November 30, 2013
Alright Internet, sit down. We need to talk about something really important. Namely, the context and connotations of what happened here.
I hadn’t read the original essay until today. I’m glad, though, ’cause I would have written it off. I would have pointed out right away that it sounded phony. No one I know who has been poor has “unstructured thoughts” that sound like this. There’s no prefacing, there’s no carefully crafted separation between systemic and academic problems. That’s not an off the cuff thing, not without a lot of training on writing papers. That’s just one of many things that stick out to me, things that sound like affluence call backs or the kind of refinement a poor kid puts into their essay to sound smart. Things like the use of “some time” in the opening of the third paragraph. It doesn’t read like a poor person to me, and I live in an intersection of being poor and having a good education, being poor and being fairly intelligent, and being poor but coming from a once-solidly middle class family.
Is this a problem? Is her lying, itself, a problem? Well, yes and no. No, for the most part, because the issue isn’t her essay. If she was honest about this being a fantasy exercise, a sympathy exercise, it’d be fine. This is a gross misunderstanding of most people’s lives who live in poverty but if she’s trying to raise awareness or become more sympathetic, it would be a fine exploration of fantasy. The part where it becomes a problem is when she claims that this is a real telling of events, a true story snatched from her life, where she clearly had time to refine her writing in the midst of being able to sleep for only three hours a night. It camps out in problematic territory when it’s clear to anyone who has been poor that she clearly hasn’t but is claiming this is real.
Now, to restate my credentials here for anyone who hasn’t been following along – until August of this year and from February 2011, I was functionally homeless except for a five month stretch where I rented a room at a friend’s house. I became homeless after I lost my last IT job and my until then unknown disability reared its ugly head and I found out that I can’t drive anymore without endangering myself and others. While I was on unemployment insurance, I housed my mother, my youngest brother, my cat, and myself in weekly motels. Until we got kicked out on the 4th week at one and couldn’t find another room, then we lived out of my mom’s van. My childhood with my mother was pocked with poverty – she was trying hard to rise out of being poor, out of being supported primarily by my grandparents, but the deck was stacked against her between her depression, her PTSD from her relationship with my father and my youngest brother’s father and a drug addiction that he caused. My entire life has been one of survival since high school, the last time I can remember doing any kind of real formal education.
I know poor people. I am still, technically, a poor person. I am invisibly disabled with no diagnosis. I recently got healthcare, but it’s an awkward healthcare where I wait about a month between doctor’s appointments. I haven’t seen a dentist in over a decade. I have no income and I spend part of every day in pain that I can’t control. I still can’t drive without being very cautious. I live day to day because that’s what I’ve always done. I enjoy what I can right now ’cause I don’t know how long I’ll have it for.
Even I, however, knew how to cook broccoli when we were homeless. Nearly every homeless person I know has known how to cook. Some of the best steaks I’ve ever had have come from people in poverty because when they treat themselves, they know how. Want to know why we don’t eat more veggies or fruits when we’re homeless? They’re fucking expensive.
That’s where the fact that she’s playing this off as a real story becomes an issue (before we even get into the biggest problem here). She’s perpetuating myths about what it’s like to be poor that reinforce delusions of us being subhuman – being uneducated, being unaware of real life, being trained in “bad logic” that prevents us from being healthy and happy, working better jobs, or eating better. That if only we knew to buy in bulk, eat cheap vegetables, save money, we could rise out of poverty somehow. Well, it turns out that this isn’t true. Most people in poverty that work at least one job are not idiots, they’re not uneducated savages scraping by on cheap cheeseburgers from Jack in the Box and buying lavish sneakers and televisions. This is a fantasy concocted by well meaning liberals to create sympathy, latched onto by cynical conservatives to damn the poor, and perpetuated by rich children who have never seen an actual poor person in their life. At least no longer than the amount of time it took to quickly walk past them, maybe drop a quarter infront of them, and get away form the stench of the masses. She was never poor and it’s disturbing to me that she thinks she can speak for me, for us.
