feeling at all. Feelings have been medicalized, diagnosed and it gets harder every year to find anyone who doesn’t qualify based on religion, personal food preference, or how often they sneeze as a headcase. (The term headcase is being used here for shock value, and also to illustrate my lack of belief in the psychiatric system.)

Despite my experiences with therapy and torments, I still see some value in even the conversational aspect, though I am anti medication. Few people actually need antidepressants. Most can make enough progress to no longer need the medicine. M and I discuss these sorts of things. For the last few years, which feel to me like a pleasurable eternity, M has been fighting some painful issues.

Everyone has issues. Everyone needs help sometimes. M is very insecure. Every day he has to fight a malignant thought process, he constantly devalues himself, and he relies on outside influence to determine his self worth. I am not the best friend to have if you are dealing with those issues. I can be rather harsh about things when I disagree, even when I do not mean to be.

His parents raised him with Traditional Indian Values. Often, when he comes to me needing help coping I offer the exploration of why this is a problem. Does this solve the problem? Not always. M sometimes cannot handle the discussions and will tell me so. In our five or six year long friendship we’ve rarely fought, even when we disagree. Our conversations started over something utterly anti feminist, objectification of the body.

That objectification was mutual, and did not last long as we discovered the intellect and wonder that is personality. The internet is great for that, if you use full words. Netspeak annoys me, and M doesn’t use it. If he does, he hasn’t with me. I love him for that.

He recently began therapy, partly because of our conversations. We discussed heavy topics, and after a time I no longer felt it was my business to help him. He needed more than I could offer. He has a great therapist and has begun to grow faster than ever. I watch him change, even if it is merely reflected in our conversations.

Year 1: Conversations centered aruond the superficial, and mutual interests.

Year 2.: The first loan of money to save me from starvation came, still owed to this date. The exploration of psyche began. I turned to him when I learned about my broken back, and he helped me to cope. He helped me to accept the permanence of my disability and never once shamed me. A first. He began to reveal his insecurity with women, his fear of failure, and his pain.

Year 3: We had our first argument. I think it was about Wonder Woman. It was silly. I started to become aware of feminism. M coddled me when I would cry about discrimination, he encouraged me to not give up, and when Sprite nearly died from anaphalactic shock due to her poultry allergy, he did his best to help me pay for her medical bills.

Year 4: I began to write again. We exchanged periods of fearful whimpering, expressing our doubts, fears of judgment, and he revealed an inexperience I had not expected. His issues were effecting his ability to thrive. His past and lack of education on how to cope, his experience as a person of color, and his constant stigmatization based on his body were revealed more fully than even I have managed here, as he tried to figure out how to live. He was being disabled by the confusing messages of the White Patriarch and the painful messages his parents gave that also came from the WP.

Year 5. He began therapy after finding a great doctor. This has encouraged me to try and find a therapist I can trust. (Still looking) Our conversations over the previous year and year 5 evolved rapidly from simple coping skill discussions on to political issues such as Obama’s election, feminist theory, self respect and the influence of where you live on your mind. I discovered Ms Wheelchair USA’s program, and was again encouraged by my friend to enter the competition.

Year 6: We are now in year six, and still we grow. Each day holds new pearls of wisdom, he shapes my future as I shape his just by knowing. He reminds me to try and enjoy the little things, and, often manages to cheer me up even in my bleakest moods. Our future is certain in one way, we are life long friends.

M and I discussed this morning the mistake Obama made, for I discovered it shortly after M’s very own version. We discussed how much ablism runs amok in our world, how it seems so acceptable. Everything can be lame, and if you are offended you are a “tard”.

We discussed the influence of self hatred in his family. Self hatred is something taught in many cultures, especially once the people are conquered. India and their hatred of their own natural colors made me aware of this. I remember sitting in the library, I was very small, and reading about Bollywood. It was newer then, and one actress was being touted for her pale flesh. Confused, I wanted to understand why her being white was more important than her ability to act.

