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Legacy - 25. Deductive Reasoning - Bruce Warren
“Interesting developments . . . huh?” Joel McAllister, my friend from National Public Media and himself the proud father of a gay teenage son, asked me as the President’s press conference came to a close. We’d been watching Jeremy Kimball take the oath of office and had been as stunned as anyone when Trevor Austin announced the apprehension of a terrorist suspect complicit in the death of President Reynolds. I would have loved to have been involved in the press conference myself but my place was on board the train carrying the president’s body back to Washington.
My mind had been elsewhere all morning, ever since I’d gotten word of the unfolding hostage situation at Billy Mathews’ Sanctuary Project group home. Although we went to different schools, I’d been friends with Billy and his husband, Rick, since I was a kid. I’d sat at their table along with Brad Reynolds and his future wife, Kayla Gardner, at the Gay Youth Council Halloween Ball way back in ‘09. That was the time I’d danced with Sam Austin, thinking he was a she.
I was exposed to the plight of gay teens early on, when my dad wrote a series of articles on the subject for The Star. I think I was only twelve at the time but my exposure to gay youth at such an early age had a lasting impact on me. I was on one of the buses Brad Reynolds took to Washington in support of his brother and friends and I even wrote an article for my middle school’s newspaper when I returned.
After attending the Gay Youth Halloween Ball, I helped organize a GSA in my own middle school and then joined the GSA in my high school, serving as secretary, vice-president and, ultimately, president. Of course I was also involved in the citywide Gay Youth Council, where I ran into Billy and Rick all the time. I considered them among my closest friends.
I followed Billy’s sports career with interest, attending his high school games with my dad and with Herb Douglas, the Star’s sportswriter. I was there in 2012 when a crazed, homophobic gay kid from Fort Wayne shot Bret Andrews and Larry Peters and nearly shot and killed Billy, but ended up killing himself instead. I still had nightmares about that day.
Although I went to school at Indiana University in Bloomington, I made the trek up to Purdue University in West Lafayette every weekend they had a home game, just to watch Billy play. The funny thing was, I was far from the only Indiana student who routed for Purdue to win whenever our teams played each other. Billy was that good.
With my dad’s press credentials, I was able to get access to the locker room and I often traveled with the team, reporting for the Indiana University student newspaper in the process. I got harassed a lot for hanging out with ‘fags’ all the time but then I did seem to have as many gay friends as straight ones.
I was amazed when Billy was drafted by the Colts. He should have gone to a weaker team much earlier in the draft but a lot of pro teams just weren’t willing to take a chance on hiring a gay player - a quarterback, no less - even if he had one of the best records of any college athlete. As a favorite son, however, Billy already had a local following and his hometown was more than willing to welcome him back. Even the homophobes were willing to ignore his sexuality. He was welcomed with open arms.
Although my assignment on the staff of The Star was to the Government Newsroom, I was welcome at all the Colts games. Billy told me things he’d tell no one else. We were still the closest of friends.
Even before he retired from a long professional career that included three Super Bowl wins, Billy became involved in counseling gay African American youth. Speaking all over the country on their behalf, he raised millions of dollars with which to start the Sanctuary Project. His actions were very controversial in the black community, as was his gay ‘lifestyle’. As more and more young men and women of color entered society as out and proud gay and lesbian adults, the tide slowly started to turn from one of outright hostility to one of grudging acceptance and even support.
“Well, what do you think?” Joel again asked, returning my mind to the present.
“Sorry, Joel,” I responded. “It’s just that Billy Mathews and his husband are good friends of mine. I’ve known them since I was in middle school and the whole thing’s been a bit of a shock. It’s hard to believe that there might have been a terrorist in their midst.”
“The brother of a terrorist,” Joel pointed out.
“Yeah, right,” I agreed, although I was still distracted. “We’ve been on this fucking train way too long,” I added.
“And we’re far from being there, yet,” Joel added.
In spite of the risks of another terrorist attack, we certainly weren’t taking the most direct route to Washington. If we’d gone by air, we could have been there in under two hours. If we’d gone by car or bus, it would have taken us ten hours. The express train David had been pushing to build could have made the journey in only six hours and, even the conventional train, the Cardinal, would have taken less than 24 hours.
