Anxiety stopped me from saving lives. Here's how I overcame it.

I debated posting this story. It’s not flattering, it's admitting I'm a wimp, it could be construed as a humble brag, posting about good deeds often reeks of disingenuity, etc... But in the end, I decided to share my experience, because I think it might make a difference. 

I know there are others out there who want to give blood, but are nervous about it. I know it's an embarrassing thing to admit- to be an adult that's freaked out by a humdrum procedure when so much else is at stake. I also know it's hard to silence that voice in your head that takes every statistical oddity, every horror story, every urban legend, every horrible feeling, and makes it seem real. I know because I'm one of 2.4 million Canadians living with Anxiety Disorder. And even if I weren't, I know because I'm a human being who has fears both rational and irrational. It's normal. So all you folks who are scared of house spiders better back off from those scared of needles. Unless you're from Australia, in which case burn the spiders. Burn them all. 

You want to give blood but you're scared. It's okay. I hope my story will encourage you to take the plunge. 

Look, objectively I know giving blood isn’t a huge deal. It’s forty-five minutes and a pinprick out of your life. But I’ve always been scared to do it. The idea makes me uneasy- a tube sucks the inside part of your body to the outside your body? Into a plastic bag? While you listen to Muzak? WHAT THE HELL!?

Moreso I was terrified that contaminated instruments would give me some kind of lifelong illness. Look, anxiety’s a complicated thing, okay? It takes small possibilities and makes them seem like high probabilities.

I knew I should give. I think every able adult should give. But I found excuses to put off donating blood; I’d see donation drives coming up, click on the page to book an appointment, and inevitably chicken out. I knew it was the right thing to do, I wanted to help people, but also I’m a weenie, and that tends to wins over everything else.

Well, fast-forward and I take one of those ancestry DNA tests. Among other important facts (like my ability to smell asparagus in pee), the test informed me of my blood type.

O negative.

O freakin’ negative.

This weenie is a universal donor.

I faced a moral dilemma: On the one hand my blood could save literally anyone in need, regardless of their own blood type, and I wouldn’t even notice it was gone. On the other hand, still a weenie.

So I put it off again, telling myself I’d do it later. And later. And later. I'd hear the radio ads and think "Yeah! I'll sign up when I get home." Then I wouldn't.

But yesterday as I was walking home with a friend, I passed a blood drive.

“Do you want to give blood?” A chipper young woman asked with all the enthusiasm of a stock photo model eating salad. 

I stopped.

Heck yeah. Heck yeah I want to give blood. I’m aware my own fear is caused by a chemical imbalance, and that ultimately my own angst is nothing compared to that of a person who actually needs to receive blood due to an accident/cancer/illness. Heck yeah I want to lend my neighbour a cup of blood! If only my brain would shut up for a second about germs and the weirdness of my insides being sucked out of my body, I would! ABSOLUTELY!

“Kinda.” I said, looking to my friend for encouragement. “I guess I kind of want to give blood.”

“You should!” He said.

“I should!” said I. "Me give blood now!"

I knew my fear of society was greater than my fear of heart-juice gushing from my arm, and that once I said I'd donate out loud there was no going back. Once others knew (by others I mean my friend, and the lady at the door who I’d never see again), I couldn’t back down. It was happening. I was going to give blood whether I liked it or not! Take that, irrational fear of fatal germs! I've outsmarted you with my greater fear of letting others down!

And thus I found myself eating a bag of pretzels and answering a long iPad questionnaire. Do you do drugs? Have you travelled anywhere outside of Canada? Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? Once I was done they gave me a sticker that said: “Be nice! I’m New!” I’m guessing the “It’s my first time!” stickers were rejected by admin.

I tried to blend in with the others, with the stream of office workers who looked as if they were in line at the grocery store and not about to let someone stab them in the arm with a pneumonic tube.

“Nice weather today,” I said. “It was raining before, but I think it stopped. Except that it looked like it might start spitting. But that’s spring for you, right? Just spit. Sky spit. Or rain as they call it.”

“Sure,” the lady next to me replied before turning away LIKE I WAS THE WEIRD ONE.