M is Indian. So often our conversations are about body acceptance. He has what I see as an average Indian frame. He is also shaped like my Person. They are both moderately tall, IE average. Both have a good deal of body hair. I find that delicious. Hair should be everywhere. Both have large pectoral muscles. Often the chest of a man, if not flat or followed by a six pack is demeaned, “Oh my gawd he has MAN BOOBS.”

M today related to me tales of being groped because of his chest. He hates himself because the otherness was slammed into his mind again and again. He was assaulted by others in his life, still as an adult this happens, all because his body shape is not flat.

It is times like this, when revelations hit, that I wonder if the media expects us to all become paper dolls, two dimensional cut outs with no personality and the ability to be mass produced. M is my best friend.

Without M, I would never have met my Person. I needed someone like M to come along, to teach me how to trust men. That first year now seems overly long, with conversations that were kept shallow. I was learning to trust. I had never really had the option of trusting someone before M. Everyone else was in my life by the whim of another.

M came along just when I needed him most. I had just broken my back and I was still homeless. He didn’t know that until today,when I asked if I could write this. I am crying when I write again, because I just visualized my world without him.

I would be with the abusive people, trapped alone in my room. I would have no internet, no hope, no Sprite, no wheelchair. I do not think I would be alive. Knowing M opened my life up. He never once did anything to hurt me. When I was afraid, I could turn to him.

I remember the first time I came crying to him. I felt as if I was going to explode. I couldn’t breathe. I was crying and couldn’t stop screaming. I was no longer homeless, but had yet to receive my diagnosis. This was the conversation where I realized he was a friend. I wanted comfort. I wanted someone to trust. I didn’t tell a soul how much I hurt, ever. I told M.

I expected him to tell me how worthless I was for hurting. I expected him to tell me to suck it up. I expected him to tell me how stupid I was for being in pain. Instead he told me this, “It’s okay. You have me and I will be right here. Just cry, do what you have to.” I remember word for word because I held those words in my head and heart for days, I chanted them when each step made me want to puke, I whispered them when I wanted to cry but someone was around. When I cried, those words sometimes made it alright.

I will write about M more often, usually with a tigher focus but first I had to introduce you to him. He is often insecure, he fears being alone, but he never will be. He has me. I love him. He is closer to me than my siblings, he is trusted just as much as my friends who are offline, in some cases more. Without him I would have never let myself date, I never would have found the courage to go back to that first store that discriminated and put them in their place legally. I never felt alone, I knew if I had to vent, cry, or needed a safe space to mourn. I had M.

Every time he comes to me with a bit of pain, I cry for him. Not always literally but I mourn the fact that he hurts. When he forgets to love himself, I do my best to hold up an accurate mirror. M works in the movie industry, he works for a graphics company and they make some of the best modern films happen. He has worked on Batman Movies, he has worked on the Golden Compass. He has dibs on future Academy Awards. M even has movie credits. He fascinates me, he is very unique and I always wish he were here in person.

Even on my bad pain days. M and my Person are the only two in the world I would let see me cry. I hope you find an M. If you have someone like M, then, treasure them. Everyone should be as intelligent, beautiful, and charming as he is. Everyone should be as caring. Everyone should be as willing to learn.

If more people were like M, and many really are a good deal like him, the world would have more equality, more love, and likely no Isms.

Now, just to explain the Agent Double Oh Carrot moniker, that is mine. I play games and one of my online identities is Agent Double Oh Carrot, a rabbit themed super spy. This video is of a 3D program called IMVU (The link is not a referral link, so if you join I get 0 credit. If you are a member feel free to drop me a line, my user name is Anon the Mouse).

I am in the villain’s base, with some of the rabbit themed villains and we are doing the Caramel Dansen. In this game the Villains are turning out to be the good guys.For a HQ variation with some of the same characters, you can check out the video responses.

Beauty

I am tired of the stereotype of beauty. I grew up being told that a girl should like men who look like Brad Pitt. I like women with soft lush curves, big and strong ones too. Many would consider my past conquests masculine, or overly thin, or fat. No one type fits what I like. I too have “strange” preferences for the men I have dated and these too tend towards those with meat on their bones, they have body hair, they are dark skinned, fair skinned, or really just alive.

