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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 3 years

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Word Count: 1,421 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader Gender: Unspecified Era: Alexandria Summary: Daryl comes in after a run and needs stitches and is surprised when you, the only doctor in Alexandria, mention feeling trapped inside the walls.

Warnings: None really!

Your name: submit What is this?

You looked up as you heard the door open and approaching footsteps. The broad-shouldered archer was passing through the doorframe and his arm was bound with a scrap of cloth, stained rusty red. You sighed and gave him a knowing look. “Daryl, I told you, we really have to stop meeting like this,” you joked sardonically. You thought you saw one corner of his mouth twitch upward briefly and there was a pink flush in his cheeks as he ducked your gaze.

You pulled some gloves on and walked over as he sank down in a chair. “Alright, what did you do to yourself this time?” you asked, starting to untie the scrap of fabric on his upper arm. You winced as you took in the deep gash. “Ouch,” you murmured sympathetically.

Daryl couldn’t stop bouncing his leg and he chewed the side of his thumb as you inspected the injury. “S’nothin’,” he mumbled. You shot him another look, this time with your lips forming a soft pout, and you waited until his blue eyes met yours, trying your hardest to ignore the fluttering in your stomach this man always caused.

“This is not nothing,” you said, turning and heading over to the supply shelf. “Are you going to tell me what happened or do I need to get Rick in here?” you called over your shoulder. You grabbed a bottle of alcohol, cotton pads, and some suture supplies and headed back over to Daryl, pulling up a stool beside him.

“Mmm,” he hummed, trying to figure out how to tell you what had happened without worrying you more than you obviously already were. “Knife,” he drawled.

You’d been pouring some alcohol onto a cotton pad and you froze as you registered what he had just said. Daryl bit his bottom lip anxiously. He saw how you had tensed and your brow furrowed at his words. You resumed your care with another small sigh, sweeping the cotton over his arm and cleaning the dried blood and dirt from his skin. “Last time I was outside the walls, walkers didn’t carry knives. Has that changed?” you asked softly.

He let out a huff. You obviously knew the answer to that.

You made sure to flush the gash in his arm out thoroughly. Daryl didn’t even flinch at the burn of the alcohol. Sometimes you swore the man was made of stone.

“When was that anyway, doc?” he asked, hoping for a change of topic.

You were threading the sterilized needle and paused to consider him for a long moment. “Two weeks ago,” you said, averting your eyes from his. You didn’t see the flash of surprise on his face, but you didn’t need to.

“Ya went out there? Why?” There was a sharp edge to his voice.

“I just… did.”

Not much of an answer. Daryl turned and studied you as you began stitching him up. Your focus gave him leave to take in the colors in your eyes, the curve of your long lashes, the slope of your nose. His body responded with a flush of heat to his core and he ripped his eyes away again. “Ya shouldn’t be doin’ that,” he said.

“How is it any different than you going out there?” you challenged him. Your eyes met his and held the gaze firmly.

“I ain’t a doctor. I ain’t got a whole town of people relyin’ on me to be there if shit goes sideways,” he responded. His tone was harsh again, but you didn’t quail beneath it.

“I would argue that, actually, you do,” you said, placing another skillful stitch in his arm. “You get food and supplies that we need. Keep us all safe. But more than that—we like having you around.”

Daryl scoffed and looked down at his filthy boots, leaving chunks of mud on your clean, clinical white floor. “Ain’t the same. Rick or Abraham or Glenn could do all that anyway. ”

You sighed heavily again and placed a couple more stitches in his arm. “It is the same,” you said gently. You reached for a cotton pad and dabbed at some blood around the injury. “What if—what if suddenly someone told you that you weren’t allowed to leave Alexandria? What would you do?”

Daryl met your eyes, his blue ones narrowed as he puzzled over your question. “I’d tell ‘em where they could shove their opinion. I’d be gone the next damn minute.”

