Kong Lab Civil War: The End

Read The Beginning followed by The Middle.

***

As with any war, there are ceasefire moments. Our lab agreed to one so we could grace the annual cancer biology department holiday party on December 12^th. Upon entering the club, we were assigned name tags, of which we were strictly told to respond to through the evening. Min and Yuwen were to be properly known as Suzy Snowflake and Turtle Dove, respectively. Thai was named Holiday and Ying was given the awesome identifier, Feliz Navidad. Mari was referred to as Mary’s Christmas Baby. And to my Christmas delight, I was branded as Mr. Grinch.

We were also given clothes pins to wear. The point of the game was to collect as many pins by tricking people to say our real name instead of the assigned holiday name. The clothes pin power game was strong between Mary’s Christmas Baby, Holiday, and Mr. Grinch. Eventually Mr. Grinch was able to amass eight pins and thereby win AMC gift cards.

My victory was short-lived.

Tuesday the 13^th would prove to be the second ugliest day of the two-ish week battle. The bright morning signified perfect California weather ahead. Perhaps this inspired a desire for cleanliness, but whatever the reason, the war escalated to chemical skirmishes.

I managed to capture the action on my phone.

Obviously, I endured. I was able to survive the stench of undiluted bleach poured into a large sink. I overcame the odor of the repellent disinfectant that prides itself as being “bactericidal, fungicidal, virucidal, and tuberculocidal.” How? It is the very feature that Thai later took a dig at-- my plump cheeks. The Navajo ancestry who bestowed such cheeks imbued me with a strong bodily constitution.

In stating this to Thai, I resolved to finally order myself a 23andMe kit to test my claim. Whatever drama I fostered with the word 'hippie' was nothing compared to the displeasure displayed by Thai to the words 'genetic testing'.

"Xazmin, are you serious?! Don't do it! Haven't you seen Black Mirror? I will never have my genome sequenced. Are you okay that others have that information? Just imagine what can happen. What if they use your genome to create clones of you?"

"That would be sweet! The world needs more of me running around. I need more of me to finish whatever I've started. Sign me up yesterday." 

Though I went 0/3 that day, the simple act of purchasing the kit catapulted my psyche into an unbeatable mindset. Hope rallied optimism. Optimism was channeled into spirited work. Work produced answers, which brought me cheer. Basically, for the next three days, I should have been called Beyonce because I slayed.  

By December 15th, when melancholy made its weekly visit to trouble the Kong Lab, I could not be affected. Others succumbed to its mirthless effects while I cheerily moved from one project to another. Thai and Min conceded defeat to our foe, depression. I did not yield. But I could not glory in my triumph against a common enemy while battling my lab mates. My heart, having grown two sizes larger, caused me to speak honestly with them. 

"I'm sorry you guys feel so sad. Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?"

"No. I just don't like Thursdays. Lab meetings always remind me that I haven't done anything." 

"I'll be fine. I'm just stuck with a lot of writing. I can't wait for the weekend."

"Okay. Well, I am cheering for you both. I call an end to the Kong Lab Civil Wars." 

***

The End 

Kong Lab Civil War: The Middle

***

As it turns out, sleep deprivation is no joke. My mind was so addled with lack of sleep that I did not immediately note the historical significance of my declaration (Dec 7). In fact, anything I said that day should be blotted from the records. Words are my enemy when I am sleep deprived.

As soon as I made the dramatic statement, my allies drowned each other out.

“That is NOT a hippie purse.”

“Did you mean hipster instead of hippie?”

“Go home now, Xazmin!”

“It looks more hipster than hippie.”

“Hipster and hippie, what’s the difference?”

“What are you still doing here?”

I surveyed my work and smirked. I knew my girls (Mari, Min, Ying, and Yuwen) would not allow Thai to get away with such a statement. So I swung the purse across my body and quickly exited the laboratory.

I drove home, climbed into bed, and dreamed the rest of the night into oblivion. 

***

Sleep is the cure to everything. Not true at all, but I still like to quote it often. I returned to the lab invigorated. Words held no weight, war was forgotten, and all was well in the Kong kingdom for a peaceful record of two days. Unfortunately, alcohol was spent, which was quickly followed by the drums of war.   