Most of them, but not all, are tall. With either sex I tend to reach out for the taller people, though tall has changed in meaning since the wheelchair entered my life. I can’t look up at my baby brother without hurting my neck. He sits down for me, and still towers above. He is about seven feet tall. I love height because my family is full of tall people, except my own biological father. I associate height with safety. What does this mean about the other standards of beauty? Are we all programmed to like certain things?

Yes!

A huge part of my persecution in this life has been based on facets of my physical appearance. I have red hair, very pale skin that burns the instant sun touches it, soft full lips, and I have always had curves. My smallest size is a fourteen. I was barely eating to maintain that. My body needs meat on it. I am simply a curvaceous woman. I do have an ample bosom as well, and all of these things have been picked at.

I grew up being told I should be blonde. Blonde meant perfection. I hardly find blondes attractive as a result. I am aware that most of my siblings and my own mother are all blonde, and this factors in too. I think Blue Eyes are the best, though any shade is lovely to me. Blue eyes were mocked, because they are pale. Being a minority as a white person is very rare in any part of the world, the patriarchal structure still dominates and is usually white, even in countries where white is the minority. I have always been told my pale skin makes me wealthy. Whiteness in my state is a status symbol.

In India women who are by nature in the darker end of the spectrum are considered harder to marry off, they have less value based on something as simple as their genetic make up. The lighter you are, the more respect you can gain. This is White Privilege. It has defaced an entire culture, this love of all things white has poisoned us. You see whiteness in media, dominantly with able bodied super muscular WHITE men. You see their blonde perfection everywhere. I think back to the Nazi Propaganda studies group I was a member of in High School, and that is what I see. Reflections of past propaganda, continued, accepted, and fully realized.

Curly hair is considered disheveled. Girls with curly hair wake up at odd hours to iron their hair out. I think it is lovely, and my standard of beauty includes the use of a curling iron to add curls to my hair. This is rare, the era of the Super Perm died out at the end of the Eighties, except for a few hold outs.

I am told I must wear make up to seem presentable. I do, at times like to wear make up but I do it when it feels good. Usually I will also hide some of my facial scars under make up, if I cannot shake my feelings of Paranoia. I do not allow myself to wear make up on days when my self worth is being questioned, or when my confidence would hinge only on sultry red lips.

As I write this I am watching a movie that has what I consider the equivalent of Black Face. Sophia Loren is the Millionairess, Peter Sellers is the Indian Doctor who teaches her how to be more than a spoiled snob. This movie is full of propaganda that is anti woman, anti persons of color. I was enjoying it until I realized the fallacy that a white man is playing an Indian, with hardly any alteration of skin color and a very cliched accent.

I also note that the famed figure of Sophia Lauren seems to be aided via a corset. I might be wrong, but the extremes to her figure seem to need assistance. It doesn’t feel natural to me, though it does fit the “standard of beauty”. Her hair is lightened a bit, and of course she is always shown in posh and polished appeal during this film.

I do not think Brad Pitt is handsome. I think he is mediocre. This is all about looks, not his acting. I will not malign someone for having a career. I will however state that I do not understand the requirement to find him attractive. If you want to know who I find attractive in Hollywood, you will have to dig deep. There are few people that strike me as gorgeous or stunning, especially since we have entered the Anorexia Age of Hollyweird. Health is beautiful. That inner glow of self acceptance can make anyone gorgeous.

Since my blossoming into awareness about privilege I have seen more beauty in the world. This side effect shocked me. I like to compliment people when I find them attractive, and I have had the urge to tell the entire world how beautiful it is. The beauty I see is nothing like what is in the Movies or on Television. I live in a world of diversity. The people I see daily are of mixed race, from other countries, and their voices alone are a rhythmic song.

