Benjamin Samuel Young

The first and last scenes of the epic drama “Once Upon a Time in America” take place in a seedy Manhattan opium den, bookending four hours of Proustian meandering through the decades of gangster “Noodles” Aronson. The tortured protagonist (Robert de Niro) furiously puffs away at a long pipe as the attendant provides a choppy massage. The credits roll after a close-up of a doped-up de Niro, blank expression lifting into a devilish grin of euphoria. It’s a transcendent film, enhanced by its wistful score. But wait a second. Did the film reliably depict his childhood? Did the old-age scenes ever even happen? Was it all just a dream? The only aspect of the story whose veracity cannot be questioned is the Chinese opium den.

We need to sail across oceans to appreciate the history of opium. Extracted from the poppy plant, the preparation has ancient roots. According to the entertaining documentary “Hooked: Illegal Drugs and How They Got That Way,” Alexander the Great utilized opium’s double edge to boost the morale of his troops and to subjugate the conquered. Thus, a potent analgesic and recreational drug was born. For thousands of years, opium has been incorporated into the cultures of the Old World, from the Mediterranean to Arabia to the Indian subcontinent. Without it, art and literature would have suffered more than a billion withdrawing junkies. The societal side effects of opium addiction are constant, but the case of China is especially notable for a number of reasons. It occurred on such a massive scale, resulted in two wars, and indirectly led to opium’s widespread introduction to the United States.

Julia Lovell’s “The Opium War” presents the narrative of how British imperialism pushed the drug into the ports of Chinese empire in the mid-19th century. This is a fascinating topic that many have heard of, but it has largely faded from the Western memory, and there are curiously few English-language histories available. In short, the Qing dynasty had an isolationist stance, but this was undermined by the British East India Company, who harvested the poppy plant in colonial India and smuggled it into China in exchange for silver. The transpiration of these events devastated the Chinese economy and created tons of addicts across all echelons of society, from the peasantry to the royal bureaucracy. In the film “The Opium War,” this conflict is acted out on the big screen. Interestingly, the film was released the same year the UK ceded Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China. Good thing for subtitles, but it would have been welcome if they had included translations of the text. I sent a couple screen shots to my friend in Guangzhou, and she kindly translated for me. There are some amusing naval scenes with grand clipper ships and officers in full Queen’s regalia. We meet some of the major players, like the Emperor who launched arguably the first war on drugs, and his idealistic right-hand man Lin Zexu who tried and failed to enforce it. 

Subsequent political and economic destabilization in China led to the first wave of immigration to San Francisco. After arduous days of building railroads and gold-rushing, lonely Chinese men congregated in upstart opium dens. Typical American xenophobia resulted in condemnation of these places of ill-repute. But once opium establishes a foothold, the damage is done. It spread coast-to-coast. The American Civil War saw the widespread use of morphine for battlefield surgeries. Around this time, countless “cure-all” patent-medicines sprang up. These opium and morphine tinctures were not regulated. Women, for whom drinking was frowned upon, took up this new pastime with fervor. Laudanum was in every medicine cabinet and spooned down freely. Over-the-counter heroin followed. Surely Americans were feeling rather mellow around the turn of the 20th century.  

I once read that no one sensation is truly unbearable. When you feel pain, concentrate on the feeling, and try to think of it as neither good nor bad. Let ten seconds pass, and repeat. Easy, right? But pain, in all of its psychosomatic glory, has never been so easy to eliminate, and humans are lousy at envisioning their own future. The slumber party is finally over. We are all living in the everlasting comedown of an opium fever dream. Fearful and sweaty, our collective memory is a fog. If only we could reach for a consumer-friendly laboratory concoction. Maybe a pill, or a patch, or even a fentanyl lollipop. That’ll help us numb the truth: civilization has come a long way. Karl Marx called religion “the opium of the people.” Spectator sports are referred to similarly. Wherever human pain and suffering exist, pain-killers – distractions – do too. It should be no surprise that the modern opium of the masses is opium.

The contemporary opioid crisis is distinctly American. Worldwide, about 80% of all pharmaceutical-grade derivatives hit the US market. The highly-touted release of OxyContin in the 90s kept the cycle of addiction spinning. Trump declared the situation a “national emergency” last year (though he fell short of allocating sufficient resources to it). His terminology is misguided. Emergencies are ephemeral. In the case of a terrorist attack or Category 5 hurricane, a concerted effort is made to save people from further harm. The threat is self-limiting, and after its elimination, the dust settles, and equilibrium returns. The opioid epidemic is not an emergency. It’s a tragic side effect of our culture and must be understood in context. Solutions will come about slowly. Very slowly.  “Law-and-order” politicians are too dense to understand this. All this blabbering about executing drug-dealers is a silly distraction ploy. Chop off an arm of a starfish and it will regrow. 

