All this talk of late about critical race theory and the oppression of brown or black people has made me think back to my childhood days when life was never black or white. It was shades of grey and we were all pretty colour blind anyway.
Just yesterday, I spoke with Redhead about DNA, vaccines, manufactured racism and the subject inevitably moved on to its logical conclusion. Moles.
No, I'm not talking about those pesky little varmints who dig holes in other countries ( Australia doesn't have them ) and I am not talking about traitors ( EVERY country has THEM ); no. I am talking about moles. Those black spots - oops - diverse pigmentations that many of us spend much time monitoring and attending skin clinics to have chopped out.
I have been blessed with moles all my life. As have my daughters. Their children and, no doubt my grandchildren and great grandchildren will soon start joining us in the waiting rooms of skin specialists all across the globe.
A woman I knew many years ago said that my problem was, that I was a white lady growing up in blackfella country. But the bottom line is that my moles are inherited through my DNA. I passed my DNA to my girls and they to their children. Part of our DNA was one very special mole that grows on one specific part of our body: the left hand side of our stomachs, just to the side of our belly buttons. WE all have them. Courtesy of my father, the late great Raymond F Peters who used to write here on Patriot Realm.
Not content with passing on his sense of humour, his hazel eyes and his stubbornness, he " branded " us with a mole. Lucky us. Some families have cleft chins or dimples. Not us. No. we get a mole that looked like a sultana.
When I was 15 years old, I had a Doctor, who I shall call Dr Bhana. She was a beautiful Indian woman who glided into her surgery as though she was walking on air. She wore the most splendid saris and she smelled of sandalwood and must have taken chill pills every morning, such was her demeanour.
If I had an upset tummy, I knew that Dr Bhana would advocate Bicarbonate of Soda dissolved in hot water and taken twice or three times a day. In fact, Bicarbonate of Soda could perform miracles. I still have it in my cupboard and use it daily for many different reasons.
But one thing that bicarb of soda couldn't fix was the troublesome mole that I had on my belly. No, on this occasion, I was off to the surgeon - her husband - an elegant Indian man with a quiet manner and a string of letters after his name that would make for an entire season of Sesame Street.
So it was that, after school one day, Redhead took me to the surgery to have the family jewel, the mole, removed. It was about 5 pm when we arrived. The surgeon walked in and said that his surgery had officially closed for the day and he was babysitting their two children. Could they perhaps watch as he did his job? They would like to " see their Daddy doing his work. "
Redhead and I agreed.
In walked a little boy and a little girl. Maybe 4 and 6 years old. Two pairs of huge brown eyes stared at my stomach as their Daddy got a needle and injected it into my belly. I couldn't watch. I have long suffered from a phobia of needles. I would make a useless heroin addict.
My dentist knows about my propensity to faint at the sight of one and is always prepared. In fact, when I front up, he says " oh it's you again..... she's a fainter. " and his Nurse is then duly notified that there is a sook in the surgery.
But back to the mole.
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I lay there while Redhead and the two pairs of big brown eyes watched as " Daddy " cut into my flesh...... I thought to myself " it can't be that bad if these little kids can watch " so I lifted my head to peer down.
I fainted.
Later, after I had recovered from my attack of the vapours, " Daddy " presented me with my mole in a little bottle covered in some kind of liquid. " Would you like to keep your mole as a souvenir? " he asked.
I fainted again.
I never saw that mole again.
Redhead took me home and I had some bicarb of soda in hot water to settle my stomach.
Dr Bhana went on to deliver both my daughters. She glided in and calmly brought two precious little pale freckled and " mole inclined " children into this world.
They have both had their mole removed.
But what cannot be removed is the DNA that put it there. It is the gift that keeps on giving. DNA.
These vaccines worry me.
You don't mess with DNA.
You also don't mess with Doctors wearing Saris who smell like sandalwood and dedicate their lives to saving lives and giving sage advice and solid healthcare to people who need it.
Can we cut the crap with critical race theory and stop the fainters and the faint hearted over riding commonsense?
Can we allow children to admire their parents and have enquiring minds that seek to learn and not misinform?
Most of all, can we be proud of our moles, our Doctors, our inherited DNA and accept that we are who we are, moles,warts and all.
Oh, and by the way, you can get rid of warts with Bicarb of Soda.
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