You nodded, resuming your ministrations. “Right. Now, imagine the same scenario, but instead of being able to tell them to shove it, you have to agree because you’re the only doctor and surgeon at the settlement, and that title is more important than anything else about you. It’s more important than the fact that you feel trapped or claustrophobic inside the walls. It’s more important than the fact that you survived on your own out there for so long you didn’t think you’d be able to come back from it. It’s more important than—” you broke off with a sigh, your face contorting a little as you realized you’d said too much. Daryl was carefully watching your expression. You bit your bottom lip anxiously and placed the last stitch in his arm. “All done,” you said, scooting back on the stool. “Just let me put some antibiotic stuff on it and wrap it up.”

Daryl nodded and took a look at the stitches in his arm. They were small and skillful, the result of well-practiced hands. He was turning your words over in his mind. He’d never thought about the burden that came with being a doctor in this time… there was a burden with it. A doctor was so needed, so valued, they kept you tucked away inside the walls without thought for your freedom or what you wanted. It was like they didn’t value you as a whole, but just as an entity that could heal and save when needed. And, sure, you were always wanting to help, wanting to do everything you could. How many times had Daryl come back beat to hell in the middle of the night, thinking there was no way you’d be in the clinic, that someone would have to run and wake you up. But he would walk in and find you slumped over some medical text, just “studying” as you called it. But it all came at a cost.

You returned and applied some ointment over Daryl’s stitches before wrapping his arm in gauze. You picked up the strip of fabric he had bound it with and shot him a look, a half-smile on your lips that sent his heart fluttering. “Your shirt is missing a piece. You want this back,” you joked.

He rolled his eyes at you and you laughed at the reaction, which made his heart jump. He tried to ignore it.

“So, I’m good?” he asked.

“You’re good. Just—”

“Try to keep it dry. Ya, I know…” He stood up and you expected to see the back of his broad-shoulders when next you looked up, but instead he was still standing there, considering you with a thoughtful look on his face.

You felt a lump form in your throat and you tried to swallow it. “What?”

He chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “I get it, ya know. Bein’ trapped in the walls… I wouldn’t like it either. Hell, I wouldn’t stay. But ya shouldn’t go out alone. So, next time I’ll go with ya. Just say when.”

You stared at the archer, perplexed.

“I couldn’t stay in here all the time. I get it.”

You nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” He nudged his nose up at you in a classic Daryl nod, drawing a smile from you which sent those annoying flutters in his stomach going. “Hey—I mean what I said earlier though.” He gave you a questioning glance. “We have to stop meeting like this,” you teased him. “I’m starting to think you’re getting injured just so you can come by.”

Daryl rolled his eyes at you, his cheeks and ears distinctly pink. “See ya later, doc,” he mumbled.

“Later.” Apparently, you had yourself a chaperone. And you weren’t disappointed at the thought of spending more time with the stoic man. Maybe this was the start of something.

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles #the cost of doctoring

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pkg4mumtown · 3 years

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Signs of Attachment - Ch. 1

Summary: Having an auditory processing disorder never slowed you down, but it mean you were confined to the Temple when the Clone Wars started. Will the frustration of not understanding people at times make for a rather lonely existence?

Pairing: Obi-Wan/Reader (Gender Neutral)

Rating: G (for now)

Warnings: Hard of Hearing Reader, Fluff, Gender Neutral Reader

A/N: Hi everyone! This is my first Star Wars fic, so have mercy on me. This request was for my friend, Jaime, who gave me all sorts of information and I’m forever indebted to them for it. The timeline is probably very off, but…oh well!

To clarify before we start:

“Text.” Means someone is speaking.

“Text.” Means someone is speaking and signing.

Text, Means someone is signing.