Soon a very kind nurse talked me through the process. I showed her the source of my anxiety: an article that warned of possible needle contamination at a Scarborough health fair. I was worried she’d dismiss me as a Facebook Doctor, the kind who thinks they know better than medical professionals because they read an article which proves gluten causes autism. I apologized, telling her I didn’t mean to question the competency of the nurses, but that fear of contamination was what had stopped me from giving blood in the past. She wasn’t judgmental at all. In fact, she encouraged me to show the article to the nurse who would be doing the extraction. Then she told me the process would take 45 minutes. I nodded as I freaked out inside, imagining myself bleeding into a bag for three quarters of an hour.  But, no, she assured me: 45 minutes to go through the approval process, to wait, to sanitize, to give the blood, and to eat some cookies and juice. The actual bloodening™ would only take ten minutes.

I munched on my pretzels as I waited to be screened, reading the brochure they’d given me. “One blood donation saves three lives.” “Ontario has an urgent need for blood.” “If you feel anxious at any time tell us and you can stop.” Baby, my whole life is anxiety. If I followed that instruction I would be halfway down the block and under a decorative shrubbery by now.

I waited. And waited. I was nervous. I felt heavy. Knees weak. Arms were heavy. I was called in by Nurse Spaghetti. I mean, the screening nurse.

She asked where I’d travelled in the last year, and took a huge binder down from a shelf to see if my answer was acceptable. Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip... Congratulations, Croatia, you pass!

“Looks heavy,” I said, watching the tiny nurse pick up the gigantic binder and try to slide it back on the shelf.

“I just don’t understand why this isn’t in the computer,” she said. “Life makes no sense.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, sure that I was getting those weird sweat spots under my boobs from nervousness. 

I showed her the article about the health fair contamination and let her know that, while I knew it was a rare occurrence, the idea of getting a lifelong disease from a contaminated instrument terrified me. I wish it didn’t, but it did. She was understanding and explained that all the needles were single use, and had mechanisms to prevent them from “firing” again. She said the health fair warning itself may have been a misunderstanding, as sometimes an instrument will “spit out” a used needle to make way for another one. Sometimes people mistake that for using the same needle twice. I let out a sigh of relief. My boobs became a little less sweaty. Which was nice.

“Thanks, Tita," I slipped.

“OH ARE YOU A FILIPINA!?”

After reciting which province and which city my mom came from, why I don’t speak Tagalog, and whether or not I like Nicole Scherzinger (I do), I was off.

I went to the bed where the bloodening™ would happen, and let the nurse know I was nervous. She was nice about it, and told me (gasp) that many people get nervous, and that that’s normal. She also informed me that Ontario was on its last three days of O neg blood,  so I picked a good time to start.

A woman in another bed asked if it was my first time (ha!) and I told her it was.

"I'm a healthy and able universal donor, so I guess I have to give or I'm for sure a bad person."

“I hope you know they’ll never stop calling you now,” she laughed, telling me her mom is also a universal donor.

Then she told me she works at a trauma centre. She sees people at the worst point in their lives, when everything is out of control, when they're in pain, when they need all the help they can get. My blood, and the blood others were giving, was everything.

“Also you get free snacks!” She added.   

I thought about what she said, thought about how insignificant my own nerves were. I barely felt the needle. Despite the ease of the procedure I was shaking. 

"Just roll that ball and squeeze it," the nurse said, referring to the squished napkins she'd put in my hand. "Concentrate on that."

Gradually the shaking stopped. And contrary to what I’d feared, I didn’t even feel the blood leaving my body.

I did see it, though.

**Side note, I always thought blood was the colour of Kool-Aid, because once I saw what I thought was a trail of fruit punch, only to realize the drips led not to a Kool-Aid stand, but to a recent stab victim and a bunch of EMTs. That’s a tale for another day though. The moral of the story is that blood is actually the colour of Pepsi, and I can drink Kool-Aid again.**

I watched the bag of my blood rock back and forth like stoners at a U2 concert. It was grimly fascinating. The inside part of my body was on the outside! But that was okay. Because it would be carried away to someone in need- someone whose inside parts were probably MORE on the outside. Someone who needed that little bag of rock!

The actual bloodening ™ took no time at all, and when the nurse removed the needle I felt nothing. I thought it was still in there. She asked what colour bandage I wanted, then wrapped my arm up tighter than a sports bra at a downhill marathon. Five minutes of reclining in the bed, and I was done.

I sat at the snack table eating Goldfish like I’d been cool the whole time. I read the little placemat that let me know how my blood would be used- how many people it would save, and why blood donation was so important. I patted myself on the back and took an extra packet of cookies because godammit  I love chocolate chip oatmeal with the fire of a thousand suns.

“Excuse me, miss.” An elderly gentleman approached and asked if it was my first time donating. I said it was and he gave me a little pin with a 1 on it, telling me next time I’d get a 2.  

