This is a recording of Appalachian historian Barbara Ellen Smith’s 1981 article, “Black Lung: The Social Production of Disease.” It describes the history of black lung as a medical diagnosis and an occupational disease, and places decades of medical denial and dismissal of black lung in the context of the labor and class relations of twentieth-century West Virginian coal camps. Smith’s account ends with the successful worker-led effort to create a federal black lung benefits program, and contends that these efforts hinged in part on a radical redefinition of the disease itself. Read the full article online (jstor; drive).
Although it seems difficult to imagine now, for decades, coal miners who complained of respiratory problems after years of unsafe exposure to coal and rock dust were diagnosed with ‘fear of the mines’ or accused of malingering. Black lung was comparatively difficult to diagnose from an X-ray, and nearly all medical care available in the coalfields was provided by company doctors, who were incentivized to ignore or downplay the clear hazards of the mines. Only aggressive labor action, including a period of repeated UMW strikes during World War II, ended this approach to coal-related dust disease. The black lung movement offers valuable insight into how workers have responded to insidious workplace safety issues, a topic with obvious present force.
Jagannath Panda (Indian, 1970), Dancers of the Celestial Realms, 2024-25. Acrylic, fabric, pigment, glue on canvas, 78 × 108 in.
Antique Armenian rug from Artsakh region.
Victor Delhez (Belgian-Argentine, 1902-1985, b. Antwerp, Belgium, d. Mendoza, Argentina) - Untitled, Woodblock Print: Ink on Paper
personally i think it is great that insurance can just quintuple the cost of my hrt with no notice. i love it. yay! how efficient!
the united states is funding a $1.6 million study on vaccine side effects in guinea-bissau that studies a vaccine not available in the american market by withholding hepatitis b vaccine (recommended for all newborns by WHO since 2009, demonstrated to be safe & effective at preventing hep b infection & subsequent chronic liver disease) without first testing all participating mothers for hep b infection, functionally ensuring that hundreds of children will be needlessly infected. the study seeks to assess nonspecific vaccine side effects and was awarded to an irregular single-source funding bid. GAVI, a global organization that supports vaccine access, has already committed to funding natal hep b vaccinations in guinea-bissau beginning in 2027; the us loudly & proudly withdrew support from GAVI last year. $1.6 million would fund hepatitis b vaccines for all guinean infants for a decade.
it’s a mirror, holy terror / taking focus off the horizon
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. Maybe many of us won’t be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.”
Arundhati Roy
Allegra Toran - Remnant, 2024 - Acrylic and gouache on raw canvas
literally what the fuck do you mean its still january. how is that remotely possible. its been six months minimum
The author is Kaveh Akbar, and this poem, “Wild Pear Tree,” is from his 2017 book, Calling a Wolf a Wolf. Here is a 2018 interview with him, “A Conversation With Kaveh Akbar.”
Full poem taken from this PDF at BOYDEN LIBRARY POETRY MADNESS 2022:
Image transcription below:
WILD PEAR TREE
it’s been January for months in both directions frost
over grass like pale fungus like
mothdust the branches of the pear tree are pickling
in ice white as the long white line running from me
to the smooth whales frozen in chunks of ocean
from their vast bobbing to the blackwhite
stars flowering into heaven the hungry cat gnaws
on a sliver of mirror and I have been chewing
out my stitches wondering which
warm names we should try singing
wild thyme cowslip blacksnake all the days
in a year line up at the door and I deflect each saying no
you will not be needed one by one they skulk off
into the cold the cat hates this place more than he loves
me he cannot remember the spring when I fed him
warm duck fat daily nor the kitchen vase filled with musky blue
roses nor the pear tree which was so eager to toss its fruit so sweet
it made us sleepy I stacked the pears on the mantle
until I ran out of the room and began filling them into
the bathtub one evening I slid in as if into a mound
of jewels now ghost finches leave footprints
on our snowy windowsills the cat paces
through the night listening for their chirps our memories
have frosted over ages ago we guzzled
all the rosewater in the vase still we check for it
nightly I have forgotten even
the easy prayer I was supposed to use
in emergencies something something I was not
born here I was not born here I was not
Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text, trans. Richard Miller