Enjoy this little ditty on the surprising pleasures of redneck country, also known as Pensacola, Florida. Thanks to Millennial Moola for the introduction to his home state, and to the pleasures of Pensacola’s original drink, the Bushwacker. And thanks again to Roads & Kingdoms for publishing my piece (and the editor for his or her fantastic work, because boy, am I wordy.).
If you look at the posts on this site, you’ll notice a glaring gap between the month of August and the month of October. Maybe you’ve wondered why. Maybe you attributed it to the inconsistencies and waxing, waning enthusiasm of a new blogger.
Fear is, in fact, what happened.
I’m currently the last year of my fellowship. That’s 2 years of college, 4 years of medical school, 7 years of on-the-job training: over a decade spent preparing for a profession that I’m about to officially, independently embark on. If anything, I am over-prepared. I should be impatiently chomping at the bit. I should be eager to move on.
But for the majority of residents who are not psychopaths, and certainly among majority of first year and female residents, the problem is, in fact, over-apologizing.
As a Canadian, and as an only daughter in an Asian household, I understand your pain. Politeness to the point of discomfort is practically the mortar of my being. I grew up differential and soft-spoken. I lived within the rules set by school, by parents, and by society. When coloring, I drew crisply within the lines. And it worked well for a while: the quiet, nice girl who puts her head down and does her work well may not be well known, but she is certainly well loved (if and when she is recognized).
I would argue that medicine is no place for this sensibility.