Life in Romney's 'Safety Net'

You've probably heard about GOP presidential candidate Mitt Romney's statement on Wednesday that he is "not concerned about the very poor" because "we have a safety net there." (For the CNN story, click here.) Pressed to clarify, Romney cited programs like food stamps, Medicaid, and housing vouchers as elements of this "safety net" which presumably rescues those in the most dire circumstances and prevents illness, homelessness, and deaths among the "very poor."

Continuing with his metaphor of the safety net, Romney stated, "If it needs repair, I'll fix it." I couldn't help but wonder what kind of repairs would be performed by a man whose party has consistently fought funding for badly needed social programs, programs that help pull people out of poverty and ultimately help the economy flourish, but are fought tooth and nail because they temporarily leave less money for politicians' pet projects and unnecessary wars.

I'm a Democrat, but I don't have a mouth-frothing, all-encompassing hatred for Romney like some people seem to harbor for their opposing party's candidates. At least he doesn't scare me as much as some others have. But as many have pointed out, his belief in this safety net highlights how out of touch he is with reality.

The arrogant belief that the poor have it easy because of welfare and food stamps and free medical care is not Romney's belief alone, however. It's something I've heard from many, many people who have never been there. I would like to sit down with Romney, and my friends who believe as he does that the poor are protected and safe, and describe in detail what life is like in his 'safety net.'

I'd like to tell Mitt Romney how many hours one has to sacrifice from the job hunt to sit in the Income Support Office waiting to apply for food stamps, and the very specific and prolific paperwork one has to produce to procure them. You have to prove income and residency and all sorts of other things that you might not have because you don't get mail when you're living in your car, you haven't had a pay stub in 18 months, or all your paperwork is 20 miles away in storage and you have no car, no bus fare, and no support system. And if you do receive food stamps, you will still have to find a way to buy toothpaste and toilet paper. Think those aren't necessities to stay alive? Try living without them for a week.

See how easy it is to get a housing voucher, especially if you are single, without children, able-bodied, and relatively young. Do you think there are dozens of empty apartments out there just waiting for one of the very poor to qualify for one and move in? No, there are hundreds, thousands in some cities, of people on a waiting list for just one place to live.

And if you are fortunate enough to be capable of producing the necessary documentation and passing the interviews and waiting period to obtain Medicaid, you can look forward to hours- or days-long waits in hospital emergency rooms, and months-long waits to see an actual primary care doctor. Need a specialist for your heart disease or schizophrenia? Sorry, the specialty clinics are so full they are no longer even accepting people on the waiting lists.

The insulated ignorant might feel better believing that everyone who is sleeping on the streets tonight is there by choice or a moral failing of some sort - mentally ill people who don't take their meds, drug addicts, drifters...but a large (and fastest growing) segment of the homeless population is families with children. Some can't get treatment for their mental illness. Far too many are veterans, American heroes going hungry, heroes people think they are helping by placing magnets on their cars.

And too often, the same people complaining about the proliferation of junkies and crazy criminals, are the same people shouting for Congress to cut funding for health care and treatment programs that could and would help those people, reduce their numbers, reduce nuisance panhandling and crime, and improve local tourism and economies.

Regardless of what many believe, no one plans or chooses to be very poor. You won't believe me about any of this until it happens to you, and you find that that safety net is more like one single thin thread that cuts into your hands as you hang on for dear life. If there were a working safety net for the very poor, no one in America would ever die cold and alone, curled up under newspapers in a park.

Merry Whatever. Did I Offend You?

Around the debate of saying "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays," a lot of the grousing I hear from Christians and others who advocate saying "Merry Christmas" revolves around the assumption that people are trying not to offend someone, and that people might be or are offended when one wishes them a "Merry Christmas."