"Oh, just like AA!" I said. "I'm not in AA! I just saw photos of the pins on Reddit! Not that there's anything wrong with being in AA! I'm glad people are getting help! They give you pins every time you go, just like here, and some people post photos of them online HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAH oh god why am I still talking this man doesn't care."

Overall, the idea of giving blood was much scarier than the actual process, and despite my initial worries, everyone there was very nice and understanding. 

The fact is, 50% of Canadians will need blood in their lifetime. These drives save lives. 

So I know it can be scary. But don't let fear stop you from being there for your neighbour. If you are able to give blood, do it. Blood saves lives. You'll feel good. And even if you don't at least you'll get cookies and a sweet enamel pin. 

Visit http://www.blood.ca/en to book an appointment or find a drive near you.

• Just 1 donation can save up to 3 lives.
• The average red blood cell transfusion is 3 pints (or 3 whole-blood donations).
• More than 1 million people every year are diagnosed with cancer for the first time. Many of them will need blood—sometimes daily—during chemotherapy.
• More than 38,000 blood donations are needed every day.
• Type O-negative whole blood can be transfused to people with any blood type, but this type of blood is rare, and supplies of it are low.
• Type AB plasma can be transfused to patients with all other blood types, but it's also in short supply.
• While 38% of the American population is eligible to give blood, only 2% actually donates.
  source: https://www.cedars-sinai.org/programs/blood-donor-services/about-donation.html

Whitewashed Horseman

NOTE: Like many of my friends, I was overjoyed to learn Bojack Horseman’s fifth season was released today. I’ve binged seasons 1-4 many times over, and I’ve seen the famous “Under the Sea“ episode more than anyone might recommend. And so I write this with mixed feelings, after having considered not writing it at all. I greatly admire the show, especially the way it realistically portrays mental illness, depression, and the loneliness of modern life. It’s witty, intelligent, heartbreaking, end yet somehow still hilarious. Its depiction of dementia is one of the best in media, and its unwillingness to compromise truth for broadness is inspiring. I greatly respect the creators, and Alison Brie, whose work I follow and admire. Yet I feel that to truly love a work, you must not be afraid to criticize it. So with all that said, let’s begin…

The second episode of Bojack Horseman’s fifth season (“Dog Days Are Over”) is a beautiful and breathtakingly simple story. After divorcing her husband, Diane Nguyen, a second-generation Vietnamese woman, takes a spontaneous trip to Hanoi. We’re made privy to elements of Diane’s childhood that will seem familiar to many diasporic children: Diane’s father being too distracted to talk about heritage, or Diane’s discovery that she looks different from her classmates. In Vietnam, Diane expects to feel at home, surrounded by people whose faces and names reflect her own. But instead, she finds herself even more of a stranger. A friend once told me that such is the plight of the immigrant and her children- to only feel ‘at home’ on the plane ride back. Because once you arrive at your destination, you’ll find the place you knew (or never knew) no longer exists, and you’re a foreigner no matter where you go.

Diane visits tourist spots, buys a rice hat, and takes unapologetic selfies. But when she runs into a family of white American tourists, her attitude changes. They refuse to accept that she’s an American, or that she speaks English- reminding her why she came to Hanoi in the first place. Incensed, she learns basic Vietnamese, wanders off the beaten path, and spends a night wandering with an American tourist who is convinced she’s a local. When at last she reveals who she is, she is rebuked for not being authentic- for not “really” being Vietnamese.

The story’s beautiful conclusion is that of Diane staying still, while the scenery changes behind her. Whether in LA, or Asia she is adrift, lost, and alone.

Diane Nguyen is played by Alison Brie

It’s a feeling many of us live with every day. Because our skin makes us permanently a stranger in the land that we’re born in. Because our tongue makes us a stranger in the one that we come from.  Because we are not entirely anything or anywhere or anyone.

Growing up, my sense of identity came from my parents. They only spoke English at home, and only watched Western TV. As a kid, I knew Tagalog was reserved for when my Dad took the last cracker without throwing out the empty box- or for when my mom accidentally backed the family car over a curb and got stuck. Tagalog was for arguing.  My classmates’ parents felt the same. They were in Canada now, and their kids would be 'Canadian.' Whatever that meant.

Years later I lament never having learned Tagalog. My sisters and I watch our parents, friends, and family talking, laughing, gossiping, and crying. But we’re on the outsides of those moments. We don’t understand our own families.