Going past disturbing, though, in to full blown anger is the fundraising campaign. I ran a fundraising campaign here, as many of you know. I wanted to raise two thousand dollars, a paltry sum in the grand scheme of things, to not be homeless anymore. A magnificent goal, one I’m quite happy I met, but even then I was accused of lying and that I wasn’t “desperate enough”. This woman, though, lied about being in poverty, uses these codified “I am secretly rich” linguistic signals, and she’s raising $150,000 for a surgery she doesn’t want to pay for, for teeth that look totally fine. I’m sure she might actually have a medical problem but my teeth are disintegrating in my mouth and I have a massive cavity in both of my upper canines, right in front of my face. My teeth are rotten and I can’t raise that kind of money. I haven’t had income in almost a year and I can’t raise that kind of money. I was homeless and I couldn’t raise two thousand dollars without being harassed. This woman, on the other hand, writes a false essay and has raised over sixty-thousand.
This is what disgusts me. She is exploiting the poor, the image of the poor and a false understanding of the poor, to raise money that she doesn’t need. Not only is this taking sympathetic money from the hands of people who desperately need it, people like me and who are worse off than me, she’s making it unlikely that those same donors will ever help someone who’s actually poor. Why should they trust my story, or anyone else’s story? They, who have the luxury to be picky about who to give money to, will feel cheated if it turns out that I’m not as poor as they thought I was! There are these stories of wealthy panhandlers, stories of people with good jobs pretending to be homeless to save money, and then there’s this woman, a society elite and political scholar who used a false poverty essay to raise money! Why should they help the needy? Or, rather, how can they tell if the needy are actually needy?
This woman is poisoning the well of altruism and charity. This is yet another subtle attack on poverty, on undermining the poor and reducing our status in the eyes of society from that of human, of peer and compatriot. I am a swindler and a thief, a liar and a malcontent, lazy and disreputable. All because I have no money. In a society that already equates morality with the size of your bank account, it does no one any favors when the wealthy start pretending to be poor to raise money. Nor does it help anyone when they succeed, despite their audacity, while people like me whither, starve, and die.
Please, if you want to help the poor, start at home. Find the actual poor people around you and talk to them about how you can help them. Ask them what it’s like to be in their position. Don’t just listen to people online about it, don’t just listen to news reports, don’t just read the emails that get forwarded to you. Help the actual people, struggling and starving, in your community.
Normally I’d ask for tips or donations at the end of an article that was this exhausting to write, but I’m not doing that this time. I’m simply too disgusted by this whole situation to think about putting myself in a similar light in any fashion. Take that money to the people in your area that need it instead. Not the organizations – the people. They know how best to use a little bit of money, that’ll make their lives easier and better. Believe me, they do.
November 5, 2013
I should have died the day I fell from the ramparts of that beast’s castle. Yet I did not, I was instead punished for my courage and comportment with a crippling which has ruined my ability to hunt and fight as I did when I was younger but kept my mind and fingers sharp. When I returned, the villagers ignored me. Acted as if I should be dead. As if I were dead. The only one who would see me with any compassion was old Maurice. He set my leg with a split, cut with his infernal contraption, and offered me help. Food, medicine, whatever I needed. Instead, I preformed the first cowardly act in my life – I left in the dead of night for Orleans, to start a new life where I would not be recognized as Gaston the Failure. Gaston the Villain. Gaston the Coward. Gaston the Lame.
I never did say goodbye to Belle.
I have been in Orleans for twenty years now, and I have done fine service as the King’s huntsman. I have trained his children in the Art of Defense as taught in the greatest schools in the Bohemia and Paris. I have given cause to hear the grievances of the people and I have treated them justly and kindly. I labor, however, under a great pain. I have lived in secret, taking the name Bernard and never discussing my past. Especially now that the Prince, that creature who had been but a beast, now threatens to unseat his father due to the debt we still carry from the war of my youth. However, I never fully left that small town in central France, tucked in the valleys south of Orleans by many miles. A town where I grew up, a town where I was the greatest of all men, a town where I had planned to grow old and die married to the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the earth.