I usually say "Happy Holidays," not because I am afraid of offending someone, but because I want to be inclusive of all people celebrating this time of year, whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Winter Solstice, Festivus, or Other. I know no one is going to be offended if I say "Merry Christmas." Never in my life has any person of a different religion from my own expressed verbal or nonverbal discontent after I wished them a "Merry Christmas."

However, if you as a Christian are getting upset at the people wishing others "Happy Holidays," the message you are sending is, "You are not validating my particular religious holiday, and therefore I am offended."

If you think inclusivity is a bad thing, is it because it you enjoy getting special attention for your particular celebration, rather than being lumped into a group?

Yes, you have the right to wish someone a "Merry Christmas," and if that person gets offended, so be it. But in my observances lately, the only ones expressing offense are the Christians who believe it is somehow wrong, or at least less right, to invite believers of other faiths into the celebratory fold.

In Memory of September 11: They Must Be Stopped

On this day of sadness and remembrance, my love for America must supersede my admiration for political correctness.

The only way to properly honor those whose lives were taken on September 11, 2001, especially those who gave their lives to help others, is to accept the truth, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I consider myself to be an educated and tolerant person, but my friends, my family, trusted members of the media, religious leaders, they have all taught me how important it is to know the truth...to know what evil looks like, so that it can be stopped.

For some of you it will be hard to swallow, but the fact is that there is a group of people who think that under certain circumstances, it is actually heroic to kill an innocent person. Usually those circumstances are formed in their own heads, or by some ancient religious teaching. They believe God told them to kill, so they kill. They murder out of a love for God, as messed up as that sounds.

They keep pointing to the purity of their basic religious tenets. They argue that just because some people of their faith are violent, doesn't make it a violent religion, that modern times have created splinter groups, extremists, etc. But the truth is that even the original writings glorify, in several places, killing innocent people, war, the oppression of women, the abuse of children, and doing away with entire societies thought to be antagonistic to their faith -- infidels.

In these certain circumstances, they don't even consider killing to be wrong or evil. They think they are preventing evil by killing someone who might do evil. They claim their religion is one of peace and love, but in reality it is exclusionary and rooted in fear and violence.

They say they want to be part of everyday society, but on a regular basis they gather with their similarly closed-minded brethren and plot ways to recruit, convert, intimidate, and regulate the rest of us into thinking like they think, or else. They claim to be patriotic Americans, but they insist that theirs is the only religion that has any validity to it at all.

In some communities in which they are the majority, they have even warped and twisted the United States Constitution, which is supposed to be religiously objective and fair to all. They have used their political connections to pass laws that clearly favor their way of life. Some of these laws mandate government officials to let them lead their prayers at public events, or require all citizens to honor their holy books. As horrific as this sounds, they have even pushed for laws that allow parents to withhold lifesaving medical treatment for their children when they are ill. This goes way beyond the arena of religious freedom and into the arena of amorality -- evil.

I'm not advocating that they should be deported or harmed. I do believe in the United States Constitution, and that means they have the right to believe whatever they want to believe. We have to be understanding, and we should be accepting and tolerant -- more so than they are. We can get along with them.

But we should still be vigilant, always on the lookout for danger, whether that danger is in the form of one of them plotting to bomb a building, or plotting to pass a law infringing on our constitutionally protected rights.

These religious fundamentalists threaten our families and our way of life. Their violent history, their passionate hold on the notion that only they are right, their hypocritical professions of peace...on this anniversary of September 11, 2001, and on every other day, we cannot allow their threats to continue. They must be stopped. So, keep alert and be on the lookout for them.

They're called Christians.

Viewing the Body

I mentally prepared myself for the worst. I'd heard the reports, and even seen some photos, but I had to see for myself, even though I knew it would be horrific, shocking, and painful. The closer I got, the more anxious I became, wanting the moment to come so I could get it over with. I had to view the remains.

No one came with me. There was no funeral director, supportive family member, or pastor to guide my grief. I was alone, driving in my car, up Highway 4 from San Ysidro, through Jemez Springs and on toward the Valles Caldera National Preserve, my favorite place on the planet (of those I've seen so far). My trip would take me past Bandelier National Monument, and to the outskirts of Los Alamos.