The demonization of opioids is a deep and frustrating problem. Powerful pain drugs were supposed to be a solution: for cancer patients with breakthrough pain, for the traumatically injured, for the chronically uncomfortable. From the terminally ill to the young delinquent raiding his grandmother’s medicine cabinet, these medications make people feel good. If you can distribute a product that makes people feel good, that makes life just a little less bleak, however transiently, you have a multi-billion dollar business model. Look at Starbucks. There will be a demand. People will line up. When the free market becomes a regulated one, a black market fills the void. No one group is to blame in this chicken-or-egg scenario. There is a crass analogy to be made. In the past, some physicians and Big Pharma have acted like dealers and the cartels. To an addict, it makes little difference. The former may permit a first taste, the latter perpetuates it. As long as this dichotomous dichotomy operates, the down-and-out will find a way to occupy their time – and their Mu receptors. Talking heads love to forget how the whole “epidemic” extends beyond the scope of distribution semantics. Addiction is a social problem. This is about poverty and lack of education and disillusionment. This is about pain. I am optimistic that doctors will become more responsible with their prescriptions. Drug companies will launch safer alternatives. But on the whole, who can honestly say the situation will improve? Four things are certain in America: death, taxes, guns, and drugs.

Honorable Mentions: 

All this thought about needles and the ever-so relevant British East India Company reminded me just how much I hate mosquitos. These “little flies” are more than a mere nuisance. They are also the deadliest creatures in the world, perpetrators of malaria, West Nile, Zika, and many others. In “Malaria: No Ordinary Mosquito Bite,” we visualize the horror of the malaria parasite replication until lysis. “The horror, the horror,” as Kurtz once exclaimed. The English did their best to combat tropical disease during the Scramble for Africa; they added quinine, an anti-malarial, to their gin and tonics. Not only did this concoction combat the deadly parasite plasmodium falciparum, but it certainly eased the scorching monotony of duty. 

Two world wars and a series anti-imperial revolutions could not keep the Brits away. In “Medicine Men Go Wild,” two brothers take us on a journey with a jungle tribe in the Congo. It was interesting to see the juxtaposition of their cultures. The Bayaka are prone to various zoonotic illnesses – not surprising when your day consists of walking through swamps, swatting down bee nests, and eating various reptiles and monkeys. When illness strikes, fear not, for the tribe’s witch doctor has an arsenal of bark and leaves for you. The physicians showed undue deference to the African medicine man. It was sad to see the abuse of that little baby suffering from malaria. He could have received proper Western medicine on the spot, but instead endured a series of sadistic voodoo treatments, all in the name of making a documentary. Did the brothers behavior violate the Hippocratic oath? It’s debatable, as his condition eventually improved, but their lack the charisma is not. This documentary needs Bear Grylls, not Chris and Xand.

I was glad to watch the well-produced PBS documentary “Spillover: Zika, Ebola & Beyond.” It helped put the Ebola fiasco in the perspective of current events, and featured interviews from scientists we’ve heard from throughout the course, like Anthony Fauci and Peter Piyot. It was devastating to see those infants born with microcephaly and the doctors telling uninformed mothers that the babies will never be normal. Luckily, Zika is rare and usually non-fatal. The researchers make it clear that it’s only a matter of time before the next nightmare epidemic. I haven’t seen a mosquito in months, but when I do get cornered again, there will be no mercy.

“For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.” We’ve heard that one a million times. If a butterfly flaps its wings, it displaces a small volume of air. Sure, this Newtonian law holds true for classical physics. But does it extend to virology? If the activation of a single G-protein can amplify downstream second messengers by the thousand-fold, our understanding of microbiology indicates that the answer is no. Sci-fi novels and films also tell us otherwise, as does the potential for mass biological warfare. It takes just one isolated act to make the dominoes fall. But human beings only begrudgingly form single-file lines. Unpredictability makes the acquisition of an infectious disease a horrifying prospect, a psychological horror-thriller that plays out in real-time. 

The West was never supposed to host the likes of Ebola or AIDS. These exotic invaders are so unlike cancer cells, disgruntled sailors aboard our own ship who have decided to mutiny. Rather, they are like ruthless pirates from a mythological land. Only the unthinkable entropy of the modern world could bring us together. Let’s examine the natural reservoir of these viruses. Researchers suspect that Ebola festers among fruit bats near the eponymous river. For them, it carries no ill effects. And before HIV, chimpanzees and other monkeys have long carried its cognate, the simian immunodeficiency virus (SIV). These are diseases that should have remained endemic to non-human African mammals. How did they become insidious global juggernauts? Someone is to blame, and it’s not necessarily needle-sharers or ultra-promiscuous gay men. They’re just the second messengers, and the bullets they’ve taken, as it were, remind us that no matter how long ago our phylogenies diverged or how unintelligible our respective languages are, we share a common genetic code. 