David Reynolds had been a very popular president, much as John F. Kennedy had been nearly a century before. No one knew where the decision came from - it was rumored to have come from the head of the Democratic National Committee - but the decision had been made that David’s remains should pass through as many populous cities as practical on their journey to Washington.
Thus we traveled first to Chicago, which was completely out of the way, and from there to Detroit, Toledo. Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Buffalo and Rochester. From Rochester we’d travel to Syracuse, Albany, Boston, New Haven, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore and, finally, the District of Columbia, where we’d arrive late on Friday night.
From Union Station, David’s remains would be taken to the Capitol Rotunda, where they’d lie in state for all who wished to pay their respects until the funeral, which was tentatively set for more than a week later on Sunday, the fifth of April.
I could imagine how such a delay weighed on Jeremy Kimball’s Jewish sensibilities. In the Jewish faith, people are supposed to be buried within twenty-four hours of death, the only exception being a delay for the Sabbath or other religious holidays. I remembered it had been that way back in 2010 when his brother, Cliff, had died on a Friday and was buried on Sunday.
However, Jewish Law originated when the farthest guests might be coming in from the next town - not the next country or the next continent. David Reynolds was a global leader and other leaders would be coming to pay their respects from all over the world. With so many prominent leaders in attendance, security would have to be airtight - not that it wouldn’t be under the circumstances in any case.
There was another aspect of David’s death as well. He was the first openly gay president and there were already reports of entire busloads of gay citizens on their way to Washington, making a pilgrimage to pay their respects to the man many of them saw as a martyr.
The situation was not unlike that of Kennedy with the Catholics or Obama with African Americans and, although Obama had been out of office for nearly two decades at the time of his untimely passing, he was still a revered leader. The African American community treated his death much as they had that of Rosa Parks some three decades before. Obama was only the second African American in history to lie in state in the Rotunda. David Reynolds would be the first openly gay man to do so.
President Obama’s presidency had been much maligned and it was only in recent years that historians were coming to recognize that he’d likely staved off a much worse financial disaster than anyone at the time could have foreseen. Yes, his approach was controversial and there were long-term consequences but they were easily addressed once the economy recovered. The problem was that Obama wasn’t good at communicating with the populace on a fundamental level.
However, he was great at communicating with people one-on-one. How well I remembered that from the first time I met the man . . .
~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~
Saturday, September 15, 2012 - Thirty-one Years Earlier
It was an unusually hot, late summer day. Dad and I were with a large contingent of the press, attending a campaign rally downtown. President Obama was campaigning hard and was making his fourth appearance in the city, in spite of polls that showed him down by at least ten points in a state that he’d carried in 2008. ’Course carrying the state had been a long shot back then and no one had predicted he had a chance in Hell yet, carry it he did.
Times had changed and our state was acting much more like its old self, leaning heavily Republican in 2012. Mitt Romney, however, was a loose cannon - a so-called moderate who had bowed to pressure from the Tea Party and was pushing a right-wing agenda. His running mate had called for measures that would effectively gut Social Security and Medicare in the name of privatization. Even as he attempted to distance himself from such extreme views, it was becoming increasingly clear that Romney’s idea for saving these critical social programs was to cut benefits - dramatically. When asked if he supported Obama’s bailout of General Motors, he admitted he did not feel it appropriate to put taxpayer dollars at risk. In other words, he would have let GM fail in much the way that Bush touched off the global financial meltdown in the first place by allowing Lehman Brothers to fail. Because GM has a major manufacturing presence in our state, that kind of talk was driving even some Republicans back into the Obama camp.
The election was undoubtedly the most polarizing in history and every state was in play, forcing the president to spread his efforts much more thinly than was in his best interest. If there was any hope of carrying the state, he absolutely had to shore up his support in the larger cities. However, the sweltering heat today wasn’t helping the situation any. Although members of the press were there in force, Obama’s supporters were quite obviously in short supply and his reception was lukewarm at best, no pun intended.
