Downtown Art Walk: Sweet September

Sexual Healthcare In LA: An Open Letter

Dear "Free" Clinics,

Unable to pay expensive insurance premiums, we've visited several of your East Los Angeles locations in search of low-cost sexual and reproductive health services. Shockingly, we've been deemed overqualified for free services based on income (and we use this term loosely, considering the fact that it refers to our meager unemployment checks).

Is there such a thing as overqualified when it comes to basic healthcare access? Caring for our bodies is a human rights issue, not a question of insurance or money. Because we're betweeen jobs -- and because we have neither the employer insurance to cover our needs nor the extra cash to pay for them out of pocket -- we're in a difficult position that should be met with acceptance rather than exclusion. We aren't a statistic or a number. We are you, minus quality healthcare options.

We cannot accept being told that we make too much money when we have barely enough to cover our living costs. If we collected any less, we'd be unable to pay our rent. At least then we'd be able to get into your clinic -- but it shouldn't be a trade off. In today's society, where socioeconomic lines are more blurred than ever, Los Angeles needs more clinics that operate on a sliding income scale.

We know you're underfunded and underpaid, and we know that you're trying to do good work in this world. But we also know that we deserve healthcare, no exceptions.

Sincerely,
The Women of LA

My Story: Because Any Good Blog Begins With Its Author's Self-Important Ramblings

Like many East Coasters, I had always envisioned Los Angeles to be an urban Land O' Plenty, an oasis where the sun shone down on limitless wealth and good hair. At least that was the picture portrayed by films and TV, and we know how accurate those can be. (The dapper background actors you see setting an L.A.-based scene are actually the most broke and desolate of Angelenos, but we'll get to that in another post.)

So I packed my old Toyota with a paltry selection of warm-weather outfits and struck out on my own, save for the shotgun-riding male mannequin that my well-meaning mother had constructed to ward off any kidnappers and Camry enthusiasts (read: thieves). Three-and-a-half days and the unintentional memorization of an entire Dixie Chicks album later, I arrived in sunny California.

I won't go into detail about how difficult it was to land a job and find an apartment in a city congested with eager migrants like myself. Suffice it to say that I had some tough experiences. There was the time I rode a city bus for hours in the wrong direction, leading to a near mugging in what I thought was an abominable ghetto but turned out to be Venice Beach. There were a few days spent squatting in an empty UCLA dorm, a rather pleasant stint that ended abruptly when a cleaning crew burst in at 5am and reported my ass. Then there was the chance for a dream writing job, an interview I blew by mistakenly believing that a heartfelt speech about my career goals would entice a plastic-faced Beverly Hills editor into hiring someone with zero qualifications or experience.

But through it all, I learned some heavy stuff.

I realized that having nothing can be a euphoric feeling, awash with possibility. I came to appreciate silence, anonymity and solitude. I became an expert at navigating the unknown, which, while frightening, is an edifying confidence builder. I started to relax without having to think about it. Somehow, the city became enough. Its diversity and arrant beauty were my solace and perspective during the worst of days.

And despite LA's bad rap -- which, in many cases, it deserves -- I fell in love with its diverse neighborhoods and all-consuming energy.

Its sprawling acceptance changed my life, and for that it deserves a little credit, no?