There are two culprits here, and one of them is intangible. That would be the cavalry – globalization and modern transportation. You can travel from Liberia to the Statue of Liberty in 24 hours, well before you become queasy from that roast chimp buffet. Industrialization ensured that when the 2011 Fukushima disaster hit, the literal ripple effect carried nuclear waste all the way into San Francisco Bay. Those types of events will continue to happen every once in a while, and we accept that. On the other hand, we have the foot soldiers. These are the bushmeat poachers and peddlers in sub-Saharan Africa. Do they sell out of malice or ignorance? Sustenance or greed? The motivations of human beings are complicated, and that answer probably depends on who you ask and their propensity for sweeping generalizations. We do know that civilization was founded on agriculture and the domestication of livestock. There is a reason why we don’t eat wild animals. We raise cattle and chickens and pigs in controlled environments. From conception to slaughter, we make sure they are properly fed, and most importantly, are not carrying disease. Fortunately, the developed world has become so specialized that most of us never have to think about this. We entrust that thankless job to others. It’s easy to go to the supermarket and take it all for granted, but if you think about the rarity of foodborne illnesses in daily life here, or massive recalls on items when there’s a breakout, you appreciate all the work that goes on behind the scenes. But in Africa, domesticated livestock is a luxury. Isolated villages need to get their protein intake from somewhere. This factor, combined with longstanding cultural mores, makes bushmeat a legitimate option. Bushmeat markets are ubiquitous across Africa and Asia. An observer in the Congo will find that smoked monkeys, bats, and snakes are more readily available than a nice cut of steroid-free chicken breast or beef. Each species of wild animal may have a prototypical parasite. For example, the African rock python, one of the largest snakes in the world, almost universally harbors a type of worm called Armillifer armillatus. Still, a street vendor will gladly sell you one. From what I’ve gathered, the most recent Ebola epidemic has served to educate village communities on the dangers of bushmeat, but consumption isn’t ever going to approach zero, especially in the face of commercial depletion of safer foods, such as excess fishing off the Gold Coast. 

I watched several documentaries on infectious diseases. These included three antiquated NOVA specials: “Typhoid Mary: The Most Dangerous Woman in America,” “Ebola: The Plague Fighters,” and “Surviving AIDS.” I watched the Brad Pitt-narrated “Bird Flu: How Safe Are We?” And finally, I watched watched “The Age of AIDS.” I thought this documentary was well-done and much more relevant than the aforementioned, offering more lucid insight into the cultural context than NOVA managed to do. Of course, it may be unfair to compare the two documentaries. “Surviving AIDS” is more of a case study, but it still felt like an unfinished product to me. These types of science ed. videos have gotten much better over the years, a result of better technology/graphic design, more polished production, and outsourcing to the Web. I actually wondered if NOVA managed to survive the VHS era, and a quick look confirmed that they are still around. However, I got the impression that the company is not cited as much as its rivals. According to one librarian, NOVA is a “bottom-tier” science publisher.

Poor Typhoid Mary. What an unfortunate epithet. Perhaps the worst of all time. Vlad the Impaler? Ivan the Terrible? Nope, she touched the cake, so she’s taking it. I initially felt bad for her. Her story is almost Kafkaesque in its paranoid absurdity. She was just a simple cook trying to survive in a foreign country. Yes, her employers are dropping dead, but she wasn’t too concerned. That happened to everyone back then. Typhoid and other tenement diseases were thought to be the part and parcel of the miasma and crowded squalor of urban life. One day she suddenly finds herself shadowed by mysterious bureaucrats who want to punish her. They never go away. For the rest of her life, she’s spied on, hunted for, and imprisoned. Was Mary dumb or desperate? Probably both, with a dash of personality disorder. She had some nerve resuming the role of cook at a hospital after years on the lam. Like an unremorseful serial killer, she posed a huge danger to society and deserved to be quarantined. I’m used to seeing Anthony Bourdain with gray hair, but I still enjoyed his commentary. That was an unexpected surprise. As for the documentary itself, I don’t quite get it. Were they trying to turn this sad story into a comedy? The re-enactments, which included “Mary Mallon” and “George Soper” testimonials directly to the camera, were certainly laughable. I felt like I was watching “The Office.” This film defies categorization. Was it a documentary or a mockumentary? I’ll be pondering that question for a long time. The legacy of Mary Mallon lives on. Just look at the signs in restaurant bathrooms demanding all employees wash their hands. In New York City, all eateries must prominently display a letter grade based on their level of cleanliness. For all her faults, we must spare some sympathy for Mary. She would not be as misunderstood today; in 2013 Stanford scientists finally uncovered the genetic blueprint for asymptomatic Typhoid carriers.