Before I was Bernard the Huntsman and Fencer, I was Gaston of Berry. This is the story of the man who was slain by the Prince who was a beast, a man who thought he knew what it meant to be a man but, truly, never know what it meant to be anything at all.
For our story to make sense I must first start fifty years ago, in Champagne, where Pierre Lestraud met Alice Maustraud and fell in love. They moved to the county of Berry and built a small farm where they raised chickens and cattle for milk and eggs. They had two boys and three girls, all raised as goodly as they could be. The last child, the second boy, was named Gaston. Gaston would only know his father for four years before war came and called his father away to fight the British, who had invaded France once again.
He sat young Gaston on his knee and gave him three rules, “Always love your mother, always be brave, and never give in. You are a man and you must be strong, especially for those weaker than us who cannot care for themselves.”
Gaston would never see his father again.
November 4, 2013
The strangest thing happened to me today.
Someone listened to my heart and asked me how I’m feeling. Someone checked my blood pressure, my weight, and asked me about my pain. Someone gave me advice and prescribed me medication.
I saw a doctor today, for the first time in over a decade, for regular care. I’ve seen urgent care physicians in that time, I’ve been to the ER in that time, but I haven’t had a regular doctor.
Today, however, a doctor saw me and evaluated my health. Made suggestions to make it better. Ordered xrays to examine my hands. A doctor evaluated where I am and what I’m feeling to get a sense of what he can do to help me.
This is strange to me. My family has had a hard time caring for itself since I was young and the realities of a bad divorce tore us apart. Legal bills came before medical bills and, while I always got the shots and checkups that I needed, whenever we were sick or hurt the first recourse was family practice. Herb teas and idiosyncratic sayings from Kansas and Minnesota. When I was sixteen I left my mother’s house to live with my girlfriend. I was stifled at home, my mother couldn’t care for me, and I slept on the floor. Even before then I had stopped having access to regular medical care. I knew I had asthma. I knew I had some kind of neurological or psychological problem. I knew I already had a back problem and regular pain in my hands. I didn’t know what caused it, but I knew how to work around it. That was the defining aspect of my healthcare for the rest of my life until now – figure out what the big problems are and deal with them. Treat them as best I can but for the most part get back to work.
This was how my life worked for ten years. More than ten years. I could never afford health insurance while I was working, since I basically took care of several people on top of paying my own bills and feeding myself. Even when making nearly $41,000 a year I still couldn’t afford health insurance while living in Southern California. I haven’t seen a dentist in longer. When I had infections before I was 25, I borrowed my dad’s health insurance (since we share first and last names) to go to urgent care for medication. After 25 when I got a bronchial infection I bought antibiotics from a friend of mine that happens to deal in a wide variety of pills. Because I knew his were safe, I knew how much I had to take and of what, and they were cheaper from him than going into the healthcare system at all without insurance.
The insurance I have no isn’t phenomenal. It isn’t the cheapest it could be. It doesn’t cover everything, like dental isn’t covered at all. It is, however, better than nothing. I have healthcare, and I saw a doctor. What is a right in some places, basic access to necessary and affordable healthcare, for me is a novel experience. Something exciting, something special. The idea of having a morning where I don’t wake up in a haze of pain and frustration is exciting. Of having days where my back isn’t aching constantly is electrifying. Of being calm and collected and able to focus again is edifying. My world, my entire existence, is dominated by the constant experience of pain and the management of pain. Pain that doesn’t have the validity, the comfortable fact, of having a reason for happening. I don’t have a disease or condition that causes me pain, a system of faults or flaws in my body that causes predictable pain. I don’t have an injury or illness that causes the pain. No, my pain is a phantom pain – different every day, traveling around my skin in lightning flashes that delve deep into my muscles and joints. Pain that causes me to flinch at the feeling of the air on my skin. Pain that can strike at any time and leave me in a quivering mass on the floor and unable to do anything but breath slowly and hope it passes. My life, for at least the last three and a half years, has been pain. With no hope in sight of ever seeing a day without it.
