This is What the Norm Looks Like

Waiting in the waiting room, with the forms that detailed every tiny bit of my pathetic life and a small paper number in hand, was the most humiliating experience of my life. I sat there, feeling sorry for myself in a way that many 19-year-olds never have to experience.

I finally worked up the courage to look at the others around me. They were women. They had children. They were cold; keeping jackets and sometimes gloves on in the frigid waiting room. They were there because their employers had cut health insurance. They were there because their ex-husband wouldn’t pay his child support and they didn’t have the money for a lawyer. They were there because they lost their jobs and couldn’t keep the lights on or feed their children. They were there because he walked out one night after 15 years of marriage and there was no way they were going to get a job with a 16-year gap in their resume without going back to school.

It was then I realized that everything I had been taught about welfare was wrong. These women and their children weren’t dirty. I didn’t see anyone there with more than three children. They weren’t lazy or joking about all of the free money they would be receiving. Not a single one of them looked drugged out of their minds. They weren’t stupid. Most of them kept their heads down, staring at their laps, just as I had done. They were ashamed, embarrassed. They were wishing to be anywhere other than here.

I grew up poor. It was hard for me to acknowledge this for the longest time, because so many around me grew up poor as well. It’s hard to tell that you’re living in poverty when nearly all of your classmates are also living in poverty. And those who weren’t technically living in poverty? Their parents were still living from paycheck to paycheck. I remember the Christmas where my mother told me we had $18 for the holiday. We bought a present for each of us at Wal-Mart and the makings for spaghetti for Christmas dinner, and felt very proud of ourselves for making the money stretch that far. My mother worked 60 hours a week and had health insurance. We had a huge garden each year. We gathered the walnuts that fell in my great-grandmother’s yard each year and sold them. We lived off well water and wood heat and spotty electricity. My mother struck a deal with the dance teacher in order for me to take dance lessons with my friends. We made it work because my mother was too proud to go on welfare, but I firmly believe now that we should have been in that damn office asking for assistance. My mother made herself ill working so hard. She and I both were severely underweight. There were so many things that an extra hundred dollars a month and some commodity food could have done for us.

But, all of this is to say that I was used to making-do. I was used to going without. I was used to entering the high school football games at halftime so I didn’t have to ask my mom for the price of a ticket.

I went to college with a GED, a baby on my hip, and a scholarship that paid for it all. I took out student loans to keep gas in the car I bought for $750 and my son in preschool while I was in class. I knew how to budget, and I even had a job in the vice-president of the university’s office, working part-time. I took 15-18 credit hours each term to finish up early. I placed myself on student health insurance through the university to save my mother some of her paycheck. Then I got sick—cancerous cells in my reproductive tract—and student health insurance dropped me, and I was pre-existing now, so I couldn’t go back to my mom’s insurance, and the only option left for me to get treatment—TO LIVE—was to get Medicaid.

The system is horrific and intrusive and shameful. I won’t bore with you all of the details, but I think anyone who’s ever had to deal with this can tell you that it’s not easy, it’s not fun, and it’s something you want to put behind you as fast as you can. There’s nothing like a government office questioning every decision you make in your life in order for you to get health insurance and daycare assistance (so I could pay some of the medical bills I had already racked up). I’m not the only one to feel this way, apparently—two additional women have written about their experiences with poverty and welfare this week (and in light of the drastic SNAP cuts Congress has recently passed).

So, I can tell you, when I see the vitriol and ignorance on my Facebook feed, I seethe. When I see people who have never had to struggle for more than a matter of a few weeks, or maybe a couple of months, pass judgment on the large chunk of our citizenry who struggles for years on end, I want to rant and curse and scream. Because, I am not out of the norm. I AM THE NORM. The people who accept assistance often look like me, and look like the others who’ve written on the subject recently. Don’t believe me? Then look up the numbers for how many people have actually been denied assistance for failing the mandatory drug testing in your state. And then look up the lifetime maximum for benefits in your state. I think you’ll be surprised.

You need to educate yourself. You need to hear stories like mine. You need to understand that without assistance, I would be dead. I would not have been able to finish my college education, go on to get a graduate degree, get a great job with a pension and buy a nice house and entertain the thought of sending that baby on my hip to an Ivy League school. You need to understand that assistance is there for a reason, and I am that reason.

On Inspiration Porn and Representation

I know, I know, I need to update you on the contest winner of the spam comment content (I will, I promise) and I also need to post something about the snownami that’s precluded me from getting numerous things done for the past week (because it was pretty damn funny, in hindsight) but before then I need to write a post. It’s not often that I feel compelled to write a post.