The next stop is the village of Kikwit in Zaire. There is no running water, no electricity, and minimal literacy. It is not an ideal locale if you’re looking for a medical miracle. We see some incredible footage, from the devastating onslaught of the virus on the human body to the extreme safety precautions taken by handlers of the deceased. I marveled at the bravery displayed by hospital personnel and undertakers, where the smallest slip-up could lead to the exchange of deadly bodily fluids. Their rubber gloves and sandals are a far cry away from the current hazmat suit protocol. We learn about the first outbreak of Ebola in 1976 and how in 1989 the virus infected a bunch of monkeys in the United States. I enjoyed the snippets of conversation from Dr. William Close, the preeminent Ebola expert with the voice of a Shakespearean actor. Who knew that Glenn Close’s father was a famous tropical surgeon? I was in Amsterdam a few years ago and stumbled upon the renowned Tropenmuseum, which is loaded with exhibits and life-sized dioramas from the colonial foray into Africa. The museum was particularly memorable because it had not been updated for the digital age. I hope it remains tech-free and slightly dusty. The Ebola documentary was interesting, but it left me wanting more. I would welcome a Part II, especially when you consider the most recent outbreak, which was headline news throughout the first half of this decade. There is now a vaccine for Ebola, rVSV-ZEBOV.

The final NOVA documentary highlighted the story of Bob Massie, a “long-term non-progressor” and a potential Rosetta Stone for AIDS researchers. Although he has been HIV positive for years, his unique immune system enables an asymptomatic existence. In this regard, he has something of a parallel in Mary Mallon. Massie lives a relatively normal life. He has a wife and two kids. He even plays “Ode to Joy” on the banjo. Incredibly, when they assayed his viral load, his wells were empty compared to the indicative yellow coloring of his compatriots. “Surviving AIDS” is rather limited in scope and struggles in the exposition of its own subjects. Bob Massie is presented as just some ordinary guy, with little mention of his personal history. Did they mention that he was born with hemophilia? I looked him up afterward. He holds degrees from Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. He’s running for governor of Massachusetts this year. We are also introduced to Steve Chrone, who avoided catching the virus from his infected partner. Besides that, almost nothing is mentioned regarding the role of gay men in spreading HIV, in contrast to the documentary we watched in class that discussed how it was originally termed Gay-Related Immune Deficiency (GRID). Crone lacked the CCR5 receptor, the gullible gatekeeper normally fooled by HIV’s Trojan horse. Dr. David Ho, the famed HIV/AIDS researcher and TIME Magazine’s 1996 Person of the Year, cameos a couple scenes, but the filmmakers delivered him little justice.

In the last documentary, we learn about the situation in Botswana. This nation has the highest population of cheetahs in the world, but on the downside, it has been plagued by AIDS. The story of Mma, her abandonment by her husband, and her two HIV-positive daughters was moving. As the story progressed, I felt more hopeful for her and her countrymen. The implementation of mandatory HIV testing epitomizes successful public policy. I watched an interview with a doctor who went to the U.S. for medical school and then came back to practice in Botswana. It is important for American medical schools to train people from around the globe, who can then bring their knowledge back home. The documentary was funded by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. They have achieved so much through their philanthropy, saving millions of lives through the distribution of mosquito netting, grant funding, clean water initiatives, and the like. I have great admiration for what Bill Gates has done with his fortune. What’s next? How do we elevate billions of people to a quality of life that extends beyond mere survival?

It is hard to know where to begin when discussing cancer. Polio stole the midcentury limelight, AIDS in the 80s and 90s, but today, cancer is by far the disease most firmly entrenched at the forefront of public consciousness. Presidents have declared war upon cancer — a telltale sign of desperation in the face of an amorphous entity that cannot simply be defeated. The truth lies in a black reality from which living organisms cannot escape. It will touch you in some way, no matter who you are. It’s part of life, a side effect of biological evolution that introduces itself to 1.7 million Americans annually. Few words trigger such a high-voltage activation of the neural semantic network. Cancer. Types of cancer. Famous people who have succumbed to that type of cancer. Family and friends, too. The causes of cancer, its subcellular interworkings and progression. The history of its treatment and the tenuous hopes for its complete eradication in the future. Our assignment included reading Mukherjee’s “The Emperor of All Maladies,” and watching its PBS documentary (produced by Ken Burns). We also saw “Cancer: The Forbidden Cure,” and “Exploring Biodiversity: The Search for New Medicines.” The book is phenomenal and obviously deserving of its Pulitzer.