The provocation this time was not caused by indolent language. Thai claims that it was due to a “faulty” spray bottle. I maintain it was an act of aggression for past accusations. Basically, Thai and I were propagating cancer cell lines in the two-person tissue culture laminar flow hood. I occupied the left side, while he worked on the right side. I fleetingly lifted the lid to my plate of cells as Thai opportunely sprayed his gloves with the ethanol bottle (standard aseptic technique). With Legolas-like aim, the alcohol squirted directly onto my plate of cells. 

"Oi! Watch where you're pointing that!" 

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"Are you trying to kill my cells?"

"No! I swear I wasn't!"

 "Hmm... I see I've got to watch my back with you." 

No more than two minutes passed when Thai sprayed his gloves to re-enter the TC hood. This time, the jet of alcohol hit me in the corner of my right eye. 

"Really?! Really, Thai? So was I the original target when you ‘accidentally’ sprayed my cells earlier?

“Something’s wrong with this bottle. Sorry.”

Needless to further explain, shots had been fired and war was declared back on for the next three days. 

***

To be continued

Kong Lab Civil War: The Beginning

I need to end the year on a more positive note and the story behind Kong Lab Civil War is the most fitting way to close out 2016. I will do so in hopefully three posts, which covers "The Beginning, "The Middle", and "The End" of the war of wits. 

First off, it is my pleasure to work alongside intelligent, insightful, and altogether interesting characters. Collectively, we are scientists who are committed to understanding the many ways that cancer cells adapt to metabolic stress. Individually, we are independent, strong-headed pieces of work. 

Hopefully, I will do the world justice in my accurate and impartial recant of the past two weeks, in which I describe how these personalities came to ally and oppose one another during the fading days of an already bleak year. 

So let's begin as these stories always do... with me.

...

Bright November days transitioned to waning December light in the blink of an eye. The hopeful mood that defined life prior to November 8th was bygone. For some, it would take days to grasp it again. For others, it would be weeks. During this dispirited period, friends and family figuratively cast their patronuses to prevent me from succumbing to the Dementor's kiss. Comedy in Pasadena, butterbeer at Universal Studios-Hollywood, Ramen in Little Tokyo, and so many other events filled my weekends. Books buoyed my thoughts at night. Science, in all its terrible beauty, pervaded my mind during the day. Sleep- precious noun and cherished verb- withdrew its blessings and exhaustion eventually found a home as semi-dark circles beneath my eyes. 

In this physically wearied state, I returned to the lab each day. On the afternoon of December 7th, I conversed with a colleague who pointed out the darkness that demarcated my visage. I agreed with her sensible remedy to go home and sleep, but we both knew that words were easier said than done. I returned to my desk and began to chat with my bay mate, Thai, to whom I described the earlier conversation. 

"Ying told me to go home. She basically said I looked like a raccoon because of my tired eyes."

"She's right. Those are really dark circles. Mike and I were right, your party life style is catching up to you." 

"Ha ha. You guys are always great to have around for a good laugh." 

While I defended my social calendar to a disbelieving graduate student, one bay away, another colleague overhead the description of my fatigued countenance. Mari relayed the amusing bits of that conversation to her neighbor, Min.

"Ying called Xazmin a raccoon because of the dark circles under her eyes."

"Why a raccoon? Why not a panda?"

"I'm not sure."

Eventually, the whispered rumors reached my ears. Retrospectively, my word choice was a major sign of intellectual fatigue. A well-rested Xazmin would have summarized the original conversation with Ying using descriptors that referenced my physical transformation into a Sith. But I was never one to succumb to animal name calling. I laughed at the confusion of words that went amok that day. Unfortunately, the day was far from over and my jaded mind craved sleep. 

As dusk set in, I prepared myself to depart the lab. I opened my desk drawer to grab my belongings. Thai, who was facing me asked, "Is that a new purse? Surprise momentarily replaced tiredness, as I responded, "Yes and no. I bought it a while ago, but I haven't brought it to the lab until now." With excitement in his voice, he asked Min to come to our bay and check out my purse. She sauntered over and he declared, "Isn't her purse something a hippie would wear?" 

Shock turned to vexation in nanoseconds. Prior conversations have revealed that we disagree on everything except four things. Hippies were a subject of dissenting opinion. Thai loves them and I simply don't share the love in return. Knowing, or perhaps forgetting, my impassioned stance on the topic, Thai announced for all five people in the lab to hear, "Xazmin owns a hippie purse."

Without missing a beat, I declared war. 