I need to write a post about ‘inspiration porn’ and the fallout I witnessed on a fellow blogger’s Facebook page when he dared to post that basketball video. Do you know which one I mean? It’s all over the Book of Face. It’s the one where the team allowed the team manager to suit up and play in the final game. He scores the last points of the game, after a member of the opposing team hands him the ball. His team had set him up with the ball several times, to no avail. It went in the final time. The big hoopla (pun completely intended) that started on Jim’s Facebook page was because the team manager had a developmental disability.

Inspiration porn (here is a much better description) as a term and as a critique hit the interwebs in a big, bad way last year. Several people with disabilities took offense to Tumblr/Pinterest pictures that, in essence, depict individuals with disabilities going about their lives with quotes that stated—in one shape or another—that those without disabilities should 1) stop whining about how hard their lives are, 2) see how difficult it can be for those with disabilities, and 3) be inspired to be better (usually physically) than we are now because those with disabilities are doing things that we would stereotypically think they were unable to do. That’s the inspiration part. The porn part comes about by having one’s body objectified for someone else’s emotional benefit.

Case in point, you can find this  picture on
Tumblr with titles such as "Suck it up, buttercup,"
and "No excuses".

And? I will readily admit that this sucks, I think it's wrong, and my eyes were opened quite a bit by the post I linked to in the paragraph above.  Yet…

While the basketball video didn’t have some items (the quote, for instance) that would mark it as inspiration porn, it did have some of the characteristics. Basketball games, for high school boys interested in such things, could be considered everyday business. There was someone with a disability present in it. And then there were able-bodied teen boys who were trying to assist him (with or without his desire for them to help him; we cannot know for certain) with something that they thought he wanted to do, and then feeling good about what they’d done. Oh, and the coach—who came up with this plan—felt pretty damn good about himself as well.

Nevertheless, many people—those with disabilities and those without-- consider the video to be a heartwarming depiction of how we should treat our fellow man—including those with disabilities. Others--a select group--thought it completely infringed on that young man’s rights, and objectified him in the hopes of making those without disabilities feel good about themselves and the world. Bickering in the comments of the post ensued (I used the nice words, here).

I spent the last 24 hours thinking about this in some really deep ways. First, I wasn’t certain the basketball video was inspiration porn to begin with. Was this young man objectified? Was this story video made to make those without disabilities better about themselves? I went back and forth over this for quite some time. I would want people to help my children achieve their dreams—even if they are not able to completely do something (like make the basketball team) by themselves.

Then, I realized it didn’t really matter, because something much larger was at work.

I am familiar with some mass communication research about the depiction of minorities. A scholar by the name of Cedric Clark came up with a model for minority representation in mass communication. He had four stages, and while I won’t bore you with all the deliciously nerdy details, these four stages have given birth to quite a bit of research and further elaboration of models that might fit what we witness when it comes to representing minorities on television.

His four stages were:

1.      Non-recognition- A given minority group is not acknowledged by the dominant media to even exist.

2.      Ridicule- Certain minority characters are portrayed as stupid, silly, lazy, irrational, or simply laughable.

3.      Regulation- Certain minority characters are presented as enforcers or administrators of the dominant group’s norms.

4.      Respect - The minority group in question is portrayed no differently than any other group. Interracial relationships would also not appear extraordinary.

Even though he meant to apply these stages primarily to representations of African-Americans on television, the model has been expanded to include almost any minority group in any media—including American Indians, those with disabilities, those who are GLBQT, etc.  

So, let’s take a look, for just a minute, at this basketball video and decide which stage it belongs in (inspiration porn or no, although I’m not convinced that it is). First, I think we can easily say that it doesn’t fit in stage one. If it were in stage one, there wouldn’t have been a video.

I think it’s also safe to say that this video doesn’t fit in stage two. The young man is not being ridiculed, is he? He’s not the subject of mockery. He’s not depicted as silly, lazy or irrational.

So, what about stage three? Does this video fit into stage three? I would argue yes. Here is the story of a young man and an act that attempts to move us to feel empathetic, bring happiness, and, to put it bluntly—demonstrate a compassionate way to treat someone, according to the dominant group. While he himself is not the person in the role of administrator, per se, he has the same desires as his peers without disabilities, and he is given the chance to play on the court with them. It reinforces the dominant group’s current belief that those individuals with disabilities should be included in activities they desire whenever possible, even when that includes additional help. This is, in my opinion, where our dominant belief resides right now.

I think it goes without saying that we are not at stage four. In fact, we can easily say that we’re not solidly in stage four for any minority group.  Again, I could bore you to death by quoting study after study to this effect, or I can simply ask you: can you think of a single television show with a gay couple that doesn’t point out they’re gay? Do you ever see a news story that doesn’t point out a ‘black man’ when the accused is African American? Do you routinely see American Indians depicted on television without their ethnicity being mentioned? How about Max on Parenthood? How many episodes have dealt with his diagnosis? 