Fans of biographies and obituaries know that the recounting of a life places peculiar emphasis on the end of it. Many deaths feature cancer as a central player. For the more treatable iterations, there are success stories, of course. Like Lance Armstrong overcoming testicular cancer to win the Tour de France seven times (only to have his titles and his dignity revoked after the doping scandal). But he’s still alive. Sidney Farber himself had a colostomy. As did my grandfather (he’s 95). Angelina Jolie, one of Hollywood’s most iconic actresses, recently underwent a precautionary radical mastectomy. Her case highlights just how far we’ve come since William Halsted pioneered that gruesome and disfiguring surgery. With the advent of imaging, reconstructive plastic surgery, and breast tattooing, a woman can retain her beauty. Count Jane Fonda, Nancy Reagan, and Lance Armstrong’s ex-wife Sheryl Crow among breast cancer survivors. It’s easy to mention celebrities because their struggles are so public. Millions of regular people go through the same thing in private — and perhaps that’s the better way.

For every success story, there are countless others that end on a minor chord. Death is inherently tragic, but it would be debatable to point the finger at cancer in every instance. As people age, cancer rates increase independently and proportionally. It’s likely that a 99-year-old harbors a mutation somewhere, but when they die, the coroner might chalk it up to “natural causes,” and friends and relatives will say that the deceased lived a happy life until the very end. Like Alzheimer’s, for some cancer is primarily an organic function of time. But oftentimes, death from cancer reflects a certain lifestyle or environment. These are the ones you hear about. Chain-smoking actors John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart died from stomach and esophageal cancer, respectively. Steve Jobs, smart as he was, lost his battle with pancreatic cancer, which experts say was compounded by his adherence to a “fruitarian” diet and his refusal of allopathic treatment. Bob Marley chose to honor his Rastafarian beliefs over doctors’ insistence on amputating a melanoma-ridden toe. Cancer is merciless and even vengeful; it doesn’t matter how much money you’ve contributed to fighting it. Just ask Albert Lasker.

Last year I read “This is Not a Novel” by the morbid David Markson. As advertised, it is indeed not a novel in the traditional sense, but rather a collection of sentences that describe how legendary figures met their demise. Some choice selections: “Valéry died of throat cancer.” “James Thurber died of a brain tumor.” “Rachel Carson died of breast cancer.” “William Gaddis died of prostate cancer.” “William Goyen died of leukemia.” Etc. Interestingly, cancer deaths are in the minority — most are from hemorrhages, heart attacks, tuberculosis, and suicide. Another side note: I was happy to see the author talk about Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s “Cancer Ward.” I picked it up a few years ago after reading “In the First Circle,” one of my favorite books and the driving force behind my prior obsession with Soviet gulags. At the beginning of Part Two, Mukherjee uses a detailed description of sick children in a 1950s Boston cancer ward that bears an eerie resemblance to Solzhenitsyn’s initial impressions of the various idiosyncratic personalities in his own hospital ward. The setting is different, but the scenes occurred contemporaneously, and the existential dread is the same.

I know a few young people who have encountered cancer. One of my friends was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin lymphoma in college. He underwent chemotherapy and made a full recovery. Last September, one of my best friends was driving home from Chicago when he swerved and rolled over four lanes on the highway. He totaled his car beyond recognition. Nine out of ten would not survive that crash. He only had a few scratches but was of course taken to the hospital. Brain scans, looking for injuries from the trauma, found an acoustic schwannoma that was likely benign, but surgery was strongly recommended as it would continue to expand. He had it successfully removed in a marathon operation, but the hearing in his left ear is gone. And just three months ago, my colleague, a pregnant PhD psychologist — seriously one of the kindest people I’ve ever met — received the most devastating news imaginable: her bubbly three-year-old daughter had developed neuroblastoma. Doctors are attempting radiation to shrink the tumor before conducting surgery. So far the tumor is still not small enough, and I’m not sure where her daughter’s prognosis stands. It is a nightmare scenario, the full extent of which I could not picture until I watched that little girl in the documentary with T-cell lymphoma receive injections in her spinal cord. 

Cancer may seem like a modern disease, but it has evolved with us since we were but a twinkle in the amoeba’s eye. The Ancient Egyptians were not optimistic. According to a hieroglyphic-filled papyrus on the matter: “There is no cure.” Galen, the Old World’s preeminent pathologist, held that two of the most pervasive afflictions were caused by an imbalance of “Black Bile.” Depression forms the psychological side of the continuum, cancer the physical. I found it interesting that two of the most mysterious diseases were characterized as such. It was not until the Dutch physician Vesalius came along in the 1500s that the Four Humors theory was discredited in favor of a more anatomical understanding. Still, nearly 2000 years after Galen’s time and despite all we know today, quick fixes to the archetypal antagonists of body and mind continue to evade us, at a huge social and economic cost. 

