Tanna Evans

@KeruboSk Yes you are wrong. She should be and you supporting her friend. It was a choice and now she can’t even get a way to protect herself or get the pregnancy terminated- this may or may not be her fault.

RevTEvans retweeted

IG: RahiemShabazz

@rahiemshabazz

4 months ago

So let me get this straight: Jesse Jackson’s family was denied the opportunity for him to lie in honor at the Capitol Rotunda, yet conservative activist, Charlie Kirk was granted that distinction. The explanation given was that the honor is reserved for presidents or federal officeholders. History has consistently shown that racist white folks will reveal themselves not through words, but through decisions. Institutions don’t have to announce their biases, they demonstrate them.

rahiemshabazz's tweet photo. So let me get this straight: Jesse Jackson’s family was denied the opportunity for him to lie in honor at the Capitol Rotunda, yet conservative activist, Charlie Kirk was granted that distinction. The explanation given was that the honor is reserved for presidents or federal officeholders.

History has consistently shown that racist white folks will reveal themselves not through words, but through decisions. Institutions don’t have to announce their biases, they demonstrate them.

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RevTEvans retweeted

Archaeo - Histories

@archeohistories

4 months ago

In 1970, if a woman arrived at an emergency room after being raped, the staff moved fast. They cut away her clothing. They washed blood from her skin. They cleaned her wounds, combed debris from her hair, sutured, swabbed, stabilized. They saved her life. And in the same efficient hour, they destroyed the case. The clothing that held fibers and semen was bagged with hospital trash. The fingernails that might have carried skin cells were scrubbed clean. The bruises were documented only as injuries, not as patterns of violence. By the time police arrived, there was often nothing left but a shaken woman and a report that would quietly die in a file. No one intended harm. Nurses were trained to heal, not to think like investigators. Emergency medicine focused on stopping bleeding and preventing infection. Justice was considered someone else’s department. Except it wasn’t. It was the survivor’s. Virginia Lynch was a nurse who noticed what others had normalized. Born in 1941, she grew up in a culture that treated sexual violence as something shameful, private, better left unexamined. In the ER, she saw the same pattern repeat. A woman would arrive assaulted. Staff would do what they were taught. Hours later, police would ask for evidence that no longer existed. Prosecutors declined cases. Defense attorneys dismantled what little documentation there was. Survivors were left with a quiet, corrosive message: if it can’t be proven, maybe it didn’t really happen. Lynch understood something radical for her time — hospitals were not neutral spaces. They were the first crossroads between trauma and accountability. If evidence vanished there, justice rarely followed. When she began asking why nurses weren’t trained to preserve forensic evidence, the resistance was immediate. Doctors said nursing was about care, not crime. Law enforcement questioned whether nurses could handle chain of custody. Administrators worried about lawsuits and reputation. Beneath all of it was a deeper discomfort: taking sexual assault seriously would require admitting how common it was. But Lynch kept pushing. She began designing protocols that did not force a false choice between healing and documentation. Clothing could be preserved without delaying treatment. Injuries could be photographed respectfully. Swabs could be taken with consent. Detailed notes could be written in language that held up in court. Evidence could be secured without turning a survivor into an object. She saw nurses differently than others did. They were already there first. They saw injuries before they faded. They heard the story before it hardened into a deposition. They had the trust of patients in moments when uniformed officers might not. If nurses were trained properly, they could protect both the body and the truth of what happened to it. Out of that insistence came a new field: forensic nursing. Eventually, the role of the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner — SANE — was formalized. These nurses learned evidence collection, trauma-informed interviewing, courtroom testimony, and meticulous documentation. They became the bridge between medicine and the legal system. Hospitals that adopted these programs saw measurable change. Evidence was preserved correctly. Cases were stronger. Convictions increased. Survivors reported feeling believed instead of processed. The difference was not dramatic technology. It was intention, structure, and training. By the 1990s, forensic nursing was recognized as a legitimate specialty. Courts accepted forensic nurses as expert witnesses. Nursing schools began offering training programs. What had once been dismissed as unnecessary interference became the standard of care. © Women In World History #archaeohistories

archeohistories's tweet photo. In 1970, if a woman arrived at an emergency room after being raped, the staff moved fast. They cut away her clothing. They washed blood from her skin. They cleaned her wounds, combed debris from her hair, sutured, swabbed, stabilized.

They saved her life.

And in the same efficient hour, they destroyed the case.

The clothing that held fibers and semen was bagged with hospital trash. The fingernails that might have carried skin cells were scrubbed clean. The bruises were documented only as injuries, not as patterns of violence. By the time police arrived, there was often nothing left but a shaken woman and a report that would quietly die in a file.

No one intended harm. Nurses were trained to heal, not to think like investigators. Emergency medicine focused on stopping bleeding and preventing infection. Justice was considered someone else’s department.

Except it wasn’t.

It was the survivor’s.