The Los Conchas Fire had been burning for almost four weeks, and was burning still even despite the steady rain falling as I drove through the mountains. Well contained by now, and on its way out, it had at one point threatened many of my family members and the sacred places I had spent with them. But the danger was over for most of the places relevant to my life, and it was time for me to go and assess the damage for myself. It wasn't enough to hear from my cousin which places were burned, or how extensively, or how close it had come to the Los Alamos National Laboratory site where he worked. Even the thousands of photographs and videos I saw online and on television weren't enough. I had to see it for myself.

Most psychologists and professionals in the funeral industry will tell you that it's important upon the death of a loved one, that you actually view the body of the deceased. Donald W. Steele, Ph.D., explains that viewing the body is more important now because of societal changes where people die more often in hospitals than in homes, attended to by medical personnel rather than by family members. Even after death, he explains, "when a person died it was left to the family to minister to the dead, or at least to spend time with the body, which was kept at home until the funeral. In
contrast today, the professional funeral director takes charge of the deceased's body and helps the family in planning for the funeral."

Some experts cite that it can be comforting to view the body after it has been prepared by a funeral professional, especially if the last view of that living person had been one after a ravaging illness or traumatic bodily injury. I'm not sure I can wrap my mind around the comfort aspect. In the only instances of bodies I've seen prepared for viewing, they didn't look beautiful, or "so lifelike," or "like they were sleeping." They looked dead. I still see Megan Bell, the 16-year-old cheerleader who'd been decapitated in the car accident that took her life, while hearing the people around me comment on how she looked so beautiful and natural. All I could focus on was the very obvious, makeup-caked scar across her neck.

Comfort aside, however, the main reason cited for the importance of viewing the body of the deceased is for reality testing. Most people are in some level of denial that a person has died, even if the person can intellectually acknowledge that the deceased is gone. While a viewing doesn't automatically fix emotional denial, it helps it resolve a little faster. In the desperation of crushing grief, the mind can manufacture almost any alternate reality to comfort itself that maybe that person isn't really dead.

I remember thinking once in a while that maybe my father wasn't really gone, but that the 13-year-old foster child with him at the time of his death, had manufactured the whole thing as a hoax to perpetrate a money-grab scam or to get attention. And, maybe my whole family was in on pretending that my mother had died, to punish me for arguing with her days before. During the months that my mother's ashes were in a box stored in my closet, waiting for a suitable time to scatter them, I can clearly recall several instances when I sort of expected her to walk out of my closet. Many times I've been grateful that I never had to see either of my parents after their deaths, but I acknowledge it probably would have helped me progress in my grief.

It was eerie driving through the forest on a warm summer Saturday, seeing the picnic grounds, camping areas, monuments, and hiking trails, normally crawling with tourists, now as abandoned as a ghost town. My hands gripped the wheel a little tighter as I got closer to the edge of the fire's wake of destruction, seeing more and more trees browned from dryness, then blackened from the flames, then felled and destroyed.

But most of it was in patches, not the complete, miles-wide sea of black I had been expecting to see. The Los Conchas picnic area, a favorite of mine for family memories, was mostly untouched, as was the area around Battleship Rock, and most of the Valle Grande. Spots of the valley's grasslands were blackened, but mostly I noticed how small a portion of it was destroyed, when it could have very easily shot across the entire prairie in a matter of seconds. Hundreds of elk were even grazing along the outer perimeter of the scorched patches of grass. While many parts of Bandelier were burned, the most sacred places, the ruins, the places I remember, were still healthy and alive.

What touched my emotions the most was seeing what was still left, what was still alive. How the fire got close, but didn't destroy what was really important. I didn't enjoy seeing the pain the land had endured, and I cried for how long it will take to recover. I know that 18 families lost their homes, thousands of animals lost their lives, and a lot of beauty is gone forever.