***

To be continued

Lucky

I have been silent far too long on the matter of the Dakota Access Pipeline. I share videos and links on my social media accounts in favor of the Standing Rock Sioux tribe, but it is not enough. I react swiftly to my fellow natives live feeds and posts with far too many angry and sad reactions. Last week, in the fading hours of the day and in the confines of my home, I watched the video of wild buffalo that appeared at camp. I didn’t try to hold back the tears that broke free. In the quiet of my room, alone with my thoughts, I reflected on my life. I wanted to make sense of the strong emotions I felt when it comes to this topic.

One memory stood out to me. As a sophomore in high school, I was beckoned to the school counselor’s office. As soon as I sat down, the counselor bluntly asked “Do you know how lucky you are?”

Suppressing a laugh, I replied, “Umm… sure… Why do you ask?”

He said there were three things going for me. “One, you’re a woman. Two, you’re a Navajo. And three, you are smart.”

I smiled politely and awkwardly nodded my head. Turns out, the point of that meeting was to set my course for college. Of two points, I had no control as to how I identified—a Navajo female. Yet, I knew the implications of his statement. So long as I maintained my resolve and curiosity to learn about this world, I would be able to afford a college education through scholarships that sought candidates like me. 

As a woman, I am bonded with half the world in the shared experiences of sexism and double standards. As a full-blooded American Indian, I am categorized into less than 1% of the United States population (1). We are bonded by a tragic history of ancestors being forcibly removed from land, delayed equality, and broken promises which reverberates in unseen and palpable cycles of poverty and dismal health rates (2).  My school counselor did not voice those thoughts.  Honestly, I doubt he could fathom the statistics or realities I faced. He was simply aware of organizations that foresaw the need for greater representation of women and minorities in society. I was simply a smart girl who fit the bill.

To fast forward, I went to college at the University of Arizona and chose to study something I did not fully understand—physiology.  I took many science courses and participated in summer research projects. It was not the easiest workload, nor the simplest information to discuss with others, but the science was stimulating and rewarding. Science blew my mind and I put in the effort to learn what had to be done. That type of dedication followed me to graduate school at the University of Minnesota. Though it was a more grueling challenge, I completed my doctorate in cancer biology. I fulfilled every requirement stipulated by the graduate program, as did my cohort of classmates—which was a composite of women and men, Anglos, Latinos, African Americans and Asians. I was the only Native American (3). 

In the summer of 2015, as a postdoctoral fellow, I wrote a blog post titled #distractinglysexy. The post was steeped in sarcasm over the comments made about women in science from a Nobel laureate. Who would have thought that my “luck” as a woman would persist into 2015 where sexism was alive in the STEM fields?

Fast forward one more year to 2016. Thanks to social media, the world can witness firsthand the dealing of Native issues. As history repeatedly reveals, Natives have risen in defense of something precious, something sacred. They are standing together to protect our Mother for future generations to enjoy. This time, the world can see what I have always recognized in my fellow native peoples. The Standing Rock Sioux demonstrate an unyielding steadfastness in their roles as guardians or water protectors. They lead the peaceful protestations on the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline. With the alliance of more than 300 indigenous tribes, the world can see an unprecedented resilience of cultures that have survived colonialism and assimilation (4).

I share my memory because teenage Xazmin could not effectively discuss the irony of the word "lucky" as it pertains to underrepresented groups. As the years since that discussion have passed, I have become a well-educated scientist. I learned in greater depth the tragic history of native peoples. I identified from personal experience the ramifications of broken treaties and reservation lifestyle. As a scientist, I became informed of the dismal health rates that are so disproportionately high amongst Natives. Unsurprisingly, whatever "luck" I have as a Native woman, has only motivated me to try harder, run faster, climb higher, and to stand longer. 

I choose to stand with Standing Rock.  

My nephews, with one dressed in traditional Navajo clothing.  

A lucky Navajo girl- my cousin Vasey. 

(1) As an enrolled member of the Navajo tribe, I am further categorized into less than 0.1% of the US population.

(2) Double whammy, as a native woman, I am well aware of the 67 percent rate of sexual violence inflicted upon my beautiful native sisters by the hands of non-native and native men. Who knew this could be described as “lucky”?

(3) I received my doctorate at the end of 2012. That year, 102 Native Americans received a doctorate in the United States.    

(4) And who continue to battle cultural appropriation.