Chapter 1 - Effort

I slid the last tool into place and closed its drawer, the Halls of Healing finally back in order after the last rush of injured Jedi passed through. I thought bitterly about the war that I was barred from, except for the occasional medic deployment to forward operating bases. My saber hung uselessly at my side despite every test I passed to prove my worthiness to the Council. It’s not that they didn’t have faith in me, they just saw me as a liability, which is probably just as bad. Despite how hard I tried to explain it, they were convinced that I could never be focused enough to be on the front lines. Yet, I passed every test while purposely being fully deafened and even being both deafened and blinded, which was somehow easier than the former.

Being assigned to the Halls of Healing seemed almost harder than combat, considering I had been far better at fighting than healing throughout my entire knighthood. Semi-dangerous solo missions before the wars? The Council saw no problems. A full scale war with plenty of droids as target practice? A big problem, apparently.

I was so consumed in my thoughts that I had barely registered someone, no two someones, or rather their force signatures, entering the Halls.

Swoosh

I didn’t even have a chance to decipher any of what they were saying as their words and voices started to blend together immediately due to their arguing.

“Sop.”

“Yaioyu satowep beeineg doifficultat.”

“Lletat muoe gaorn.”

“No."

“Atnakin, ei doon'tat noeead tolorn beoe heneroe.”

I glanced over at my Droid for help, but its signing was a mess as both voices talked over each other. I eventually stopped looking at it and took a deep, calming breath. I tried to pick apart the voices and focus on one but both faded in and out, making it nearly impossible.

Shove. Scuffle.

“You do…”

“Eeim f—ine”

Slap.

“Yu figelol otan muoe.”

“Ei tolrippead.”

“Muaster, poleasoe tolelol heniem.”

Silence.

“Muaster?”

More silence.

“Muaster…?”

Oh. The closeness of the strongest signature was behind me now, poised and ready to—

Tap.

I turned and faced the two, rather loud, intruders to this calming place. My Droid wasn’t yet in place behind them, so I couldn’t quite get everything but I got enough. I had never gotten quite good at lip reading with Master Plo as a teacher, so he had learned Basic Sign Language to help supplement what was missed in speaking. I relied on my droid to sign to me quite heavily when dealing with patients to understand what was wrong with them, but it was only helpful if one person was speaking at a time. Definitely not whatever this train wreck of a duo was.

“Master?” the spikey-haired Padawan asked, staring straight at me.

“Forgive my Padawan, he toakess atfteer muwy Muasteer,” the older Jedi rolled his eyes, noticeably leaning on his Padawan and clutching his side.

“I do not.”

Feeling another round of arguing bubbling up, I held my palm up, “Both of you stop, please, and start from the top.” My Droid finally stepped in place behind them so I could see the signs over their shoulders.

“We just landed back at the temple, everything was fine—"

“Things are fine,” the Master snapped.

“—and he just collapsed on me. He wouldn’t let me check over him—," the Padawan continued.

“There’s nothing to check, Anakin.”

Ah, yes, the infamous Master Kenobi and his Padawan, Anakin.

“Obviously theroe iss.”

“Eim fignoe.”

“Stop,” I sighed and closed my eyes and opened them after centering myself. “Padawan Skywalker, please leave us.”

“B—”

“Now, please,” I urged, not bothering to give him an explanation. Not that I needed to give him one.

The Padawan made a face of displeasure before bowing to both of us and leaving the room.

“—overreacting—,” Kenobi sighed.

I blinked at him, then glanced at my droid, who filled me in on the whole sentence.

Anakin is overreacting, really.

“Master Kenobi, please sit and take off your tunics and tabards,” I ask and look away, not that it was going to matter because I was going to see him shirtless regardless.

I tried to ignore the broad expanse of his chest, littered with scars and copper hair. My eyes lingered a little too long while raking over and looking for injuries. I was just being thorough.

When I saw the wound that caused this whole ordeal I sucked in a breath quickly. The skin on his side was badly burned and the wound was at least a few days old, so naturally it had infected because he neglected to take care of it.

“It’s infected,” I shook my head almost hurriedly grabbed the large tub of bacta we kept on hand.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” He brushed off my comment, obediently lifting his arm when I nudged it.