Dad and I were close enough to see the beads of sweat running down Obama’s face. He was wearing a medium gray business suit that looked entirely too hot for such a bright summer day. I myself was wearing shorts and a polo shirt - I would have much rather ditched the shirt entirely, as so many of those in attendance had done, but Dad insisted I wear a shirt with a collar, which I’d unbuttoned all the way. At least he wasn’t making me wear a tie or, God forbid, a jacket.
It was kinda cool being so close to the President. He spoke well but even I could tell his words weren’t resonating with the voters.
After Obama had finished speaking and his handlers had pushed him into a waiting limousine, Dad grabbed me by the hand - how embarrassing - and led me back to The Star’s office building nearby. The President was scheduled to have lunch at the Capital Grill, a steakhouse that was popular with locals, and then he would visit with patients at the James Whitcomb Riley Hospital for Children, visit an auto plant the GM bailout had helped save and, finally, meet with my Dad for an exclusive interview.
“So what did you think of the President’s speech?” Dad asked once we got to his office.
“I think he has to do a lot more to connect with the voters,” I replied honestly.
Inhaling deeply and loudly, Dad responded, “I fear you’re right. I just shudder to think of what will happen to this country if he loses.”
Yeah, Dad was a staunch Democrat - a rarity among the staff at The Star, which was among the most conservative newspapers in the nation. Although I was only seventeen and too young to vote in the coming election, I took politics seriously.
A senior at Pike High School, most of my fellow students were opposed to Obama’s re-election bid. Most of my friends, however, were strong Obama supporters. Although straight myself, I was the president of the Pike High School GSA and, not surprisingly, a lot of my friends were gay and generally supportive of the president in spite of his lukewarm support of gay issues.
In spite of Brad Reynolds and I living in different school districts, we become friends through the Gay Youth Council Brad helped organize. Once I obtained my license and my own set of wheels, we became close friends.
When Brad’s girlfriend, Kayla, became pregnant even though they always used protection, I was amazed at how maturely they handled the whole thing. Although vehemently pro-choice, Brad and Kayla decided to keep the baby, realizing they would always feel guilty if they’d decided on an abortion. However, keeping the baby meant making sacrifices. Hence they decided against taking early graduation and planned to go to school locally at Butler.
They were lucky that Kayla’s parents had the means to support the child and that Jeremy’s parents were willing to provide housing and nanny support during their college years. It seemed to me that the Kimballs had been profoundly affected by the death of their adopted son, Cliff, Brad’s best friend. Maybe helping to take care of Brad, his wife and their daughter was a way they could make up for the time and affection they’d never given their own children.
“You caught up on your homework?” Dad asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah, Dad, I’m good,” I answered.
“I’d suggest you take the car and head home,” Dad thought aloud, “and then come back to pick me up later but, with the road closures and the crowds here for Obama’s appearance, I think it’d pretty much be time for you to turn around and come back by the time you got home.”
“That’s OK, Dad,” I replied. “It’s cool . . . I’m good.”
“You hungry?” Dad asked.
“Actually, I’m starving,” I replied as my stomach growled as if to emphasize the point, making us both laugh.
“When aren’t you starving?” Dad asked.
“True that,” I replied in my best ghetto slang, which I knew Dad hated with a passion.
True to form, he groaned and then said, “OK, let’s go grab a bite.”
We went to a place called the Old Point Tavern, located a short walk away at Vermont and Massachusetts. The food there was quite good and reasonably priced - not that I cared with Dad buying!
Dad and I enjoyed a leisurely lunch, chatting about school and work and my recent decision to pursue a career in journalism. As we finished off our dessert - apple pie in Dad’s case and a fudge brownie sundae in mine - and our coffee, Dad got a call on his cell phone.
“What?” Dad asked after listening for a minute, and then he added, “When?” After listening a little longer on his cell phone, he replied, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
After hanging up, Dad turned to me and said, “Obama collapsed while touring Riley Hospital.”
“What?” I practically shouted.
“That’s all I know,” Dad replied. “He apparently collapsed while talking to a patient there. I need to get over there right away. He was taken to University Hospital.”
“I’m going with you,” I announced as if saying it would make it so.
“Bruce,” Dad responded, “It’ll be a mad scene. There’s little point in you going. You won’t get anywhere near the President . . . none of us will . . . and you’ll probably be left milling around for hours with nothing to do.