Watching Diane try to communicate with the first woman she meets in Hanoi sent my own heart surging. Her practical frustration was obvious, but as a second-generation Vietnamese woman there was another layer to the exchange. Diane must have been thinking: I should be able to speak to her. I should be a part of this. I should belong. I felt a sense of kinship with her. And then my stomach turned; I remembered I was listening to a white woman pretending to live my experience.

Message board comment

Bojack's whitewashing controversy makes Diane's later harassment by the American tourists intensely troubling. We're essentially watching a white woman pretending to be an Asian woman who's sick of racism. Ironically, public dismissal of Diane's whitewashing on platforms like Reddit is deeply steeped in the kind of 'passive' racism the tourists show Diane, with posters insisting that its only necessary to cast a diverse actor if the character has an accent- that otherwise there's no need. Because what is a POC without an accent? Neutral. And what is neutral? White.

Never mind that what Diane is experiencing in this episode is the deeply troubling reality for real people of colour. Never mind that the shame inflicted on her comes from the very group the actress and the screenwriters are part of. Never mind that in being retold by white voices, this experience has been exploited and co-opted for the financial and creative gain of Diane's oppressors (however well-intentioned they are). Never mind that it's yellow-face.

As my grandmother’s memory fades, my own linguistic shortcomings hit harder. She was recently hospitalized, and the medication she received temporarily exacerbated her dementia. I was alone with her one evening, when she called me over and began speaking Tagalog. I reminded her I didn’t understand, but she continued. She was irate, upset that I wasn’t listening to her. She wanted something, and I could give it to her, if only I knew what her words meant. I called nurse, a Filipina woman. Matter-of-factly, she told me that second languages are often forgotten with dementia- that soon only my grandmother's first tongue would remain. What I had glimpsed was a time when Lola and I will no longer speak the same language at all. When I’ll become an outsider even to her.

This is only one moment where I’ve felt the heaviness of my own contradiction- an Asian face with a Western tongue. It’s a moment upon hundreds of others- small ones, big ones, some as big as your head. These moments upon moments form our experience as second-generation people- shape us into who we are. Being mistaken as a foreigner, or repeatedly told that your face means you don’t belong here- these are all-too-familiar to us.

That’s why this episode of Bojack Horseman is so conflicting. I’ve always argued that only we can authentically tell our own stories. But this episode is so truthful, so real, and so relatable. The fact that there are no Asian writing staff on the show- that the Vietnamese-American protagonist is voiced by a white woman- leaves me hollow. Its seeming authenticity almost makes it worse, because it feels like the most traumatizing moments of my life, of many peoples' lives, are being paraded about on TV by white people with their animated eyes taped back.

And then there's the question of how they could have told such a story. I don't believe for a moment that they independently arrived at this truthfulness. So often we're asked to divulge our experiences. In the best case scenario we're paid to give our stories to white writers then quietly told to go away until picture day. In others, we're simply asked and expected to simply give our knowledge over (or risk professional backlash from someone with more power). An artist named VyVy Nguyen is credited as a "creative consultant" for this episode; reading through articles on her input it seems she was more intensely involved than her small credit would suggest. Why, when you have a show starring a Vietnamese character, do you have to go out of your way to hire someone Vietnamese for a single episode? Why was there not at least one Vietnamese writer in the room? Why wasn't this artist, who leant so much authenticity, given a place in the writing room after her contribution?

How many of us would be given the trust to tell a story truthfully like this? How many of us would have the ‘star power’ to be offered a role like Diane? How many of us would be given support to distribute something as wonderful as this show?  How can we ever make that number more than zero, when the most intimate moments of our lives are made fodder for the old club’s creativity?

Once again, we are outsiders. But this time in our own story.

The show’s creators have apologized for whitewashing Diane. And I do believe this episode is a concerted effort to make things right. But backlash over the choice to tell an Asian-American story with white voices, should not be a surprise. Any person of colour working on their staff could have told them it would happen- could have told them that telling this story, this way, with this white woman’s voice, would be another kick to a community already beaten down. But there were no warnings, because there are no Asian writers here. There are no Asian voice actors. There are only white writers, white creators, white voices, pulling the strings on marionettes that look like us, but will never be us.

A moment of silence

Hey guys, don't normally like to be all touchy-feely. Especially online. But I'm feeling really weird tonight and I think I have to write it out somewhere.

I've been on this game making site for a long time. Since I was 12 actually. There's only ever been about 10 users on it, and we've all been there consistently through the years.

I met some good friends, and even hosted one for several weeks (then just recently stayed with him in Sweden).