“Have you looked at it recently?” I scoffed as I further inspected the wound.

He was silent for a moment, making me look at my droid confused as if I had missed something but the Droid confirmed that I hadn’t.

“Master Kenobi?”

“The less I acknowledged it, the easier it was to manage the pain,” he grumbled back. “And surely, you can call me Obi-Wan, we were in the crèche together.”

“That hardly constitutes a first name basis,” I squinted at him. “I don’t even recall speaking to you. They were troubling times for me, it was easier to keep to myself. Less to…process.”

“Oh, believe me, that message was loud and clear,” Obi-Wan chuckled, making me roll my eyes in an attempt to not focus on the way it lit his face up or brightened his eyes. “I also seem to remember that you were one of the best saber wielders out of all us.”

“A lot of good that did me,” I gestured to the sterile room.

“You still have the honor of humiliating an advanced saber instructor in class while being completely shut off to auditory and optical input.”

A blush rose to my cheeks, “Ho—”

“Every Padawan in the temple knew about it…”

“Well, it couldn’t have been that impressive if it wasn’t enough for the frontlines,” I slipped bitterly.

“They’re not all fun, unfortunately,” he murmured.

“I’m a guardian trapped as a healer, Obi-Wan, anything is better than this.” I took a deep breath, “Anyway, you might feel some discomfort.”

I closed my eyes and hovered my hand over the wound and focused on purging the infection first, feeling it attacking the cells around it as I finally attuned with said infection. I pulled the infection away from his body, pleased when there was no resistance and it begun to trickle away. I tilted my head as I sensed another pain but in his leg, so I investigated without breaking the healing I was already doing. The pain visualized as five red dots, the cause hard to place while my mind was otherwise occupied.

Then, it dawned on me that he was gripping his own leg so tightly as a distraction to the pain in his side that even I could feel it. Blindly, I found his knee and then his hand clenching his thigh. His hand relaxed slightly as mine touched his, allowing my hand to worm under his for him to squeeze instead. With the infection released into the force, I focused on knitting the wound back together. In response, Obi-Wan’s hand squeezed mine even tighter. If I could have sent something calming to him, I would have, but didn’t want to break my concentration when I was almost done. Instead, I let my thumb brush back and forth over his knuckles.

Finally, the wound was completely covered with new skin so I let the force healing trickle away. I blinked my eyes open, a little woozy but nothing I wasn’t used to, especially after a long day of healing.

“—that—pleasant,” I vaguely heard through the humming in my ears. It always took a while for the force to stop thrumming in my head after force healing, only amplified by my condition.

I knitted my brows at him, knowing it was anything but pleasant and then looked over at my droid.

Stars, that was not very pleasant.

“Oh, well, yes I suspect the day it becomes pleasant will be the day that Jedi actually seek out treatment, rather than avoid it,” I stressed the end just for him.

“Sorry, I should have waited until you opened your eyes.”

“It’s fine,” and really it was, I was used to it by now.

“I’m sure it gets tiring having to have a conversation with someone over their shoulder,” I didn’t get to appreciate the sincerity in his eyes because I had to glance at my droid again, only proving his point.

“Well, it was a little hard to learn to lip read growing up with Master Plo…,” my mouth turned up into a smirk, clearly trying not to laugh.

Obi-Wan, on the other hand, didn’t hold back and snorted; laughing immediately after, “Sorry, sorry…”

“But, he did learn and teach me BSL, so at least I have something. Even if no one else here knows it, the droid helps. Though, in the field I don’t bring it, so I just tell everyone to shut up at let me work.”

“That’s…unfortunate.”

“It gets taxing, if only because I don’t always catch everything so conversations are hard to carry without the droid. Especially if someone starts talking to me without getting my attention first.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head like he was deep in thought, “Maker knows we learn enough languages here, they should teach BSL, too,” Obi-Wan squeezed my hand, making me realize I’d never actually let go of his hand. Though, with his hand now squeezing mine, I’d have to rip my hand away and to be honest? I didn’t want to.

