Traumarama: Girl with coffee falls down

There's a concept in my culture known as "Persian time." If you have even attended a Persian concert event (or been dragged there by your parents), you will know that it NEVER starts on time. Being a cultural young lady, I tend to be late to parties, dinners, and class. I live about 30 minutes away from school. I usually sleep in and run 10 min to 45 min late every morning. If I'm already late, I will often stop for a coffee at Beaner's because... well, I'm already late - what difference will it make?

One day I was running about 10 minutes late, so there were a few other stragglers outside when I pulled into the parking lot. I already got my skim vanilla latte from Beaners, and hurried towards the door. I was at the last set of stairs before you enter the building. A young gentleman in front of me was kind enough to hold the door open behind him for me. We will call him "J.A." I was just at the bottom of the stairs when he reached the door which meant he was holding open the door for an awkwardly long time. I hurry up the stairs in my spiffy pink Chuck Taylors, and promptly trip on the last step. My coffee slammed down on the ground, and the foam shot up everywhere. I start cracking up - after all, laughing is my coping mechanism for any and all stress.

J.A. rushes forward to see if I'm okay, but of course, I can't stop laughing. He helps me up, and kindly tells me that I have coffee in my hair. I say, "I know" and my laughter subsides as I realize that my lack of coordination is kind of embarrassing, and my face turns as pink as my shoes.

When I get to class, Ashot said, "Your jeans are ripped, that's really unprofessional." Such a nice boy, that Ashot. I look down and realize that not only are my jeans ripped but a little blood stained. I still wear the jeans, so if you see me and my ripped jeans, we can have a good laugh about this story. Make sure I'm in a good mood though because otherwise I might throw something at you.

--By Farrah, who went to Beaners this morning because she was already 4 hours late to school

Traumarama: Brown Girls in the City

Remember the traumarama section from Seventeen magazine? You were a prepubescent girl, uncomfortable in your own skin because of your changing body (widening pelvis, hair in strange places, weird smells). The traumarama section provided solace; other girls had had horrifically embarrassing moments. This new section will be real-life traumaramas from yours truly, the backrowballers.

Last summer, [nameless friend], [nameless friend's sister], and I decided to go on a shopping trip to Chicago. Since we are from a small, hick town in North Carolina, the Windy City both titillated and scared us. What were big city folk like, we wondered? Would street urchins from Fagin's gang mug us as we looked at all the pretty stores on Michigan Ave? We were weary, but decided to go forth.

In Chicago, our friend Adnan, a big city guy with hopes of making it big, decided that it was his emotional duty as Muslim male to show poor, redneck females around his native city. Us country girls fell giddy with joy at the prospect of a strong, male figure navigating the city for us and showing us how the "mean" streets were like (and by "mean streets" I am referring to the Barneys' and Anthropologie that were two blocks away from his chi chi penthouse apartment complete with a doorman).

Nevertheless, Adnan had visited North Carolina the previous year and had been in complete shock of the redneck nature of our lives (one Wal-Mart and a Blockbuster was the primary source of entertainment). He knew that it was his moral, Muslim duty to widen our eyes to the larger world; and so, when he called us, he asked her if we knew what P.F. Chang's was. Now although we are from the middle of nowhere, due to the advent of fiber optic cable and the equal access of information via cheap, fast speed internet, we weren't entirely ignorant of big city ways.

Nevertheless, Adnan and some other big city guys took us to the top of the John Hancock building for creme brulee desert. I am fairly certain that they expected us to get a wistful, misty look at our eyes as we gazed at the thirty floors below, the glittering lights, the soaring buildings, and the fancy dessert and articulate that this was a profoundly impressive experience. [Nameless friend] looked indifferent, [other nameless friend] merely complained about her fear of heights, and I got nervous about eating a fattening dessert due to my crippling anorexia.

After a few hours of good conversation, in which I learned that just because we come from completely different parts of America (red verses blue state, hick verses city), we weren't so different. We were all people, twentysomethings, relating to each other, laughing. Things were going well. Almost too well.

The night ended and we walked twenty blocks back to the hotel. I was wearing cute black heels that I had balanced on fairly well so far. All of a sudden, I lost my center of gravity, and started to fall. However, instead of just falling, I flailed around for ten feet, tripping, desperately trying to hold onto anything for balance. Finally, I regained my center of gravity and stood up. [Nameless friend] and [other nameless friend], my supposed friends were laughing hysterically. One of the dynamic duo finally regained composure from their convulsive laughter and profoundly said, "I'm glad you didn't rip your Seven jeans." Adnan, in an impressively indifferent manner, merely said, "That was impressive how you didn't fall." The night went on, but country hicks falling in front of big city investment banker menfolk is never a great way to end a glittering, magical night in Chitown.

--By Mariam, who never wore heels again and wishes Menood a happy birthday even though Nida couldn't make it from Pakistan.

