As political leaders
play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I
worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting
the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch
on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This
disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both
my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so
we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own
incomes.
My brother stands alone.
So as the political
pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income
people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep
being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead
someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.
My brother has learning
disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could
identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address
these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the
weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words.
He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we
discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes.
His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted
versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other
children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early
Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and
became a teacher for Head Start.
His low salary at Head
Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a
custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He
felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the
years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to
work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through
hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always
works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He
represents the working poor in this country.
My brother lives a
modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell
phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that
someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own
a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation
consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local
movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his
income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to
understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.
If my brother carries
the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental
programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t
stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My
sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes
won’t bare the weight of a second household.
When I hear and see
mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have
less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much,
don’t want to understand that Life
isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government,
to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people
manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that
won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb
to Huntington’s downward spiral.
I am not a statistic.
My sister is not a
statistic.
My brother is not a
statistic.
So when I cast my vote
in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