So, while I understand that there are significant problems with the portrayal of individuals with disabilities in this country, and yes, I understand that an individual with a disability doesn’t need to be pigeonholed into the role of ‘looking for a cure’, or ‘hero’ or ‘charity-case’, I am actually pretty darn happy that those with disabilities are at stage three. It’s not perfect, and I get that. We should continue to strive for stage four, but let’s not forget that stage three is a whole helluva lot better than stages one or two. It means we’re making progress. It means that we can be at a stage four at some point in time. It means that we are setting the stage for respect and recognition—no different than anyone else—because we are distinctly making efforts to change the dominant groups’ perceptions.

Common Ground

Where I grew up, the cycle of the year was ticked off by the seasons. Opening day of trout season. Time to plant the garden. Time to pick strawberries. Then blueberries. Then the blackberries which grew wild in our backyard. Crappie fishing.  Time to dig up the garden. Time to freeze and dry and can. Bow season. Rifle season. Turkey and deer. Ducks. Pheasants. This was the way many families put food on the table. This was the way my family often put food on the table. This is what I would prefer to put on my table, if only I had the time.

I grew up around guns. I took gun safety and hunter’s education classes. I shot guns. I enjoy eating the product of a rifle or a shotgun. In fact, if I remember correctly, while I was in high school, you could even bring your rifle to the school parking lot (for some before- or after-school hunting) as long as it was visibly in a gun rack in the back window.

I’m certain that’s changed by now; I went to high school before Columbine. Nevertheless, guns were not an issue.

And then they were. And I still believed in the second amendment. I understand that most liberals do not support the second amendment. I remained silent about my beliefs, because I also understand the right to NOT arm one’s self.

And you do have the right to not arm yourself. I cannot judge you for that choice; I don’t want to judge you for that choice. When J and I had sons, we made the conscious decision to not have guns in the house during their childhood. Our children are precocious, and I take no chances with my children. I understand those who want to take no chances with their children, too.

We have this in common.

You see, there are some things I agree with, when it comes to those who would prefer to outright ban firearms. I don’t just see differences. I see the similarities.

People get their hands on guns way too easy these days. People get their hands on semi-automatic assault rifles WAY too easy. I want assault rifles re-banned. I want extended clips banned. I want the gun show loophole banned. I want hollow point ammunition banned. I want it to be impossible for private parties to sell their guns to other private parties without the transfer of registration—like you have to do with a car—and a background check. I do not mind waiting for five days, a week, ten days, etc. I don’t like conceal and carry licenses, because I think it’s way too easy to get one.

And while I’ve—for the most part—kept my mouth shut on this topic until last week, now I HAVE to speak up. You have to know that I exist. That others, like me, exist.

Because the NRA does not represent me.

Because the NRA does not represent the majority of gun owners. Most gun owners I know don’t think people should be able to buy an assault rifle on the internet. At a Wal-Mart. At all, even.

Because I do not believe in a database tracking those who’ve expressed concerns over their mental health.

Because there are 24 legislators who are trying to pass a bill in my state that would allow teachers and administrators to conceal and carry in MY CHILDREN’S SCHOOLS. I don’t mind resource officers and off-duty or retired police officers being present during school starts, lunches, and dismissals. I’m willing to talk about that; hell, that’s been a common practice in our secondary schools for quite some time now. But, I don’t want armed volunteers—people I do not know, people who may not be adequately trained—around my children, with or without me being present. I want to tell you why I think that’s a bad idea.

Because I think the issue here is a complex one, including multiple areas of discussion—especially adequate mental health services-- but while we need to get that under control, we still need some limits on weapons someone can buy. The NRA talks about a slippery slope, and I see a half-pipe. Ban assault rifles and we might ban everything? Have you ever considered the other way around? Have you ever considered if you would feel comfortable with your neighbor having a tank? Grenades? A missile launcher?

I am in the Common Ground. I am waiting for everyone else to join me for civil, rational discussion.

I am the upstanding citizen who does not believe in the repeal of the Second Amendment, but wants to compromise with those who may. Who wants to legitimately listen to THEIR SIDE of things. Who wants to be heard over the voices of the vocal minorities, like the NRA.

I am the voice that says—everyone in this country deserves to feel safer than they do now. Every child in this nation deserves to go to school in a safe, innocent place. Individuals currently have the right to demonstrate their responsible gun ownership, but that doesn’t have to be with military-grade weapons, and they don’t have to, if they don’t want to. How can we make this happen for the most people possible? What should responsible gun ownership look like?

I am in the Common Ground, and I am waiting for you to join me for discussion in the Common Ground.