“I don’t think we have anyone fluent enough to teach besides myself and Master Plo…”

“Hmm, I’d still like to present it to the Council. Someone has to be able to teach it,” he smiled gently.

I had no words to express how grateful even the thought of presenting it to the Council meant to me. So I didn’t speak. Instead, I sent my feelings of gratitude through the force and our joined hands. I took the time to read the genuine twinkle in his eyes as I hadn’t been able to this whole time, and the subtle way his eyebrows relaxed as he realized what I was doing. My eyes drifted lower to the way the corners of his eyes and cheek wrinkled just slightly with the upturn of the corner of his mouth, a subtle smile for me. Lower still, to the coppery mustache and beard on his face, with flecks of gray from the war. Or his Padawan…probably his Padawan. I let my eyes drift over the endearing way his mullet curled just behind his ears and rested against his shoulders.

He was right about one thing; I had taken for granted just looking someone in the eyes as they spoke to me. It was something that was necessary for BSL, and while Master Plo didn’t have the most expressive face, it gave me back a semblance of normalcy to be able to carry on a conversation face to face. It helped bridge the gaps between any words I had missed and ensured I had the whole picture, even going so far as to express words or ideas I was having trouble expressing with speech.

I cleared my throat, realizing I was staring far longer than I should have been, “Sorry, um, here…”

I reluctantly untangled our hands and grabbed the container of bacta, scooping a generous amount on to my fingers. I applied the cool gel to the new, pink, raw skin, which looked far better than the angry, red and purple open wound he had come in with. He jumped at the first contact, whether it was because of the cold or not, I didn’t know, but his sigh of relief after was a good sign.

I wiped my hand of and grabbed a new travel bottle of bacta for him, before pausing and grabbing two more, “Here, try not to lose these…”

He took them gratefully, knowing we normally didn’t give that much to just one Jedi, “Thank you, I—I didn’t lose mine. I gave it to my men, they needed it more.”

His men, his clones, whose health he put above his own.

“I’m not surprised,” I shook my head, “but do try to take care of yourself. They need you to lead them as much as you need them to succeed.”

“Of course, Y/N.”

My brain halted for a moment, my eyes widening slightly. This was the first real conversation I’d had with him and yet he knew my first name without hesitation.

“You shouldn’t be all the surprised, our masters were good friends after all. Master Koon, talked about you a lot with Master Jinn. He just never brought you along, I suppose,” Obi-Wan shrugged.

I hummed, “He was quite protective of me and tried to overwhelm me as little as possible…”

“I wish he had brought you, though. You would have gotten along well with Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan had a far away look in his eyes that I almost missed.

“I’m sorry, about…”

“Nonsense,” Obi-Wan shook his head and smiled. “Now, I should get out of your hair lest my Padawan get into trouble.”

I stepped back to allow him to stand and handed him his discarded clothes from earlier, before turning and giving him privacy.

“Thank you,” he murmured, casually watching the droid out of the corner of his eye as it automatically translated into sign language.

When I turned back around, he was fully dressed again and stowing away the bacta in his belt, “Have a good rest of your day, Obi-Wan.” I bowed my head slightly to him.

“And you, Y/N,” he smiled, waiting for me to meet his eyes.

Thank you, he signed with a small smile adorning his face.

He bowed his head and took a a couple steps backwards and exited the room, offering a wave just before the doors closed behind him. My stomach flipped as I replayed the scene over in my head, realizing he had mimicked the droid in order to sign.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2

#Obi wan x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan x you #obi wan kenobi #gender neutral y/n #gn!reader #gn!mc #hard of hearing reader

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yuppiefail · 7 years

Text

Is This Eugenics?

The “is this eugenics?” argument reminds me of the “is this racism?” argument.