“Frankly, you might as well take the car and head home. I’ll likely be there all night.”
“I’m - going - with - you,” I reiterated with determination.
“Suit yourself,” Dad answered, and then we quickly paid the check and headed due west. University Hospital was about a mile and a quarter away - an easy walk. There was little point in driving, given the traffic snarls from the President’s visit.
“At least he was already at the Medical Center,” I mentioned as we walked. Riley Hospital was the largest children’s hospital in the state and located just a few hundred feet from University Hospital.
“There is that,” Dad replied. Other than those few words, we remained silent during our brisk walk, which we made in about twenty minutes.
When we arrived, there were police vehicles, fire trucks and limos with flashing red and blue lights everywhere. Secret Service agents were posted at all the entrances and there were even more inside.
Showing his press credentials, Dad and I were escorted to Emerson Hall - an ancient-looking building a short distance away. Inside, we were directed to a large auditorium with comfortable, padded seats and even a balcony.
The place was already jammed with reporters from every news organization imaginable. The back of the first floor was occupied by several TV cameras, shared by all the networks. It was truly amazing that so much had been brought together in one place with virtually no notice. Less than an hour had elapsed since the President collapsed.
From the moment I walked into the room, I was glad I was wearing a polo shirt. As it was, I was dramatically under-dressed, but it would have been so much worse if I’d shown up in the ratty T-shirt or even more likely, the wife beater I would have otherwise worn.
Thanks to his credentials as the lead reporter for the local affiliate of a major international news organization, a seat was being held for Dad, right in the front row. I was surprised, however, when he pulled me right up beside him and sat me down in the seat next to his. Wow!
“I know someone’s going to be upset when they find they don’t have a front-row seat,” Dad said, “but we’re going to be here for hours. I’d much rather sit next to my son than some stranger who wants to talk about his kids or the trials of remodeling her kitchen. If I’m lucky, they’d talk about sports, but that’d only be good for an hour or two at most and we’re going to be here much longer than that.
“Besides which, Bruce, you’ve really come into your own of late. You were always precocious but, now that you’re almost an adult, you’ve become as much my best friend as my son.”
I so did not want to cry - I really didn’t want to cry. I didn’t care whether it was manly or not - it just wasn’t something seventeen-year-old boys were supposed to do - but fighting it was a losing battle. “I love you Dad,” I sobbed as I threw my arms around the man who meant so much to me and cried on his shoulder.
Our little family moment was interrupted when a gentleman in a suit walked up to the podium and started to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, at 2:57 this afternoon, President Obama collapsed while talking with a patient at the James Whitcomb Riley Hospital for Children.
“The President was taken to University Hospital nearby,” the man continued, “where he was evaluated by a competent team of physicians.” Turning his head and nodding toward a silver-haired woman standing next to him, he added, “Here with me today is Dr. Catherine Arrington, Dean of the School of Medicine, who will tell you more about the President’s condition.”
“Good afternoon,” she began. “President Obama was evaluated and is being cared for by one of the finest teams of physicians in the United States.”
I couldn’t help but wonder why, if they were so fine, she had to mention it. I knew that we had a well-regarded medical school, but we were no Harvard.
She continued, “The President underwent an electrocardiogram, an echocardiogram, a CT scan of the head, spiral CT scans of the chest, abdomen and pelvis and numerous blood tests. Everything has come back as normal, indicating the President to be free of any serious illness, disease or injury. In fact, he’s in better shape than most of us,” she quipped.
“All indications are that the President suffered from a combination of dehydration and heat exhaustion on top of physical exhaustion. Having had only six hours of sleep in as many days, he was operating on scant reserves upon his arrival. With temperatures hovering near a hundred and a lack of adequate fluid intake, he was operating on adrenaline alone.
“Add to that a full meal, diverting blood to his digestive process and away from the brain, and a hospital environment with its unusual, unpleasant scents, and the President’s circulatory system couldn’t keep up with the demands of his brain. He briefly lost consciousness, but revived quickly and is in perfect health as I speak to you now.
“The President has been taken to the Krannert Pavilion, where he will spend the night resting, in observation and on a cardiac monitor.”