Our main story takes place between 1850 and 1950, during the Golden Age of cancer surgery. It was Rudolph Virchow who established a theory regarding the duality of cells: they are responsible for both health and disease. This realization ushered in a period of daring treatment, epitomized by Dr. Halsted’s radical mastectomy. Black and white photos of his sterile operating room offered intense imagery. In the book we learn about the evolution of other trailblazing techniques at Johns Hopkins; Hugh Hampton Young undertook urological cancer and Harvey Cushing was charged with tackling neurosurgery. At around the same time, the raw concept of chemotherapy came to light, with Wohler’s synthesis of organic urea, Erlich’s “magic bullet” eureka, and Goodman and Gilman’s research into the anti-white blood cell effects of mustard gas. We also learn about Rontgen’s X-rays and the birth of radiation oncology. When first developed, it was thought of as a miracle cure. Early pioneers did not know that radiation itself was carcinogenic, which makes its related deaths even more poetic, from well-known luminaries like Marie Curie and Emil Grubbe to the lowly glow-in-the-dark watch painters. 

If there is a true protagonist in this week’s arc, it must be Sidney Farber. There’s something to be said for those med school gunners who wear full suits to lecture every day. They might draw scorn from their peers, but everyone knows they must be on to something. Farber learned the extreme discipline of a science researcher during his childhood when his father would bring home textbooks and demand his kids master them. It was interesting to see him portrayed as an example of interwar antisemitism; he was forced to go to Germany to begin his medical education. It’s difficult to imagine Farber getting rejected from medical school today. Farber effectively assumed the role of God; his early leukemia trials with the antifolate aminopterin were extremely daring. His perception and intuition must have been divine. If stress could be measured in liquid, what he endured over the course of a single day could probably fill a swimming pool. He eventually teamed up with the determined socialite Mary Lasker, and together they revitalized the landscape of cancer research. The Jimmy Fund utilized the same effective template that the March of Dimes had, raising public awareness and millions of dollars. It opened the floodgates for the government’s prioritization of the National Cancer Institute and modern-day research. Farber and Lasker bolstered the likes of Freireich and Frei, who would devise the combination chemotherapy VAMP, and Gordon Zubrod, the creator of cisplatin. Farber was a gifted physician, a natural-born leader, and a most empathetic advocate for the sick. His legacy endures; the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a Harvard behemoth known around the world, is the go-to destination for when fate has other plans.

I watched the documentary Cancer: The Forbidden Cure. It had me shaking my head. Let’s start out with the positive. It got a couple things right. Yes, cancer treatment is indeed a big business. In the present era of genome-based personalized medicine, pharmaceutical companies do stand to make big bucks. Current treatment options — surgery, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy — are all expensive and come with extreme side effects. While obviously biased, the documentary was able to capture how allopathic/“heroic” medicine obliterated naturopathy in the early 1900s, a fascinating saga that I previously read about in Paul Starr’s Pulitzer-winning “The Social Transformation of American Medicine.” It was interesting to see how funding from Rockefeller and Carnegie paved the way for Big Pharma, which has long controlled medical teaching, the FDA, and funding for clinical trials. There is more than a grain of truth to this indictment.

But after this general overview, the filmmakers are on shaky ground, as they boil everything down to money-grubbing conspiracy theories. Not that it matters, because their target audience consists of people who have already been convinced. We are introduced to the story of the “quack doctor” John Hoxsey. Well, yes. He was a quack, a rich one. He had an eighth-grade education and based his alternative cure on an herbal mixture for horses. He offered that sham treatment at 17 locations across the country. I looked up Hoxsey after watching the documentary. Ironically, when he developed prostate cancer, his own prescription failed him. He then had prostrate surgery and lived for another seven years. 

The documentary tries to back itself up through dubious anecdotes. Non-objective sources (sons, biographers, random people with no credentials) are interviewed and attribute success stories to Hoxsey’s snake oil or Gerson’s detox regiment. To provide a counterexample, my uncle’s brother’s wife actually had her cancer treated in Tijuana about a decade ago. She died in Mexico. I knew she resisted traditional treatment in favor of a natural approach, but until watching this documentary never knew Tijuana was the world’s most prominent Hoxsey Method hotspot. And then there’s Gerson’s wife or daughter, who mentions how digested meat produces phosphoric acid, so therefore the body can’t function. Give me a break. That lady has never taken a toxicology course. You have statements that invoke a lot of emotion, such as saying that if alternative treatment were allowed, the cancer mortality rate would decrease by 50%. Or by calling the ban on alternative treatment “an atrocity worse than the Holocaust.” Ultimately, I do think that alternative or holistic approaches to cancer treatment have a small place, if in conjunction with standard treatment. It can be beneficial for the psyche of certain patients. I see one older gentleman in the sauna every once in a while. He tells me the same story every time. He claims that homeopathic medicine and avoiding all sugar cured his cancer. He does not have kind words for allopathic medicine. I tried arguing with him the first time, but who wants to proselytize to an old man fundamentally set in his ways? He’s happy and hale now. I don’t want to ruin his day. This film was interesting. Not for the educational content, but because you can be sure many vulnerable people have trusted the “information” presented and then died five months later. On YouTube, this video has 1300 likes and only 32 dislikes. The incredible power of “fake news.”