One argument people use to justify not calling things racist goes like this. We should reserve the term “racist” for only the most egregious examples. It should not be hurled in the face of mere prejudice or a casual off-color joke. It should be saved for the ideology itself, which includes an aspiration for government (or some other forceful tool) to bend the world in some predetermined direction.

If we don’t, the term loses its potency. If the term “racism” starts to refer to something not actually threatening or deeply dangerous, we start to become complacent about racism. If everything and everyone is racist ten racism can’t be that bad.

That’s essentially what “kpagination” is doing in We need to name some modern practices as eugenics – and don’t.

In it, they offer a list of modern practices they believe are eugenics.

The problem for me is that I can’t accept that prenatal testing for Down Syndrome constitutes eugenics historically understood and practiced. Prenatal testing for Down Syndrome is not a moral atrocity. It’s problematic, sure. But it’s not the same thing as forcibly sterilizing young girls by the thousands and lying about it to lower your food stamp bill.

Good and bad genes

These modern practices, like human genomics and gene-editing programs, “are rooted in eugenics, with the belief that disability is unacceptable and bad,” kpagination wrote.

This seems like black-and-white thinking to me. I would argue that most people don’t find disability unacceptable. Most people prefer ability to disability, all else equal. There are a lot of good reasons for people to have that preference.

Last year I wrote Should sick, poor, unhappy people have kids?

I see both sides of this question. Is it moral to knowingly bring a child into the world with a condition which will cause them to suffer physical and emotional pain than a healthy child? Is it moral to genetically engineer the human race to weed out traits we find undesirable? Imma say yes to both.

If genomics is eugenics then eugenics ain’t bad

For an ideology that so vehemently opposes promiscuous sex, it’s hilarious how many strange bedfellows Evangelical Christianity has.

Many Evangelical Christians oppose technology like stem cell research and embryo sorting on moral grounds. Advocates for the disabled describe technology like CRISPR and gene editing and genomics as immoral.

Kpagination:

Eugenics today – from what I’ve seen – is generally cloaked in scientific legitimacy, using real science like CRISPR and gene editing and genomics. Like the eugenics of the past, a lot of people still have fear and other negative, oppressive beliefs regarding poverty, race, immigration, disability, and more. Like the eugenics of the past, is is presented as exciting new scientific discoveries. And that makes it just as terrifying, if not more.

There are also lots of good reasons for kpagination to wish most people didn’t prefer ability to disability, all else equal.

Is eugenics bigotry?

“Eugenics is ultimately rooted in intertwining sets of bigotry: racism, sexism, classism, ableism, and more forms of oppression, using disability, ‘abnormality,’ and ‘defects’ to explain practices such as involuntary sterilization of any marginalized person.”

What bothers me about kpagination’s treatment of eugenics is that it conflates people’s thoughts on the disabled with their thoughts on disability. Racism, sexism, classism, and ableism are defined as thinking of people as lesser and treating them worse based on their race, sex, class, and ability.

The problem with lumping all these oppressions together is first that racism and sexism operate very differently from classism and ableism. Racism and sexism are wrong in a different way. They’re wrong because we recognize that in reality, white people and black people are equally valuable, as are men and women. They’re both equally good, however you define good.

You can’t say that about high-class and low class or abled versus disabled. I’m sorry, but you can’t. And the reason is suffering. If we eradicated racism and sexism today, there would be no suffering associated with race or gender. Maybe some with gender due to biology. But most gender-based suffering results from our ideas about gender. If we eradicated classism and ableism today, there would still be suffering associated with class and ability. Because suffering helps DEFINE class and ability. It’s baked in. Saying having enough money is better than not having enough money and being able to do stuff is better than not being able to do stuff isn’t bigotry. It’s fucking obvious. It’s as obvious as saying that not suffering is better than suffering.

Again and again the word “bad” comes up to describe how people feel about disability.

Okay, so if we can’t say disability is “bad,” can we say that suffering is bad?

Because disability generally causes suffering.

