How a Cyborg Challenges Reality

I count among us cyborgs Anyone who takes meds that jostle our brains? Very cyborg. Anyone who is disabled and integrates with tech? Very cyborg. Lila Moss at the Met Gala wearing an insulin pump and monitor? Very cyborg.

According to the Roman poet Horace, “As leaves fall in season, so do words perish with old age, and new ones spring up and thrive.” At least that’s the translation of his work, and not a good one, since I don’t know Latin, but here I’ve planted the seed. Let us be cyborgs and free. Sappho’s version of reality was so scandalous that they set her poems on fire. One poem remains.

Canese, right now I’m thinking of your poem with the lines:

Could you get this bee out of my hair?

Could you just get this bee out of my hair?

Lately there’s been a bee in my hair, and it’s the title “Doctor.” It’s supposed to be an honorific, but I don’t know how it could be an honorific for me.

When I was born, the doctor said to my mother, “Don’t worry. If you want to get pregnant again, we will look for this. And abort it. ” There’s that it again. I wish I didn’t know it.

With all that doctors have done to me, why would I want a “Doctor” in the front of my name?

Anyway, I took it. But it no longer fits. Now I go by “Cy. Jillian Weise. ” Is that legible? To people outside you, outside me? I want the honorific “Cy” to indicate disability and honor. We have honorifics for all kinds of people, the married and unmarried, gendered and gender ambivalent, doctors and lawyers. Why not an honorific for disabled reality?

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