Draw the muscles of facial expression on Mr. Hickey!

I'd like you to take yourself back. Back to the time we all couldn't wait to catch a new episode of Boy Meets World on TGIF. We had more Pogs than we knew what to do with, and you couldn't wait to go out and buy the new Ace of Base cassette. Now, perhaps you remember a more obscure toy - The Wooly Willy! I would be endlessly entertained by moving magnets around on a friendly face. I think it's about time we applied this kind of fun to anatomy!

Mr. Hickey is the friendly man who teaches our "Fundamentals of Clinical Practice" course. Commonly known as "FCP", or among our dyslexic friends "FPC". He went through the trouble of getting his JD to teach us whiny medical students about medical ethics and economics. He means well, but most of us are simply too swamped with anatomy to take on a two hour lecture about when medicare applies. So now, for you, I will merge FCP with Anatomy with my first study aid. Print it out, and quiz your friends. Happy studying!

Draw the muscles of facial expression on Mr. Hickey:

For the ambitious student also try -
Drawing the cutaneous distribution of the trigeminal nerve!


















--By Farrah, an MS1 who is domestically disabled and wants somebody else to do her laundry

Is the Back Row the Ghetto? A Political Pamphlet

In recent weeks, I have had an epiphany about the status of the back row within the larger scheme of medical school; unfortunately, it is considered to be a convenient ghetto by many students who sit in supposedly "superior" seating near the front of the classroom. There are two important things worth nothing: firstly, until recently, many back row people were completely oblivious of their own ghetto status. It was as if they didn't realize the inherently unequal treatment they were suffering at the hands of their fellow "equals" (much like proletariat factory workers). Their unequal status was only realized when a revolutionary (in the manner of V.I. Lenin) let them know that they were being treated with brazen unfairness (this communist metaphor foreshadows the imminence of a revolution or at the very least a Decembrist uprising).

Secondly, the back row's unequal status stems predominantly from an arbitrary construct created by geography of the classroom. Just because the back row is closer to the exit, it has become a convenient rest stop for late stragglers who usually sit in the valuable real estate rows (i.e. front and middle). Since I am a lover of metaphors, the back row is like Harlem, a place where shiny, smart, privileged Columbia students (i.e. medical students from front and middle rows) must travel through via subway to get to their prestigious, Ivy League institution of higher learning. These Ivy League students barely acknowledge the residents of Harlem (or in this case the foreign medical students who all aggregate in the back row) as they move towards the front towards their sparkling destinies of wealth, happiness, and a home in Martha's Vineyard. The back row or Harlem is just filled with a blur of non-white people because, really, who can keep straight what kid is from what random ass country that a) no one has heard of or b) you don't even want to know about because it is in the political axis of evil (as deemed by the U.S.)?

The most important question remains: how is the back row the ghetto? People who usually sit in the front seats get to class late and feel an overwhelming sense of embarrassment to walk to their normal seat so they sit in the nosebleed chairs (aka the back row). This disturbs the delicate seating order already set in place since the beginning of Block 2 (montony, after all, is essential to the human condition). And so, back row regulars are left a) upset b) destabilized and c) scrambling for a seat in the far corners of the room. These people then get up and go to their normal seat during the break, which makes the back row people feel used and abused like a two dollar hooker at the local brothel. Then the uprooted backrowballer and/or aremeniangangsta and/or Greek god return to their normal seats when the "privileged" med school student deigns to go back to his or her regularly scheduled seat.

How much longer do back row people have to suffer? Why should the back row foreign people suffer like this? We demand equal rights and equal respect, just like any other medical student.

By Mariam, who aspires to be the medical school equivalent of V.I. Lenin (except without all that bloodshed and the preserved body on permanent display).

An Untrue Story Made Up Entirely by Me

One day, Mariam looked at herself critically in the mirror. In a crushing realization, she saw her true self – a burden to her family. In her native Fiji Island, a woman must be married by the vernal equinox of her 23^rd year. If she is not married, her family must wear her picture on a T-shirt with the caption “My daughter is single, please marry her. She is most likely pure, and will learn to cook. Please.” Mariam herself would be forced to take cooking lessons, and since we all know that she cannot cook, she will most likely light herself on fire. Not wanting such events to transpire, Mariam decided to go speed dating!

Mariam waited patiently at her first table. When the first bachelor arrived, she berated him with pop culture trivia. He answered every question right, even the ones about shitty movies nobody watched like The Piano Teacher. The ding sounded, and Mariam was relieved – she wouldn’t dare marry somebody who knew more about pop culture than her!

The second bachelor arrived, and Mariam tried to go easy on him. Eventually, she made him discuss the third Reich in exhausting detail. He kept trying to move the conversation to the first Reich, and Mariam lost interest.