The Krannert Pavilion was the V.I.P. floor of University Hospital. I’d been there once before, in 2010, visiting with my dad to pay our respects, only to find that Cliff Kimball-Roth had already passed away.
“At this time I would be happy to answer your questions,” the dean concluded.
The room then erupted in pandemonium and it took the man who introduced the dean, a man I’d later learn was the President’s deputy press secretary, to restore order. Calling on one person at a time, he kept things organized.
It was after the fourth or fifth question that a secret service agent approached the deputy press secretary and whispered something to him. It was the dean, however, who exclaimed, “He’s coming HERE?”
Before I could even wonder who it was they were talking about, President Obama himself wheeled into the lecture hall, pushed in his wheelchair to the front of the room. His wheelchair ended up being parked right in front of me!
The President looked right at me and smiled with that trademark grin of his. I couldn’t help but grin back at him as his deputy press secretary made his introduction. The President then took the microphone and began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began, “I understand you have been briefed on the basics of my situation. I asked to be brought here so I could address you directly and assure the people of the United States that I’m perfectly fine.
“I understand it was a combination of heat, dehydration and lack of sleep that brought me down. Much as I’d like to think I can withstand anything and do whatever I need to do without regard to the stress on my body, I have to remind myself from time to time that I’m only human. My supporters might like to think I’m Superman but, clearly, I’m not.” That comment elicited a round of laughter before the President could continue.
“I have been reassured that my health is excellent and that what happened to me is no different than what happens to many a high school football player when they’ve overdone it. My doctors tell me that I need to rest and I will do so the remainder of this afternoon and overnight.
“Tomorrow morning it will be business as usual. I fully expect to be back on the job, attending to my duties as President and Commander in Chief, and returning to the campaign trail.
“Thank you.”
The President then started to be wheeled away as members of the press shouted out their questions. It was obvious he’d wanted to say more but I had a feeling his doctors had been reluctant to let him make even this short an appearance.
As he was wheeled by Dad, however, he motioned that he wished to stop, and he started talking to Dad. “Mr. Warren, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to cancel our interview. The doctors want me to rest.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” Dad replied.
“I’ll tell you what . . . why don’t you come by my room tomorrow morning at, say, eight o’clock, and you can interview me then. I’ll notify the agents to be expecting you and let you through.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Dad responded. “It would be my honor.”
“The honor will be mine,” President Obama replied. Then glancing in my direction, he asked, “Is this fine young man your son?”
“Yes he is, Mr. President,” Dad answered.
“I can see the resemblance,” Obama stated, and then asked, “Is he going to be a journalist too?”
With a smile, Dad answered, “He is indeed, Mr. President.”
“You must be proud,” the President acknowledged.
Much to my surprise, he motioned for his chair to be backed up so that he could face me directly. Extending his hand, I extended mine and we shook hands as I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President. I’m Bruce Warren, and you’re my hero.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Bruce,” the president replied with his infectious grin, causing me to grin in return. He then asked, “Are you by chance on your school newspaper?”
“No I’m not,” I replied, but then Dad countered with, “He runs a blog with more than a million readers, worldwide. It’s a teen’s perspective on current events. Frankly, his writing’s better than mine.” How embarrassing!
“It sounds like journalistic talent runs in the family,” the President commented. “A million readers . . . that’s really something. Why don’t you come with your dad in the morning?” the President suggested. “That’ll give you an exclusive scoop for your blog. How’s that sound?”
“I’d love it, sir,” I replied with the biggest grin I’d ever felt on my face.
“I’ll see you and your dad then,” Obama replied before he was wheeled away.
The next day, Dad and I arrived at University Hospital at the ungodly hour of six in the morning. No teenager in their right mind would be up at that hour on a Sunday but there I was with my father, waiting to see the President. I felt like I was living in a dream.
It soon became apparent why we’d arrived so early for an eight o’clock meeting with the President. Dad obviously had experience and knew what to expect as we were scanned and prodded in every way possible before being allowed to wait to be called in by the President.
I’d come prepared with an extensive list of questions dealing with everything from the triumph of his election to the devastating defeat of the midterm Congressional election. I asked questions relating to the Supreme Court verdict on his healthcare program, his relative inattention to the environment, his handling of the war in Afghanistan and the lack of progress in extending gay rights.