But the life behind the forest and the force that made it is still alive. What made it sacred to me is still there. Like the memories of my mother, and the lessons of my father, they are still alive. I understand what is gone, but I grasp what I still have and what will never die.

Etiquette Versus Tolerance

This morning I attended a funeral for a dear man in my church, George Darby. George always greeted me with a big bear hug and always remembered my name, even though I only managed to get to services about once every three months or so. He was a drummer, a husband, a father, a quilter (I just found out today -- that rocks!), and a man of joy and happiness, but despite that happiness, I donned a conservative black dress and went to pay my respects.

I didn't actually count, but I'd say less than ten percent of the attendees were in black or gray. That doesn't really bother me, because like I said, George was joyous, colorful and unconventional. He would at times wear an African robe and skull cap (crown) to church. So looking mournful was, in my opinion, optional at this funeral.

But the people wearing jeans and ratty t-shirts got my attention. So did the three or four men wearing hats who didn't even take them off during the prayers. Several women were in flip-flops. At least twice, despite a very clear announcement to silence them, cell phones rang.

I was livid, judgmental and bitter. I smiled at the parents whose children were properly dressed, and scowled at the parents whose kids looked like they'd just rolled out of bed.

I grew up on the East Coast, where if you're less than fifteen minutes early, you're late. Now I live in New Mexico, where if you show up five minutes before the end, you're on time. I grew up right at the end of the era when people used to dress up finely to get on an airplane. We stood up during the National Anthem, even if it was only playing on television (I still do this, even when I'm alone). I'm glad my parents raised me with this sense of etiquette and respect. It has served me in many other ways and I like the way I am.

But the more Pastor Si talked about George, and the more I heard from his friends and family about how loving he was, and how happily he met life, the more I began to soften and question my qualification to judge the other mourners with whom I sat.

The God I believe in is a "come as you are" kind of god. We don't have to pretty ourselves up and get right before we can approach Him. I believe he welcomes all of us into heaven (yes, even that guy) because whatever we have done in life, or whatever reasons we have for rejecting what He offers us, He knows the reasons behind it all. He knows the pain that causes our doubts. He knows how we were raised and what we were and weren't taught.

Times change, cultures shift, and fashions adapt. Which is more likely: that 90 percent of the people in that chapel were being offensive and disrespectful, or that one woman was wrong for judging how much they cared or respected George based on their outward appearances?

I am not God, and I don't know the heart of anyone in the chapel today. I don't know if the man sitting next to me had just one hour to spare to come to the funeral from his job at a construction site, and thus had no choice but to wear jeans. A family member was wearing a Jimi Hendrix hat in George's honor - should I reprimand that person because it's always wrong to wear a hat in a religious service? There were a couple of "Harley guys" who played in a band with George, and I see now that they were wearing the clothes they always wore when they were with him -- the clothes they always wear because that's who they always are.

What a joy, and what a feeling of freedom, that we can be who we are, and how we are, not only before God, but with our friends and families.

When it is time for my funeral, you can wear whatever you want. The important thing is that you are there, because you were important to me.

But please...do turn off your cell phone.

Tips to Make You Better at Scrabble

I love Scrabble, like a lot of people, and I've been playing it most of my life. I'm also pretty good with words, so I win a lot. The only people I've played with who really gave me a run for my money are my best friend who now lives two hours away, and the Scrabble buddy I met via Craigslist, who turned out to be a serial rapist. Oops! (He didn't do anything to me except beat me in Scrabble, by the way.) So in the interest of building your confidence and getting you to play with me, I decided to write some encouragement.