Virginia Lynch was a nurse who noticed what others had normalized. Born in 1941, she grew up in a culture that treated sexual violence as something shameful, private, better left unexamined. In the ER, she saw the same pattern repeat. A woman would arrive assaulted. Staff would do what they were taught. Hours later, police would ask for evidence that no longer existed.

Prosecutors declined cases. Defense attorneys dismantled what little documentation there was. Survivors were left with a quiet, corrosive message: if it can’t be proven, maybe it didn’t really happen.

Lynch understood something radical for her time — hospitals were not neutral spaces. They were the first crossroads between trauma and accountability. If evidence vanished there, justice rarely followed.

When she began asking why nurses weren’t trained to preserve forensic evidence, the resistance was immediate. Doctors said nursing was about care, not crime. Law enforcement questioned whether nurses could handle chain of custody. Administrators worried about lawsuits and reputation. Beneath all of it was a deeper discomfort: taking sexual assault seriously would require admitting how common it was.

But Lynch kept pushing.

She began designing protocols that did not force a false choice between healing and documentation. Clothing could be preserved without delaying treatment. Injuries could be photographed respectfully. Swabs could be taken with consent. Detailed notes could be written in language that held up in court. Evidence could be secured without turning a survivor into an object.

She saw nurses differently than others did. They were already there first. They saw injuries before they faded. They heard the story before it hardened into a deposition. They had the trust of patients in moments when uniformed officers might not.

If nurses were trained properly, they could protect both the body and the truth of what happened to it.

Out of that insistence came a new field: forensic nursing. Eventually, the role of the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner — SANE — was formalized. These nurses learned evidence collection, trauma-informed interviewing, courtroom testimony, and meticulous documentation. They became the bridge between medicine and the legal system.

Hospitals that adopted these programs saw measurable change. Evidence was preserved correctly. Cases were stronger. Convictions increased. Survivors reported feeling believed instead of processed. The difference was not dramatic technology. It was intention, structure, and training.

By the 1990s, forensic nursing was recognized as a legitimate specialty. Courts accepted forensic nurses as expert witnesses. Nursing schools began offering training programs. What had once been dismissed as unnecessary interference became the standard of care.

© Women In World History

#archaeohistories

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Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

4 months ago

@Mr_Husky1 Yes it happened

Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@lady_valor_07 Yes- right here

Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@Matt_Pinner Leverage Leverage Redemption Pysch Full house Grey’s Anatomy Outlander Call the midwife Bridgerton American wife Golden girls I love Lucy Green acres Little house on the prairie Reading rainbow Sesame Street Barney Beverly hillbillies Knots landing

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Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@lady_valor_07 I have all of those and a vcr too.

Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@BlakPantherBabe 1. Patrick McMahons 2. Dion Sanders 3. Troy Akiman 4. Beesely Reece (oh he played for the Cowboys, Buckneers, and the Giants in the 80’s) 5. Tom Brady 6. Payton Manning Ladies know a few of the names

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Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@otokyo Tennis

Tanna Evans @RevTEvans

5 months ago

@cositamosha_fan Unless it is a nursing newborn or medically disabled child and needs care then it’s their wedding. Communication is key.

RevTEvans retweeted

AshleY

@Aku_700

5 months ago

I drive Uber on the night shift. At 2 AM, I picked up a guy from a hospital. He got in the back, looking shell-shocked. Didn't say a word. We drove in silence for ten minutes. Then I heard a sniffle. I glanced in the rearview. He was staring out the window, tears streaming down his face. "Rough night?" I asked quietly. "My wife," he choked out. "She just... the cancer. She's gone." My heart stopped. I turned off the meter. "I'm not taking you home yet," I said. He looked up, confused. "What?" "You can't go to an empty house right now. Not yet." I pulled into an all-night diner. "Come on. Coffee and pie. On me." He hesitated, then nodded. We sat in that booth for three hours. He told me about her laugh. How they met. How she hated peas. I just listened. When I finally dropped him off at 6 AM, the sun was coming up. He shook my hand. "Thank you," he said. "For not making me be alone in the dark." I didn't make a dime that night. But it was the most important drive of my life. Credit:- @Emilia0700

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RevTEvans retweeted

Mr PitBull Stories

@MrPitbull07

5 months ago

“My neighbour is 79. Her husband died three years ago, and her daughter lives in Oregon. I noticed her car hadn’t moved in weeks, and her grass was getting really long. I knocked one Saturday and asked if she needed anything from the store. She teared up and said she’d stopped driving after a small fender-bender scared her, but she was too embarrassed to ask for help. Now every Sunday, I text her my grocery list and ask for hers. We go together. It takes an extra forty minutes, but she lights up the whole trip. She tells me stories about when the town was different, points out deals I miss, and always insists on buying me a coffee at the store café. Last month she told me, “You’ve given me a reason to plan my weeks again. I actually think about what I want to cook now.” Such a small thing. But it matters so much to her.”

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