Letter

Dear K — 

I have tutored you once a week for four weeks, now. You know my name and my face and my guidance, as I help you tie rubber balloons into knots, pipe cleaners around popsicle sticks. I do all this while you tell me about your day and your teachers and your amours. I was the same way, when I was nine. 

You are the youngest in my eyes when you talk gravely of your romances — or more accurately, those romantically interested in you. Off the cuff you mention tall Jimmy, who has promised you an iPhone 11 for Valentines Day, has promised you the newest iPhone every Valentines Day, though you never accept. You talk of Ash, who follows you around at recess and offers you smooth stones eroded from the edges of the cement sidewalks that line the playground. You giggle at Pierre, who you humbly insist has a crush on everyone in your grade, though every Tuesday after school he tries to walk you and only you home. You speak with not one ounce of shame and with all the regality in the world — it rivals what I imagine of Queen Elizabeth — and more than anything I wish for you to stay nine, stay shameless, stay humble but not bowed. But because you cannot possibly, I write to you now, for the most lonely thing of all is to bow your head for the first time and see nothing but your two heavy feet.

There may come a day — perhaps the day you read this — that Jimmy grows peeved when you rebuff his offers of grandeur and fulfillment. He may wonder how it is possible that you could refuse such a gift, from such an outstanding suitor — and rather than believing it possible of you, he may believe it impossible of your sanity. He may call you crazy, all for turning him down. My dear, the first time someone calls you crazy, questions your judgment, I urge you — dig in your heels with all your strength, whether that be in the tanbark of a playground or the carpeting of a classroom, or the duvet in a bedroom. The divot your carve will long serve anchor to your dignity, the core of your sense of self as a whole person in this world. Dig in your heels for it is your right, your rational, thoughtful, premeditated decision. Feel in the callouses that form from this repeated act, the stubborn testaments to your sanity.

My dear, the day you choose to open this letter, it may be too early for you to know simply through experience that this world is changing and those who previously ran it are reacting poorly. It is no longer accepted to call a woman stupid or hysterical outright (though I promise some will still do it, and they are to be feared the least, for at least they are candid). But there will be little transgressions that chaffe — eyes that glaze over you when you speak of things academic, intellectual, professional — voices that start just before yours ends, ears that seem not to have heard what you just said — past amours who speak of you as if your mind is something to be feared, your decisions erratic and baseless — and that, you will learn, is an allostatic load which has chaffed many strong and valiant women raw. When this happens, K, that is your cue to dig. And when in doubt, let me tell you a little secret — when Dorothy chanted “there’s no place like home,” she did not click her heels, as the director Victor Fleming would like you to believe — she dug them, firmly, into the ground.  

Best, 

Your Art Tutor

Lecture

A Talk for Pre-Medicine Students, etc.

It should be immediately obvious but it is not: that we live in a state of utmost crisis. Not one rooted in war, or economic destitution, but in a woman’s right to her own soundness of mind. 

The era in which a wife could be sent away to a mental institution on the basis of hysteria at her husband’s demand is not as long ago as we would like to believe. The medical institution, held above all to the standard of “first, do no harm,” provided a false justification for systematically gaslighting women — and still does, to this day, doubting the reported pain levels of women, diagnosing women for psychological conditions later than men, casting doubt on psychosomatic conditions that largely affect women. 

Nowadays, the ramifications differ but are even more dangerous in their subtle creativity: when dissatisfied or heartbroken, men eagerly declare their ex-girlfriends to be “crazy” or “manipulative,” and there is nothing that can be said in rebuttal — because “you didn’t see it,” and indeed, you weren’t there, couldn’t possibly have been, all that’s left is an uneasy feeling in your stomach that one wrong step and next time you’re the crazy one. Tom Haverford in Parks and Recreation, a popular television show, said it best — “She broke up with me. Didn’t really tell me why. Luckily when you’re the guy, you just tell people she’s crazy. ‘Hey Tom, I heard you and Lucy broke up.’ ‘Yeah man. Turns out, she’s crazy’ That’s what they always do on Entourage.” That’s Season 3 Episode 3, titled “Time Capsule.” Look it up if you don’t believe me.

The ripple effect goes beyond petty breakups and gossip. Indeed, female leaders in the workplace are dubbed bossy, or hormonal, simply because their judgment and decisions infringe upon the comfort of their fellow employees — and to have their firmness (of position and mind) believed, to have their decisions respected, they must go to great lengths — dressing differently, wearing just the right amount of makeup, lowering their timbre, just to get on the same playing field. When one of the most qualified candidates in history ran for president, she was dubbed as “shrill,” and lacking “stamina.”

One of the prominent clinical symptoms of hysteria was fatigue. Lassitude. Exhaustion. Sound familiar? 

Therein lies the danger — modern-day gaslighting of women has catastrophic effects, not only on individuals, but on the fate of the nation — and this sort of gaslighting cannot be disproved by rigorous clinical trials. Modern hysteria is diagnosed in the stratosphere of subjectivity, far beyond the glass ceiling. Those who object are, well, nasty. Should probably get that checked out.

Process Notes

As someone who wants to eventually go into the medical field, the role that medicine and paternalism within healthcare has played in contributing to our society’s systematic sexism is particularly interesting to me. The fingerprints of sexism are all over medical documents — ranging from diagnosis of hysteria, which has been a topic of interest to me in the context of my project, to negligence cases in modern childbirth and reproductive care. For that reason, I addressed my lecture to students intending on pursuing medicine. 

I thought about a number of different recipients for the letter — ranging from a fictional ex-boyfriend to Donald Trump, and finally settling upon a young girl. I wanted to write something that could serve to help, to prepare someone for the future and what it holds for their perception of their own mind and sense of self. I set out to write something that would have helped me and my peers who have been affected by these issues. 

Something I’m struggling with is the inherent heteronormativity of this subject matter. I want to figure out how to make my language more inclusive, or at least discuss the subject matter with consideration extended for those who don’t fit into the molds of “male” or “female” but have still been institutionally gaslit or had their mental stability questioned. I would really appreciate feedback on this issue, or suggestions about how I could possibly alter my terminology.