Most children
live for weekends, holidays, and summer break. Without the structure of
public school, a place where I was fed a free hot lunch every weekday (and
breakfast, too, for a time), I went hungry a lot of the time school wasn’t in
session. At home I lived on rations of free government cheese, free
government peanut butter, and potatoes. I was a child freeloader. I’m
not being hyperbolic, Mitt. For years and years, I just took and took.
I had to. School was my only comfort, my only enthusiasm in life. I
was an only child, and because my mother was in an abusive marriage, she was
both physically and mentally unavailable to care for me. She was, quite
literally, a victim. And I guess I was, too. I know that’s not my
fault. But it was my reality. School was my refuge, the place where
I quickly discovered that I could get noticed and even rewarded if I studied
hard and performed well for my teachers. Turns out, straight A’s trump
warning signs: the teachers picture you getting everything you need when you
work hard, perform well, give them what they want and more than they expect.
The teachers loved me, Mitt. They challenged me and nurtured my
potential; they gave me goals, a reason to look forward, a reason to achieve,
to be. I didn’t have organized extracurricular activities like ballet or
karate or gymnastics; I didn’t go on vacation; I didn’t have family home
evening; and, sometimes, we went through periods of no power and no phone.
These are the years I hijacked my mother’s clothing and tried to pass it off as
my own, rolling up the legs to her terry-cloth jumpsuits and tying the arm ties
as high as they would go. I would roll and fold all of her clothes until
they fit, sort of. Because I was petite and undernourished, nothing
really fit. Luckily, I was still able to wear many of the clothes at age
ten that I wore at age seven, though they were too short and absolutely worn
out. If my neglected self had been transported to the now, surely someone
would have called the authorities. “She’s wearing her mother’s clothing,”
a teacher from today might whisper through the phone lines to Child Protective
Services. “There is a big rat in her hair.” But, honestly, because
I was achieving, no one worried. I couldn’t depend on anyone—not a teacher, not
a church, not a private charity to “save” me.
I recall feeling
self-conscious about not having: I remember one school assignment where
we were to record every speck of food we ate for a week so that we could all
take part in a nutrition lesson. This is one instance where I must have
been aware that how we lived, how we ate, how we didn’t eat, was abnormal.
I only ate breakfast when it was served at school. Other mornings, I went
without. Because of the school lunch program for the underserved, I
always had a hot lunch during the week. And my dinnertime was irregular
and usually consisted of inexpensive ingredients my mother would pick out from
the discount grocer and pay for with food stamps. Mostly, we ate
macaroni, canned tomatoes, discount and expired meats and breads, vegetables in
dented cans. And there were always potatoes. So I didn’t seem impoverished or
deprived in the meal-log my teachers would see and grade, I made up an
elaborate week’s worth of eating. I remember going through my mother’s
cookbooks and writing down dinners I wished we’d had. I clearly recall
writing down lobster at one point. I’m sure my teachers got a giggle there.
The point is:
public school saved me, Mitt. My teachers saved me. Government assistance
saved me. My food, my inoculations, everything, came from the government.
Fortitude, determination, and resilience also saved me. This is why I
always knew I wanted to become what I most revered—a teacher. I achieved
that. I have a PhD, in fact (thanks to Pell grants, subsidized loans, and
fellowships). I don’t make much money, because I teach at-risk children
(with money acquired from grants I wrote myself). But I’m living my
dream. I feel like I’m making a difference. Maybe not to you, because I’m
part of the 47%. But I’m making a difference to someone. And, rich
or poor, everyone matters.
What if every
American Dream isn’t to be wealthy? What if my American Dream is to be a
teacher or a nun or a painter or a writer or a ballet dancer or an opera singer
or a musician or a mechanic or a nanny or a hairdresser? I’m willing to bet,
Mitt, that you have some paintings on the walls of your home. And I’m
hoping you possess some great books. I imagine you have experienced live
theater, maybe even opera. And surely you have some music you love.
Perhaps you like to eat at restaurants. Most people who enrich this
society—artists, musicians, dancers, writers, teachers, restaurant workers,
social workers, and teachers—are part of that 47% you said you don’t care
about. Would you care if all of those things you love, things created by
the 47%, were removed from your house? Artless walls, bookless shelves,
foodless refrigerator (farmers don’t make much, you know) . . . . Your house
was probably built by the 47%. If the 47% fell off the Earth, we’d be in
a sorry state of affairs.
We are all
contributors to this country and to this world; several citizens of this
country have dreams that aren’t necessarily fed by wanting to reach a higher tax
bracket. This isn’t to say that wealth is inherently evil or bad or that
it makes people greedy or immoral. The privileged members of the Kennedy
family, for example, have advocated for the arts, the underserved, and the
environment without demeaning those who haven’t had the same opportunities or
who choose lives of poverty in order to chase their dreams. I know.
I know. Who is supposed to pay for these dreams? All of us—the
100%. That’s not socialist thinking. It’s civilized thinking.
I want to, in
closing, talk about the people you call “victims.” My question on that
point is this: Are victims, true victims, not entitled to take part in
democracy? In American life? Are they inhuman? Is it moral
that the victims of our society—(adult and child) victims of domestic and
sexual abuse, vets with mental trauma, those unmedicated for mental illness,
the neglected, the disabled, et cetera—suffer without basic medical care?
Without food? Is it okay that they die? A society is made up of all
types of people—some poor because of their passions, some poor because of their
fate. Is there nothing here for the lost, the needy, the rejected, the
exiled, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free?
If not, we best remove the Statue of Liberty and in its place put a gigantic
statue of a dollar sign.
Carissa Neff
Carissa Neff
writes, edits, teaches, and busts her ass as a stay-at-home mother while her
husband brings home the real bacon. She lives in the People’s Republic of
Austin, Texas.
