"When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way,
But now these days are gone and I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind I've opened up the doors.
Help me if you can...." (Lennon/McCartney)
Charity. Compassion. Generosity. Solidarity. Whatever you call it, the whole notion of "help" is loaded with complicated emotions. My parents were part of the World War II generation, and it sure didn't seem like they needed much of it. Mortgages were cheap, jobs with benefits were plentiful, and saving was possible, When that proverbial 'rainy day' arrived (even if it lasted months), they were inevitably ensconced in a secure, waterproof shelter. They seemed to me utterly immunized against vulnerability. And I grew up expecting, at least on some level, that I would lead the same life.
Historical perspective would force us to recognize the extent to which they benefited from the 'help' of millions of workers, heroes who fought and sacrificed so that future workers could have those benefits that afforded them a standard of living that enabled them not to need 'help'. I knew some of these things in an academic way, but in times of great duress and wrenching vulnerability, we are informed far more by our gut and barely at all by our intellect. And my gut told me that to need help was to be a failure. Millions of others had succeeded, after all, had provided for themselves and their families in a dignified way, a seemingly independent way, and the way that we were told was the appropriate consequence of right living.
But now those days are gone, indeed. And 'self assured' is the very last thing I've felt of late.
Through a series of events that are most remarkable only in how commonplace they are, my family and I have been struggling for years to survive in a manner that resembles nothing so much as that fabled Sisyphean task. We labor and sweat and fight and exhaust ourselves pushing the boulder of debt and expensive health care and housing up the hill, broiling under a merciless plutocratic sun, only to topple to the bottom and crash, despairing of finding the will or the strength to try again.
The details probably aren't particularly important or interesting. Dental bills, car repair, school bills, trying to run a small business in a struggling economy - they are pretty similar to myriad stories all around the United States. No front page type tragedies here, just the tragedies of quiet despair that afflict millions of American workers. I could not pay my bills. Sometimes, my utilities were turned off. Sometimes my garbage was not collected. Creditors grew nasty and harassed me. Sometimes they threatened me. My teeth went unrepaired, as did my roof - the pain from the teeth bothered me a lot more than the leaking from the roof. Scrambling to tread water that was churning and cold and filled with terrifying unholy creatures, I knew what would happen if that water rose above our heads. I'd seen many others slide beneath the surface and never reemerge. Every morning, I'd wake up feeling strangled - there is probably a medical explanation for the throttled-throat sensation that accompanies unending fear. Looking down the road more than a few days brought panic attacks. And I felt as gut-shreddingly alone as that hapless survivor of a nuclear attack in the old Twilight Zone episode.
It's difficult to describe the foul stew of emotions that marinate around those plunged into these circumstances. Picture yourself a high school freshman, fourteen years old and utterly awkward, unsure of where to go or how to get there. You are standing in front of your locker, a piece of paper in hand containing the magic combination. All around you people are effortlessly opening their lockers, dumping books and coats in, slamming them shut. It looks more than easy, it looks effortless. But when you try that combination you were given, your locker remains irresolutely stuck, refusing to budge. Nothing. Are you doing it wrong? Is the number wrong? How can you even tell the difference? And you get angry at yourself and angry at the locker and angry for ever being put in such a conundrum. Do you ask for help? The humiliation - and other consequences - of admitting you cannot succeed at such a basic task might not be worth the result.
What would be best, the solution of the highest order, would be for someone to offer help, an offer born of genuine concern and not pity, from someone who understood that things are rarely as easy as they are perceived to be. Someone who wouldn't think less of you for your struggle. But in this world, it seems you'd be more likely to encounter a unicorn by a crystal stream. Such help is the very rarest of gifts.
A few months ago, my own situation had descended into a place that terrified me, hourly. Bad news arrived on a similar schedule. I felt my center, that core part that is sometimes called 'character', sometimes, 'soul', begin to flake away, to disintegrate. F. Scott Fitzgerald described a type of wound he called "splits in the skin" and he said they wouldn't heal properly because there wasn't enough material. As the days went by and even the possibility that hope might re-emerge seemed to fade, I felt riddled by thousands of such splits. When life is torn by an intense period of great stress or a sudden shocking upheaval, you begin to feel as though you are inhabiting someone else's life. It's not one you want to keep, that's a certainty. The "Talking Heads" described that cognitive dissonance, that "Through the Looking Glass" misery, with these lyrics,
"And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!"
No, this is not me, no, not who I am. This is not my life. It can't be, because I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to fix things. I am alone. Disoriented, depressed, and utterly at a loss for solutions, I found myself on a precipice.
But here is what is so amazing: that unicorn showed up. It wasn't magic, it was sent by a person whom I can only describe as my "Huckleberry Friend", the one living person who knows the best parts of my life and shared them with me - and knows all the rest, too. She knew what was happening . And despite having plenty of problems of her own, she also knew exactly what to do. She didn't offer, didn't ask. She acted. One day, in the mail, along with the usual late notices and frightening bills, I found a manilla envelope. In the envelope were gift cards. They were for a store that sold everything - groceries, household items, pet supplies, everything. There were eight of them, and they were worth $25 each. She didn't send me cash, so there was no question that I needed to divert this windfall to making a payment on that gas bill that had been looming. No, these cards were for groceries.
So I went to the store, and I shopped. I bought things that I needed and things that I wanted. And for the first time in months, I felt - just for that time I spent in the store - like a regular person, a competent person, a person with a task and means to accomplish it.
More cards arrived. And every week, I bought groceries. Once, according to her request, I gave each of my children a card to spend however they wished. And they got to feel what I'd felt - cared for, a person with choices and maybe - maybe - hope.
She sent me a lot of gift cards. I don't remember how many. I do know that they arrived when I needed them the most, and they were an overwhelming practical help . But they were much more. They gave me something a lot more useful than even the groceries I dragged home, in satisfactorily heavy bags, weekly. They told me I was not alone. Somebody cared enough to help me, and they did it without making me feel shame, or a failure, or a burden. Things can get better, and that was an idea I had begun to wholly reject.
It also made me realize that though not everyone has a "Huckleberry Friend" who can help them when they most need it, everyone should. Because as human beings, we are indeed entitled. The word, "entitlement" has been smeared, just like the word "liberal" or, God forbid, "socialist". But just like those package directions that tell us,, "For best results, proceed as follows....", to get through this life with hope, and dignity and joy and purpose, for best results, do it in community. Do it in solidarity with those who can help you and whom you can help. Work to create a society where all of us have that security that comes from knowing that, in times of trouble, we're not alone. We deserve institutions of government that recognize this, that assure us that when we need assistance, we'll have food, shelter, health care. We'll have the support of those who can help, and, in turn, when we can, we will help others. We do not have to live in a landscape out of "Lord of the Flies". Community - the ultimate family value.