The next bachelor arrived, and he brought something new to the table. His name was Albert, and he was British. Mariam thought about how they would sound together walking through an upper east side cocktail party. His British accent would sound automatically intelligent, and she would be able to entertain and be the funnier part of the couple. She was pleased, and promptly proposed in the traditional Fiji-nese way. She made him an origami fortune teller with the future under every flap of “You will Marry Mariam.” He could not deny such a powerful omen of their future, and happily accepted.

The wedding was held at the Stranahan Theater. The Stranahan theater was named for Frank Stranahan, who became famous after he punched golfing legend Palmer square in the nuts. In honor of Mr. Stranahan, Mariam and Albert forbade both iced tea and lemonade to be served at the wedding – lest somebody mix them together.

After the wedding, Mariam saw that her last name was now “Cohen.” She realized that she married Sacha Baron Cohen’s little brother, and filed for divorce. Her parents have made an order to a t-shirt printing company, and Mariam bought a fire extinguisher.

--By Farrah, who would like to reiterate the untruthiness of this story

Screenplay Ideas: Part One

This new column will focus on awesome ideas I have for a B (or even C) list movie I will make in the future when I grow up to a be a movie directer or screenwriter.

Block 2 anatomy is making me desperate. I am trapped in a paradoxical situation, where I want to do well on the lab test but find when I go into lab to study, I get really tired and bored and just want to look at all the pretty people. As a result, a whole bunch of arteries and nerves look like a big ole tangled mess rather than the intricate, miraculous web (created by God) that keeps me alive.

One day, I got to thinking - what if the lab came to me at my house? I talked to Julia about stealing a cadaver and putting it in my garage so I could study it whenever without ever venturing into the -23 degree weather. This leads to my screenplay idea for a new horror film in the manner of Hostel or the rather old school Silence of the Lambs or even the Angelina Jolie vehicle, The Bone Collector.

What if there was a medical student who was such a gunner, who wanted to be the best anatomy student he or she could be, that this individual went to killer extremes to learn every branch and every known human variation of the subclavian artery? What if 50 professionally embalmed cadavers were not enough for said medical student? What if sharing one cadaver with three germy, snot-faced, whiny medical students was not an option for said individual?

What if this medical student became a serial killer so that he (or she, hey I'm equal opportunist) went on a killing spree and went home to study the murdered individual's body ad nauseum. Now, this is logistical because a medical student has all of the intellectual know-how on how to stab someone in the right places. They gloss these things over by calling them "clinical correlations," but I could just as easily file away this helpful doctor info as "How to be an awesome serial killer."

Back to the serial killer medical student though - although his actions would be tragic and morally reprehensible, I bet this kid would totally ace the practical. And that could be the final scene of the movie: serial killer medical student getting a big fat honors. It would be sort of like the end of Karate Kid where Ralph Macchio wins the big match and Mr. Miyagi looks on proudly, but a more twisted, cynical, David Lynchian-type end.

--By Mariam, an MS1 who also is a princess with a profound love of ponies.

Lecture Room Geography

This is what the medical school lecture room looks like. Let me explain the pictures on this map.

Aces: One day a professor told a student, "you're my ace in the hole, but let's hear from the rest of the class." Now, if you say "Ace in the hole" everybody knows who you are talking about. There are some other people in this row - they ask questions too - I have nothing in common with them.

Gunners: Self-explanatory. They are so far away that I have no idea who they are.

Utah: People from Utah. Married, obviously.

Sex and the City: These girls are not wild or anthing, they are more like a "Charlotte" than a "Samantha." They are super friendly, but they make efforts to look good in class that the rest of us abandoned long ago. When they walk through the halls with their stillettos, I hear the theme music of the show in my head.

Jude Law: A guy who vaguely looks like Jude Law

Girls Next Door: Meg Ryan, Winnie Cooper, Joey Potter. In this row, you will find girls that remind you of somebody who used to live next door to you.

Freddie Prinze Jr.: A guy who really looks like Freddie Prinze Jr.

Blonde Doctors: A row of girls that are almost all blonde. I'm not making a blonde joke here because they are all smart too, but seriously - why do they all sit together?

India: People from India, and people who wish they were from India. (aka token white friend)

Frat Party: Frat Party. I give them many kudos for asking, "Is it true if you don't use it, you lose it?" during the male reproductive system lecture.

Collegehumor: Guys that are more or less constantly looking at Collegehumor.com (see original post - back row geography)

Iceberg: Backrow Ballers, so chill, so baltic - you probably can't handle it.

Borat: Ashot. (also see - Ashot drunk)

J. Crew: Two people who look like they just walked out of the J. Crew catalog. Always, seriously - ALWAYS, all the time, no matter what.

Patricks: In this section, you will find people named Patrick.

--By the Backrowballers (minus Sarah, because she's skipping class - what a jerk!)

Update: The original funny man to make such a map is Ah yes, medical school. Go to his blog for another medical school map with more details!