I also watched sociobiologist E.O. Wilson’s talk on biodiversity. I stumbled across a lukewarm piece on his latest publication, “The Origins of Creativity,” in the New York Times Book Review a couple months ago. I was tempted to scoop it up, but alas, haven’t gotten around to it. He gave a rather mumbled, general lecture to a large auditorium of students, as emeritus professors have earned the right to do. Topics included the importance of conservation, the wonders of biological life on earth, and the secrets that it holds. Eric Chivian gave a clearer, more energetic lecture on how human health is inexorably dependent on the well-being of other life on earth. He talked about his book, “Sustaining Life.” He used three different examples to depict how other animals can help us solve the problems of our own mortality. He mentioned the precarious predicament of polar bears in the face of climate change and how they represent a potential for treating end-stage renal disease. He talked about Lyme disease and the difference between competent and incompetent hosts. He also mentioned the gastric-brooding frog as a key to solving peptic ulcer disease. Dr. Chivian’s main point ultimately rested on mankind’s selfish interest in keeping endangered animals alive. Not because of their natural beauty or ecological role, but merely because they could help stave off human disease. As someone who enjoys Netflix nature documentaries like “Life” and “Planet Earth,” I propose another reason for propping up our fellow Earth-dwellers: we need more HD slow-motion shots of bizarre creatures in their natural habitat. Who doesn’t love watching polar bears and chameleons hunt? That reason alone is enough for me to put my foot down against de-foresting and pollution. 

I frequently walk by Planned Parenthood on Cass Avenue. I am glad it’s there. I hold it in high regard for the vital services that it provides. But I must admit, I’ve never done too much research into its history. Let’s face it: as far as American institutions go, Planned Parenthood is among the most divisive. This is an unfortunate reality of our political landscape. Although the United States is saturated with different backgrounds and traditions, it is always hard for me to appreciate how those on the Right continue to demonize and shame women who do not wish to give birth to a child. But how did we get to this point? I appreciated our assignment because it gave me a newfound appreciation of Planned Parenthood and birth control from a sociohistorical perspective, without the frequently administered political element, which I think we have all overdosed on.

Giving birth is a big deal. It is the most personal of choices. It must be thoroughly thought out and planned for, but of course, that’s not how reality unfolds. A mother should be able to commit to her new child for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, the father does not face the same restrictions. This leads to a common scenario that transforms single women into single mothers, who rank among the most vulnerable population in this country. If the mother is unable to properly care for her new child — nursing, nurturing, raising, socializing, and educating — the repercussions will likely be disastrous. Doubly so for teenage girls. These days, marriage is less predominant, and women have a lower fertility rate. This is because women do not necessarily need to be tied down anymore. A significant portion of the population has become wise to the emotional and financial investment that comes with having children. We must credit Margaret Sanger for the progress that’s been made over the past century.

I watched a 1957 Mike Wallace-Margaret Singer interview on YouTube. After Mr. Wallace spent a few minutes praising the natural taste of Phillip Morris cigarettes, he grilled Sanger. He attempted to psychoanalyze her. Maybe she pursued this movement because she came from a family of 11 children? He raised some interesting points regarding the motivations of the Catholic Church. Perhaps they wanted to ban birth control because they wanted more Catholics in the world? He brought up the words of a priest in the Deep South who objected to birth control because it would encourage sinful female promiscuity. Ms. Sanger laughed that one off. She was confident and firm in her rebuttals of the Church. She derided the Church for speaking as if it were God. She objected to the notion that the purpose of marriage was to beget children, but rather that it was about love and attraction. Procreation is secondary, according to her. Her words would not be out of place if they were spoken on tomorrow’s cable news. 

I’m a fan of 20th-century pop narratives. They have a jaunty Romantic quality to them that film just can’t replicate (sorry, Choices of the Heart, you’re just a little too corny for me). I have enjoyed reading Jonathan Eig’s “The Birth of the Pill.” He does a nice job of portraying the major players, and he vividly synthesized the spirit of my grandparents’ era. Pincus is an interesting character. His laboratory work was graphic and brutal, but I liked learning about his motives and his rise from obscurity. Many things about Margaret Sanger surprised me. From my initial quick research, I expected her to be a holier-than-thou crusader like Mother Theresa. Turns out I was partially correct, as the post-mortem on both women is more complex and controversial than the summary of what they stood for and accomplished. 

