In the several years I’ve worked in schools in Los Angeles, I’ve had children say things like, “My [parent] didn’t win the [hugely important industry award given to winners at a televised event] last night,” and “My [parent] is a movie star. Not like Jane was for Halloween, but a movie star in real life, all the time,” so it may come as a surprise to you that I do not know Angelina Jolie personally. (I know. You’re shocked.)
However, despite not being besties with the most beautiful woman in the world, I think it’s probably safe to say that she did not have a double mastectomy because she was desperate for a boob job and vying for sympathy
or because she, like all the women in the world, was tricked into playing right into the super sleazy cancer industry’s hand, like this article implied:
I mean, really, man. Could you be a bigger disgusting asshole? I can get behind eating better. I can understand advocating for healthy living as a way of preventing disease. However, it is appalling and irresponsible to insinuate that people with cancer have cancer because they didn’t eat enough flaxseed or drink enough wheatgrass. Tell that to a four-year-old with leukemia. (Or better yet, have that conversation with that kid’s parents.)
It’s one thing to craft a moronic argument; it is another thing entirely to frame it in such an offensively glib way. As a woman, I can tell you that the number of women I know who think their breasts are going to “murder” them is zero. That is most definitely not “the slogan of many women these days.” The number of women I know who have been convinced by the “cancer industry” (and not, let’s say, by watching their mothers and grandmothers and aunts die from a disease with a proven genetic component) to casually chop off their body parts is zero.
The women who have made the tremendously difficult and heart wrenching decision to greatly reduce their risk of cancer by having preventative surgery haven’t been brainwashed by anything other than their overwhelming desire to live to see their children grow up. Or their husbands grow old. Or a time when people aren’t so thrilled at the prospect of standing tall on their personal soapboxes that they lob outrageous attacks on whole groups of suffering people.
I have no more words. I’m just going to leave this here and eat some mint chip ice cream to try to cool off and swallow down my rage.