As we were discussing gay rights, the President commented, “You remind me a lot of another young man I met some years ago . . . a young man named David Reynolds.”
Smiling, I responded, “I’ve known David Reynolds since I was thirteen. His brother, Brad, is one of my very best friends.”
“I should have known,” the president commented, and then he asked, “are you . . ?”
“Am I gay?” I asked for confirmation, suspecting that that was what the President was attempting to ask without putting me on the spot.
When Obama merely nodded his head, I answered, “No sir, Mr. President, although I do have a lot of gay friends. I’m the president of the Pike High School GSA and a member of the citywide Gay Youth Council. I’m a firm believer in equal rights for all Americans, regardless of gender, racial or ethnic origin, or sexual identity. Frankly, I believe the Constitution guarantees those rights already and that it’s deplorable that many have attempted to legislate or to rule in a manner that is grossly discriminatory.
“The Founding Fathers may not have foreseen a time when being homosexual would be recognized as a normal variant beyond one’s personal control and not a perversion, but I’m positive that if they’d known what we know about it today, they would have certainly intended the Constitution to apply to homosexuals in the same way as it does to heterosexuals. Gays already have a right to marry . . . what is needed is an executive order ensuring those rights are enforced as they were intended.”
“I can issue an order all I want, Bruce,” the President responded, “but unless the American People are on board with this, it will only result in a backlash.”
“Would you have had us hold a referendum on whether or not African Americans should have the right to vote?” I asked in incredulity. “Some things are truly a matter of right versus wrong, Mr. President. If you do what you believe to be the right thing, people will respect you, regardless of how they feel personally. This has happened time and again.
“I believe in you, and in your presidency, but your lack of leadership is a good part of the reason you’re behind in the polls. Give people reason to believe that you will lead and you’ll surge ahead and win re-election,” I stated in conclusion.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go into politics, Bruce?” Obama asked.
Smiling, I answered, “I’m not a visionary the way you and David Reynolds are. I’ll be content to report and analyze the news . . . not to make it.”
“Something tells me you’ll be someone we’ll all be hearing from, regardless of what you do,” the President told me with a smile, and I smiled back.
~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~
“This actually looks like a nice city,” Joel said, kind of startling me from one of my all-too-frequent moments of reverie.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Rochester,” he reiterated, “It looks like a nice city.”
It was a bit hard to tell, given all the throngs of people lining the railroad tracks as we slowly inched along but, at that moment, we were crossing a deep river gorge and a waterfall was visible, and it was right in the middle of the downtown. It was certainly a picturesque setting for a major city.
“David Reynolds had friends who went to school here at the University of Rochester,” I mentioned, recalling that David had mentioned it once - how he was friends with a gay couple that graduated from here so they could both go to a school that met their needs; Engineering in the case of one and Music in the case of the other. “From what he said, they had fond memories of the place, its gray skies and long, snowy winters,” I added with a chuckle.
“You’d never know it on a bright sunny day like today,” Joel responded.
“Actually, before becoming the Attorney General, Deb McLaughlin used to consider this a second home,” I added as an afterthought.
“That’s right,” Joel replied, “I forgot it was her wife that took over Kodak-Xerox.”
Since Andrews Optoelectronics had purchased Kodak and Xerox and combined them well over a decade ago, Kodak-Xerox had become a major corporate powerhouse and the dominant employer in Upstate New York. Thanks to large-scale investment in the communities and in infrastructure throughout the Finger Lakes region, the entire area had seen explosive growth and was now home to nearly eight million people.
“Any word yet on where we’ll be staying once we get to Washington?” Joel asked.
“I know about as much as you do,” I replied. It’s rumored they’re going to house the entire press corps at the Hyatt in Arlington, across the river. That way they’ll be able to provide protection for the lot of us.”
“It’s also near our headquarters at NPM . . . and yours, for that matter,” Joel pointed out.
Indeed, our world headquarters was located within steps of the Roslyn metro station but what I didn’t tell Joel was that I wouldn’t be staying with the rest of the press corps. I’d been covering David and Brad Reynolds most of my professional career and Brad had already made a request that I be housed with the rest of the White House press corps in the underground White House.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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