A lot of us talked each other through life's problems- bullying, depression, gender identity, love. We had each other when it felt like the world rejected us; when we were sure that there was something wrong with us because no one in our waking world thought we were worth more than a punchline to a mean joke.

We never felt completely alone, because we always had each other.

But tonight I found out that one of these users died in the most senseless and random way possible. He was young, full of life- he liked pixel art, and styling his hair, video games, cosplay, and surrealist reading. He was just a normal geeky dude. He was 24. And now because of some stupid traffic accident he's gone just like that. For absolutely no reason. And his family is never going to hear his voice again. He's never going to draw again. He's never going to post some stupid selfie online so we can tease him again.

And this is hitting me like a truck. And I don't know if I'm allowed to feel this way because I never met him in person. It feels indulgent. But I felt like he was part of some little family somewhere in cyberspace, where we were all going to hear bits and pieces, and see photos of each other while we all grew up. And we'd see each other go from these kids in middle school who no one wanted to be around, to people who found themselves and built new communities-- forged careers, took risks, and fell in love. Big and small every little victory that one of us achieved felt like such a win.

And now one of us is gone. And we're never going to see him become what he was meant to be.

I can't draw but I can still make a point.

The Uncomfortable Subject of Race in La La Land

I was hesitant to write this, because I really am in support of Hollywood making movie musicals again. Not to mention that many of my friends enjoyed this movie and I didn't want to be the Asian that rained on their parade. 

But I didn’t like La La Land. You can un-friend me now.

 

I’d heard good things about La La Land, but I confess it wasn’t really at the top of my list. Probably because I’m not a huge fan of romantic comedies (though there are some exceptions- Shakespeare In Love, The Princess Bride, and basically any other movie where handsome men wear very tight pants). I am a Broadway geek, however, and a music school grad, so my friends were surprised that I wasn’t scrambling to see this film. I guess something about it just screamed ‘seen it before.’ Which I suppose is the point- it’s meant to elicit nostalgia.

I understand the appeal. The Golden Age of Musicals was a simpler time, with simple stories that drew in crowds. A cowboy and a farm girl fell in love to a golden melody. A conman changed his ways to impress a librarian. A little girl from Kansas went on the acid trip of the century before telling her family that she saw them in her sleep. In this complicated world of cell phones, social media, and Dippin Dots, “retro” is in. Albeit a very specific understanding of “retro.” Because tap dancing in the moonlight is all good and fun, but when you consider that black men were lynched for drinking from white-only water fountains, it starts to look less golden. See, for me and for many others the Golden Age of Musicals is hard to romanticize.

Perhaps part of this review is coloured by context. We are at a unique point in history when you can legitimately have an argument with a Nazi while riding a hover-board. With the resurgence in popularity of white supremacy and a longing for so-called old school values, I simply found it impossible to ignore the racial politics at play in La La Land. The distraction proved too great to enjoy the film.

Before I continue, I want to state that I actually really like Emma Stone and Ryan hot Gosling. And considering that they’re mainly straight actors, they did decent jobs in the lead roles. 

But here is where my frustration with the film lies. They did decent jobs. As a plethora of brilliant dancers fanned through an LA highway in the film’s opening number, my heart sank. None of these talented people got to star in the film. And in a story about seeking fame and fulfillment, none of these people became stars in the film. Here was a movie where a rainbow of phenomenal dancers, and singers- some of whom, I have to reason, must also be good actors- surrounded two people who bounced through basic tap choreography, and lacked all expression in their vocal performances. 

I felt like I was watching these talented people of colour move about like set pieces in a minstrel show, bringing excitement to the world of the two white protagonists; one of whom has the absurd plotline of being the only person that understands jazz, and needs to save it from extinction.

You see, in La La Land Gosling’s character, Sebastian, is a jazz prodigy, who loves the genre for its purity and complexity. In one scene, he brings Stone’s character, Mia, to watch old, black musicians perform. Nevermind the awkward juxtaposition of these performers, who probably lived through segregation, playing their hearts out for the happy white couple. Sebastian is made to be Mia’s gateway into this world of authentic (ie: black) music, and in this presumption, he’s somehow a part of that specific world. Unlike the suits and the young upstarts, he alone can introduce his girlfriend (and the audience) to “real” jazz. The jazz band itself is only a prop meant to enhance a white story- their “retro blackness” is a sign of how cool and down-to-earth Gosling’s character must be. But the band’s struggle, culture, and voice is completely erased from the narrative.