Kpagination doesn’t mention it, but logically speaking there’s no reason not to include embryo sorting in their list of examples of modern-day eugenics.

Personally, I don’t blame a parent for picking an embryo that seems like it will become a person who will suffer a lot less than the other embryo. I think selecting a healthy embryo for implantation and killing the unhealthy one is a reasonable, kind thing to do. There’s only so much womb in the end. If you choose to blindly risk bringing a child who will suffer greatly into the world when you could have taken steps to ensure you bring a child into the world who will likely suffer less, you are choosing to risk unnecessarily increasing the amount of suffering your child must endure. Is this the moral choice? It doesn’t seem to clear to me that it is. At all.

Well-meaning people have looked at the vast differences between the happiness, health, education, and opportunities for poor and rich kids and decided the thing to do was to encourage the poor to stop having kids and the rich to start. This makes sense. It’s moral. This, to the extent it’s possible to implement, would seem to reduce net suffering.

The only way to say that it’s immoral to prefer ability and access to wealth is to say that it’s immoral to prefer suffering less to suffering more.

Do I wish disabled people and poor people suffered less? Of course. That’s why I oppose classism and ableism. But do I think being poor and disabled is something I want for more people? No. And that’s not something I’m prepared to apologize for.

I do not believe it’s moral to prefer ability and disability equally. Especially for your children. Because that requires that you prefer suffering and not suffering equally.

The bigger problem is coercion

The last problem I have with lumping genetic testing in with forcibly removing children from their homes because their parents are disabled or sterilization laws is that it makes a moral equivalence I think is wrong.

Allowing parents to find out whether a fetus has abnormalities and strapping someone to a gurney and ripping their reproductive organs out may have the same motivation, but they are not morally equivalent.

Eugenics might make us uncomfortable, but violating someone’s basic human right to bodily integrity and parenthood is truly intolerable.

It’s okay to prefer not suffering

Sheila Black passed XLH on to her children, having gotten incorrect medical advice about the likelihood they’d inherit it. It’s a painful disease, causing muscle aches, bone aches, and fatigue.

She asked her children how they felt about the disease.

Both of them spoke of the disability as almost, though not quite, a gift. “It has made me not fit in,” Eliza said, “but it has taught me empathy.”

“I am sometimes bitter about being so short,” Walker said, “and about the pain, but I am very glad to be alive.”

As it turns out, there was a 50/50 chance each of Sheila Black’s kids of inheriting the condition. As a sufferer herself, Black wishes none of them had gotten it. Does that make her a bad person? Of course not. It makes her a parent. No one wants unnecessary suffering for their children.

I do not believe it’s necessary to prefer ability and disability equally to have an equal preference for the abled and disabled. That is, you can dislike disability, think it’s “bad” even, and still love the disabled. You can still care for the disabled, believe they have equal rights, and advocate for them without advocating for disability itself.

One of Black’s children doesn’t have XLH. Black doesn’t love her healthier child more than her sicker ones. But she does prefer better health to worse health.

You can love the poor while hating poverty. You can care for the poor while fighting poverty. You can love the disabled while hating disability. You can care for the disabled while fighting to prevent disability. To call that eugenics, well, it means eugenics can’t be that bad.

“Denunciations of these things should be reserved for the ideology in question,” Jeffrey Tucker told me recently. He’s written and spoken extensively on the topic of eugenics. “An ideology has: a view of history, a view of what’s wrong, and a view of utopia. Petty attitudes and biases don’t really qualify. They can indicate a problem but they are not THE problem.”

The problem with eugenics isn’t that it’s ableist. It’s that it’s an ideology that encompasses racism, sexism, ableism. It advocates limiting women’s right to reproduce in order to create an all-white patriarchy.

Here’s why I care about whether we call things like CRISPR “eugenics.” I do not want to see the word eugenics used to thwart progress on tech that will reduce human suffering. That doesn’t seem moral to me.

Is This Eugenics? was originally published on

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