On the personal level, she is a somewhat disappointing figure, as great people often become under closer scrutiny. And though I try to resist my own psycho-historical impulses, it is fun to consider what her motivations were. It would be one thing if, after growing up in a family with 11 children, she vowed never to have one of her own, like an 1860s temperance zealot who vowed never to touch a drop of the stuff because her father was a violent alcoholic. I thought she would have learned from what she perceived to be the mistakes of her parents. She did not, at least until it was too late. She inherited her mother’s knack for bearing children and her father’s sexual appetite. Even though she believed that the traditional role of mother and wife, she had three children with a man she did not love. She was not a good mother. She ignored her kids and ultimately abandoned her family in favor of frolicking around Europe. I felt a tinge of pity for her children. How would you feel if your own mother was the world’s leading advocate of opposing birth? That’s my primary criticism of her. But then again, her vision transcends the personal. That may very well be a product of being a revolutionary woman. Plenty of great men have also been subpar fathers.

In the grand scheme, I am impressed with what Sanger was able to accomplish. Early on, you could tell she was destined for greatness. She had a coherent worldview. For the most part, she knew what she wanted and pursued it. It seems to me that as a result of harrowing personal experiences — such as being arrested for violating the laughable Comstock Act — a fire was lit deep within her soul. Instead of becoming vengeful and viewing her oppression as a personal shame, she took action. She was instrumental in the implementation of a revolution in religion, economics, and love. I particularly admire her for her resourcefulness. She understood that she needed the help of others, and cultivated friendships with wealthy benefactors, deep thinkers, and brazen scientists. She consistently used the zeitgeist of the times to advance her cause, such as capsizing on WWI soldiers’ fear of venereal disease. Her awareness and organization were unparalleled. 

Sanger is also remembered for her contribution to the eugenics movement. This is a word that carries an automatic negative association for me. The first thing I think of is the genocidal context, chiefly Nazi Germany’s plan to eradicate the world from Jews. But eugenics is larger than that, and Sanger was mostly on the right side of the issue. I think the view of human eugenics in the Malthusian context is a bit shoddy. There is enough space and resources on Earth to support a huge world population, one that has tripled since her heyday. But from a socioeconomic perspective, her viewpoint resonates with me. It is a sad sight to see children begotten recklessly by parents with neither the education nor the funds to raise them properly, let alone the psychic discipline and energy. There are many millions of them, and not just in developing countries. In places like the United States, there is a link between this phenomenon and low levels of education. It is quite evident how it becomes a vicious intergenerational circle. This places a huge burden on the government’s finite resources. I am a believer in public assistance through taxes, but there is a limit. These children oftentimes resort to a life of crime in order to obtain some semblance of the “ideal lifestyle” thrust upon us by the omnipotent media. It leads to depression and anxiety and resentment and distrust; a state of affairs that produces strong negative feelings, feelings that are so very real on the individual level, but that in order to understand must be viewed from a cold-hearted sociological perspective. Unfortunately, this problem will only grow. Kids are born into poverty because procreation is such a basic instinct. The post-pubescent mind wants to have sex. They oftentimes don’t think about the consequences. Either no one ever taught them, or they think having babies at 18 is the norm. Is there really any difference?

There will continue to be a divide between the informed and the non-informed. That goes for birth and childcare, as well as hot-button issues like rape, sexual harassment, abortion, domestic violence, and guns (hmm, it seems all of these issues boil down to sex). The media allows anyone with internet access to participate in discussions. This is a valuable tool, but it also creates an echo chamber. People consider echo chambers to be dangerous, and they can be, but they also can get on one’s nerves, whether you’re listening to someone coming from a place of reason or a place of ignorance. We often witness sensible people talking about solutions to our social ills. Actually, “solutions” may not be the right word. Instead, they want to “have a dialogue.” But it’s not a dialogue. It’s a monologue among people who already share the same ideology. For example, a politician’s word reaches one part of society — the people who already agree with them — and bounces right off another group like Teflon. People tend to listen to the viewpoints they are familiar with, and this leads to a certain degree of unbearable self-righteousness. Let’s just agree that there are no cut-and-dry answers to these questions. Every person in America has the same rights. But when everybody has a unique situation, and acts out on a whim, as humans do, it’s basically impossible to address the issues with sweeping policy. That is the price of democracy.

We live in a post-sexual revolution society. The aim of most women today is not just to settle down and have a family — it’s to get an education, have a career, enjoy experiences, and perhaps multiple partners too. The same goes for men. There is less need for women to find a life partner today because women have more opportunities to be their own person, not just Mrs. Husband’sLastName. There will always be people that try to justify their adherence to the strict patriarchal rules of the past. The continued existence of these types makes it seem like progress will never propel itself far enough. When will we, as a society, be satisfied? I can only speak for myself. Men and women are on the same playing field now. From a structural standpoint, it is still an issue — wage gaps come to mind — but we are heading in the right direction. That is undebatable. One only needs to look at the enrollment numbers for Wayne State’s School of Medicine, with women significantly outnumbering the guys. Thanks largely to Margaret Sanger, women have been liberated from the roles of the past, and they’re doing great.