I am not beautiful by the overly BMI oriented modern sensibilities. I never will be. I’d have to break my bones, cut my body apart, inject myself with dye, and lose my sense of self. (This statement does not mean that those who naturally fit this standard are not beautiful, it is merely a rejection of the expectation to alter myself to be just like them) I reject the need to starve myself to fit a rare body type. I reject the fashion industry’s expectation that “fat” women do not like Fashion. I LOVE clothes shopping, and am discovering that I could easily spend a million dollars on cute shoes. These are cliches about womanhood, and yet you will find I only have four pairs of shoes, two for winter, two for summer. My clothing is all rather sensible, black, and boring.

I am pigeon holed by my lack of thinness. I am trapped by the need for others to stigmatize those who are not identical to them. I am not a Stepford Cripple, I am not anything but a person. I am flesh, I am bone, and I have soul. You are beautiful. My friend who is an immigrant is beautiful. I love listening to her voice, the way that she sings while she speaks entrances me. My friend who is the son of immigrants is beautiful. He cannot see that because his world is full of hatred, hatred of the Other.

I discuss privilege with my friends. It is an unavoidable conversation now. Eventually it is addressed either by discussion of politics, feminism, or simply the venting of frustration. I no longer hide my beliefs, to survive until the next day. I am free to speak them. Most of the time these conversations hold a similar impact, someone learns something. We all do really. My friends are all shapes and sizes. I have friends who are thin, blonde, and blue eyed. I have friends who are extraordinarily fat, but give hugs that are so soft. I have friends of every shape, size, mental capacity, and ability. My friends are all beautiful. You are beautiful.

Stop stigmatizing people for not being clones. Clones are scary, according to the media pundits and science fiction. Every time the word cloning is mentioned on TV it is with the hush of fear. Disability also has that hush of fear. Stop being afraid. Fear stops you from living life. This doesn’t mean you should ignore some fears, such as the fear of hunger or the fear of a snake bite. Stop fearing things that are different. If you do not understand something, educate yourself. Don’t fear it. Don’t shun it.

This includes fine art, not so fine art, but most especially people. Children are people. Women are people. I see often abuse launched at those who are different. I experience it every time I go out. I was reminded however, of the power of kindness and decorum.

I write often about the importance of gentle resistance, passive resistance, and not striking back. I admit I fail this way at times but, every so often I am given the reminder I need, the proof that I am right. I had transferred out of my chair at Sam’s Club, into the van and rolled down the window. Beside me a harried mother of two beautiful children, her disabled mother, and a cart of groceries struggled. I watched in silence, until they were about to leave, calling out to the woman that her mother had forgotten her cane.

Her son looked up as she thanked me, glad to not have to spend another twenty five dollars on a cane, and said, “Mommy, that’s the lady from the Walmart with the kitty!” His mother paused and said, “She was on TV too.” We talked then, and I complimented her for handling the stress. I could see she was frazzled, and I let her kids talk to Sprite while she settled them in. No petting of course, but, I told her how beautiful her family is. Three words. “You have a beautiful family.” Okay, five. I never was good with numbers.

She froze, looked at her kids, and then smiled. “I wish everyone could see that.” The thing I have not mentioned is this. Her children are Triracial. They are of Asian, African, and Caucasian Descent. I wanted to take them home with me, their sweetness gave me a rare pang of desire for Motherhood. It went away before we were out of the parking lot, but not the reminder that everything you do has a lasting impression. Every word, Every laugh, Every shout, every time you teach someone something. There is impact.

What draws me to people is never what they look like. It is instead their personality, the joy they have for life, and sometimes the hope that I can grow up to be like them. I may never grow up. I am always surprised when I realize for a moment I am not a child anymore. It fades, but, that too reminds me to be innocent.

Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder. It is not what media tells us it should be. Beauty is merely in the existence of life. Flowers, Puppies, kittens, children, lovers. All beautiful. Be you a Homosexual, Transgendered, A person of non Caucasian ethnicity, red haired, blonde haired, black haired, green haired, or even a strange shade of orange. You are beautiful.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None