Becoming Propane Jane

Your voice can change the world—from a 2008 Obama campaign t-shirt.

The story of Propane Jane begins deep in the heart of Texas. It's a story about a black woman who was raised in a predominantly white suburb of Houston, and grew accustomed to being the only one of her kind in the room. It's a story about having an opinion that’s controversial simply because it's different. It's a story about fearless self-expression that started not too long after I learned to speak.

My family would be the first to tell you that I've been an unrepentant motor mouth for pretty much the entirety of my almost 35 years on this earth. I was the kind of kid who wouldn't just talk to my dolls, but would hold an Oprah-esque town hall with them to get down to the root of all their "problems." Looking back now it only seems fitting that I find myself chatting up a storm online, but I assure you this wasn't always in the cards. I never aspired to be a writer, blogger, or Twitter influencer; I wanted to be a healer. Ironically enough, it was my journey to become a physician that turned me into all of the above.

As the daughter of two college-educated, East Texas-born Jim Crow survivors, I didn't have the choice to not be politically engaged. My parents took us to the polls on Election Day and taught us the Democratic Party platform as a lesson in self-preservation, because they were taught the same. I saw them roll their eyes at Reagan and G.H.W. Bush, then applaud every word of Bill Clinton's biography at the 1992 Democratic National Convention.

By the time I got to *THE* University of Texas at Austin in 1999 (with the assistance of Justice Scalia's worst nightmare “top 10 percent” rule), I was a card-carrying College Democrat even though I hadn't yet cast my first vote. I quickly fell in love with the hippies and bra burners who never ran out of things to protest on the main mall. I was officially radicalized, as the deplorables would say. In fact, I was so hyped up in liberal utopia that I didn't see the Mack truck of the 2000 election disaster heading my way as I waltzed naively into the booth to vote Gore. When I woke up to an inconclusive result and the ensuing weeks of soul crushing hanging chads, my world changed forever. I’d been so certain that the rest of America agreed with me and the hippie bra burners in Austin, and that they'd have sense enough to see through W’s carpetbagger cowboy routine. We all know how “well” that turned out. 

I spent the following few years of Bush’s presidency clinging to Fahrenheit 9/11 and Al Gore's Assault on Reason as a warm blanket to remind me the whole world hadn't gone totally berserk. I became Keith Olbermann's biggest fan, and patted myself on the back every time I accurately diagnosed the day's worst person in the world. I came to view the mainstream media as criminally negligent for its handling of the Iraq War and countless other Republican disasters. I turned off my television.

Outside of politics, I was in Houston working the trenches of medical school in America's most uninsured county. I became disillusioned about everything from gun violence, to exorbitant prescription drug prices, overcrowded ERs, and the botched Hurricane Katrina evacuation. I was dumbfounded and disgusted at the callousness of our for-profit healthcare system, and our state and federal government's refusal to do anything humane about it. Then along came a senator named Barack Hussein Obama, who had the audacity to hope he could not only be America's first black president, but change our failing healthcare system too. 

I was enthralled by the 2008 Democratic primary between he and the woman I'd adored since she introduced Hillarycare as first lady in 1994. Truth be told, I was one of the many in the middle who would've been thrilled to have either one of them as president. But the media wasn't. Once again I found myself facing the prospect of yet another campaign season full of fear mongering, half truths and flat-out lies, and I decided I wasn't going to take it lying down.

I started a spirited but pitiful blog called “Real Talk Express,” a jab at John McCain, that literally no one but my best friend bothered to read. I sent Obama emails around to family and friends, but felt that the message didn't spread far enough, and I really wasn't reaching anyone outside of my corner of the world. I opened an account at Huffington Post that I eventually abandoned because the hateful trolls there were a biblical level plague. Then I found Twitter. I joined on October 3, 2008, for the sole purpose of telling TV talking heads they were ridiculous and wrong. Few responded.

Soon Barack Obama won, I finished my MPH program, had my first son, then started psychiatry residency, so I no longer had the time to one-way tweet CNN. Then came overnight calls in 2010. In the wee hours of the morning, I stumbled upon Daily Kos. Not only was it decked out in the most lovely shade of orange, it reminded me of the hippies and bra burners who never ran out of things to protest on the main mall. I felt free to comment, and reveled in the passionate exchange of ideas. I found comfort in the diaries when I was alone in the call room, but too hopped up on adrenaline or caffeine to rest between patient crises. 

Then came the 2010 midterms. Suddenly people I'd chatted with so pleasantly were furious about the public option, and calling my president a sellout. I was astounded at how so few could see how much of a boon even an imperfect Obamacare would be to my patients. I felt that my voice wasn't welcome. I took a break. Then came Occupy Wall Street, and I couldn't resist returning to bear witness when the movement came to Houston. Just when I'd convinced myself that there was no room for my voice here, my diary ended up on the rec list. I felt vindicated and affirmed. There I was holding a town hall, only this time with real people instead of dolls. I figured if I could do it here, I could do it anywhere. 

I decided to give Twitter another try in 2011. Initially I just used it as a news aggregator, and mostly replied to or retweeted other people's tweets, but it wasn't long before I realized how much more I could do. One day I got called out by one of my very few followers for never sharing my extended opinion about the stories I tweeted. I wish I could remember who it was, because they're likely responsible for Propane Jane’s conception and rise. I allowed my motor mouth to run free again. Single tweets turned into tweet storms that turned into storifies. I gradually gained a reputation for being a proverbial fire starter, and to this day I’m still so tickled that so many people have come to expect a scrub-wearing Plain Jane to bring the heat. In five years, hundreds of followers have become tens of thousands. 

I never imagined that my anonymous voice could engender so much love and support from so many people in so many places, but somehow it has. I've learned to speak my truth in the face of disagreement, doubt, and the deplorables. As a result, I'm not just a better person, but a better citizen too. 

And so I return once again to join the hippies and bra burners who never run out of things to protest on the main mall. Thank you for welcoming me back with open arms. Let's change the world.