To be fair, at one point I thought there might be some redemption for this bizarrely insensitive plot-line. But then the only group of young black musicians in the film lose touch with their roots and seek only gimmicky flash (that our hero Sebastian of course hates and eventually rises above).

At the other end of this frustrating story, Emma Stone plays Mia, an actress who is struggling to get by. She faces rejection after rejection, before finally proving her worth to a casting director and rocketing to stardom. This is after she writes her own one-woman show, and performs it out of pocket. Her story is structured around the Protestant work ethic which permeates American philosophy- plainly, what you give is what you get. The suggestion here is that, anyone who is talented enough, and willing to put in the work, will be discovered and all their dreams will come true. But Mia is surrounded by many other actors and actresses- many of whom are ethnic, many of whom work hard, and many of whom are clearly talented. Yet none of them seem to achieve stardom. In a time when Hollywood is really under the lens for whitewashing and racebending, when it’s being criticized for its lack of diversity, it seems almost too meta. These actresses only serve as background fodder for Mia.  Just like their characters, the actresses hit a ceiling in the film itself.

Thoroughly Modern Millie

There is an infuriating unawareness in La La Land throughout. An earnest desire to see “diversity” but only insofar as it paints a backdrop for the “real” heroes. Maybe this is part of the nostalgia- two familiar girl/guy next door types who fall in love beneath the moonlight- but in a modern twist they are surrounded by a diverse ensemble. Barf.  

It's nothing new. Movie musicals certainly have a history of racial exclusion. The Golden Age featured blatantly racist films like Thoroughly Modern Millie (which was thankfully updated and modernized for the stage). And then there were the countless films that committed the crime of invisibility. Remember, this is a genre that took its roots from jazz music and tap, yet rarely featured black protagonists. Not to mention performers of other races.

Like all epochs, though, it's not so cut and dry. As with any other Hollywood production, movie musicals were bound by agreements like the Hays Code, and influenced by public ideology at the time. Despite their flaws, musical theatre, and musical movies, do actually have a long history of subversion. Showboat dealt with racism, poverty, and sexism. My Fair Lady with classism and female autonomy. Even the racist Thoroughly Modern Millie challenged ideas of gender norms, and women’s rights. In musical movies, the love story was often the starring narrative, but the setting was the message. This is arguably because music has the incredible power to move us, and allows for a freedom of storytelling you don’t see in straight drama. Because of its relatively “safe” reputation, it’s able to make a point without being too threatening to audiences. IMHO subversion is in fact a key element to the genre

Which brings us back to La La Land.

What does La La Land do except glorify a bygone era and transplant it into the 21st century, in a weird fulfillment of every alt-right wet dream. It tells a love story. One we’ve seen before, with archetypes we’ve seen before, in a setting we’ve seen before. And it does nothing to challenge our view of society, in a time when we really need to be questioning ourselves.

This is a shame, because there was a chance for this film to be very modern. How much more interesting would this film have been with a black male lead? What if Emma Stone’s character were a woman of colour? How would that change her journey to stardom? How much more of a disadvantage would she be at at the start of the film?

As it is, racial representations in the film were simply too distracting for me, especially considering political events as of late (which, to be fair to the filmmakers, happened after the release of the film).  I found myself rolling my eyes every time people of colour performed for the leads. I felt like I was watching racial insensitivity in motion, where two people are inspired by “cool ethnic culture,” and then rocket to stardom.

Was La La Land a solid movie? Objectively well-structured, well-shot, and well-acted? Yes. Am I glad it was made? Yes. Because I hope it will inspire studios to take more risks on musicals. And was I glad I saw it? Yes. Because it reminded me of how much further we have to go.

So yes, La La Land is a good film, and I don’t blame anyone who finds it enjoyable. But no, I didn’t like it. Even though it stars Ryan hot Gosling.

At least he had no concept of time

A note on tonight’s episode of Second Jen:

I can’t tell you how much it means to talk about women’s sexual health in an open way. This episode was a labour of love (no pun intended); I’m so glad that we made it, and that our network supported us so unconditionally.

It can be difficult, especially in immigrant families, to talk about subjects like reproductive health, medication, and even illness. But it’s so integral that young people communicate their needs, worries, and healthcare concerns; and that they are listened to without judgment.

A regular PAP test and physical is one of the most important things young women can do to prevent issues with future reproductive health, STIs, and cancer (among other things). Let’s remove the stigma around sexual health, and ensure a healthier future.

For more info on PAP tests, cervical, ovarian, and breast cancer, please visit the Canadian Cancer Society’s website at cancer.ca.

-Amanda Joy