There are some people among my family and friends who think they stink at Scrabble or that they don't have a chance at winning because they think it's all about just being smart, or knowing lots of words, or the luck of the draw. But there are some specific things that everyone has access to. More than my level of intelligence or ability to spell, these are the things that help me win, and they will help you too:

1. Save your blanks.

If you draw a blank, don't just use it to make a decent word. Save it to make a bingo (a bingo is when you use all of your tiles in one play). Save it for two or three turns, or even more. Don't think of a bingo as something that just happens if you're lucky enough to get the right letters. Try to plan for it.

2. Try to make two words at once (or more).

One way to do this is to use an S - which you should also save for this purpose - to make two words, one vertical and one horizontal.

You can also make words parallel to each other, as long as each pair of adjoining letters forms a word. This technique can really multiply your score.

3. Get to know the two-letter-word list.

If you are using a regular dictionary or the official Scrabble-players' dictionary, there are several two-letter words, many obscure that you've probably never used. If you memorize these, you can use them to make multiple words in one play, placing words right next to each other, parallel to each other on the board. This is also a good way to dump a bunch of vowels. Did you know that AA, AI, and OE are acceptable Scrabble words?

4. Watch for word-lengthening combinations such as -ED, -ING, -ION, etc.

These will help you get a bigger score and up your chances of using all your tiles for one play.

5. Take your time.

Don't play right when you find a possible word. Take your time and find the best word you can make.

My mother and I used to have Scrabble games that would last for three days; we'd get up between turns to live life, leaving the board set up, and return to the game as we were able (note: not advised if your home contains a cat).

6. Pay attention to those premium squares.

If you have decent tiles and can make several words, try to make words that allow you to play your high-scoring letters on the double-letter or triple-letter squares.

If you are using an S or other letter to make two words, one vertically and one horizontally, it really adds up if you can find a premium square to place that adjoining letter on.

7. Try not to set up your opponent.

Even if you have a word that could earn you 20 points, it might not be worth it if you set up a great play for your opponent, such as giving them a place to use a triple-word premium square.

8. If you get a U, and the Q hasn't been played yet, save it.

If you use your U for a mediocre word, and then get stuck with the Q, you'll be sorry, especially if the game ends and you still have that Q, because your opponent gets the points from the tiles you couldn't use, and the Q is worth 10 points.

There are some words that can be spelled with a Q without a U, such as QAID and QOPH. It's worth memorizing these too, along with the two-letter word list.

9. Don't be afraid to challenge.

When your opponent plays a word that looks unfamiliar to you, especially if your opponent is a seasoned player or likely to be full of bull, don't be afraid to challenge the play. If you are wrong, you lose a turn, but remember that playing a completely made-up word is legal, and if it's not challenged, the points count. Watch for a "tell," just like in poker...and develop your own poker face so you can try it too, when you dare!

10. Practice!

Play online, via Facebook, with friends, on your smartphone, and anywhere else you can. You'll learn new words playing with different people, and it will sharpen your brain, not just for the game, but for life!

Whose fault is it, anyway?

Do you think it's easier to accept hardship when it's brought about by your own fault, or when it's brought about by sheer bad luck or someone else's harmful action? I used to think it was better to be at the mercy of life's terms, rather than a causative, because there would be no guilt associated with your pain. You wouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed to know, to have to tell people, that as terrible as things are, they're all your fault. But today I think maybe it's better to know that you caused your own misery, because at least it affords you some measure of control, or perceived control. I did this to myself, so at least I know I can prevent it in the future. Being traumatized because of some other person's decision to hurt you, or because of somebody else's mistake, or because of the bankrupt space on the wheel of fortune, you're just a victim. Your a pawn in God's game. You know that you cannot do a thing to prevent getting that ice cold punch in the stomach again...and again. The last couple years, I was suffering, but mostly because of my own actions. I was helped, then I found my own motivation, and life got better. I found a job, a job I loved, and I excelled at it. When I was clinging by my fingernails to the cliff, God helped me to my feet and dusted me off, then waited for me to gain some stability and confidence, even happiness. Then he laughed at me and then pushed me over the edge. I got fired on Friday for no ascertainable reason whatsoever.