Now, though, I can dream of a day without pain. This is the sweetest, most loving thing my partner has ever given me – hope.
October 12, 2013
“Boneyard, 935, Hind bitn Iqbal. It has been several days since I left Gorcix on top of the escarpment overlooking the Boneyard. While the bloodspiders have been easy to dodge, it has proven difficult to avoid the looming spectre of death here. Places where I thought the ground had started to sag into muck or mire, a swamp perhaps brining some semblance of life back to this broken necropolis, proved only to be the bloated loam of decay yet incomplete. Today, however, I heard breaking bones in the distance and what sounded like the movement of someone or something near the size of a man or horse. So far my sight glass hasn’t shown me anything and there are no obvious signs of anything out of the ordinary. It is early afternoon, perhaps late morning, on the sixth day of the ninth month by the moon.”
Hind shut the small door on the brass box she ws talking into and set it back into her pack carefully. She was very careful to not make any sound, as she did not want to alert the bloodspiders where she was. The area already reeked of their death pheremone thanks to her needing breakfast, with the husk of a deseccrated spider several hundred feet back on the trail where she had shot it that very morning.
Skipping forward down the path, jumping lightly over the fallen bones and tangles of iron0-grey nettles, she kept watch out to the center of the Field of Sorrow, the primary battlefield that makes up the Boneyard. After several minutes of working herway away from the spider carcas, she paused and pulled out her spyglass again. Scanning the ecenter of the battlefield she finally saw what she had been searching for all morning – a sign of life. This particular sign was a gleaming red shield, the size of a large child or a small family’s dining table, hanging despondently from a massive ribcage fallen from some ancient, massive evil. The shield was bright red with a large brass boss right in the middle, gleaming in the midday sun. Painted to each side of the boss was resplendent lions with crossed swords under them, the heraldry of an ancient order of holy warriors known as the Praetori, the Judges. A small sound floated across the loam as well, the small sound of labored breathing and frustration.
She picked her way over carefully, circling around the shield slowly with her bow in hand and an arrow nocked. She carefully stepped from stone to petrified bone silently and watched her quarry. It was a man, sitting on a large stone in the middle of the open ribcage, obviously winded. He was wearing what looked like freshly polished armor that was as old as the battlefield itself, clasped over a vibrant green long tunic and a brightly plumed steel helmet. It was as if one of the soldiers who had died here had stepped out of the past and sat down to get their wits together. As his breathing slowed again, she watched him stand slowly , shivering the entire time, and take up the shield once again. It was clear that his muscles were powerful, the way they strained in his arms when he hoisted the shield and the way they tensed in his thighs (thick, powerful, warrior’s thighs that were left bare by the distance between his tunic and leather boots) when he stood. They seemed weak, however, when he started moving again. She noticed a short sword belted to his waist and he picked up a short throwing spear from the ground next to him before advancing, using the spear to clear debris and bones out of the way. Of all of his clothing and equipment, only the spear was stained – it bore the clear marks of killing bloodspiders (or, perhaps, one of the other vampiric beasts living in the bloody loam of the Boneyard).
She silently crept to a small pile of nettle and bone and turned her cloak around to be similar to the flat grey of most of the ground around her to watch. He moved slowly and deliberately, not like someone who is sick but rather as someone recovering from wounds they are used to. Each footfall was deliberate, each breath practiced. He knew what he was doing and he knew how hard it was. He also knew that he had to keep his wits about him. She tried hard to control her heartbeat, her breathing, but ideas kept popping out of her mouth. Was he some kind of actor? Part of some obscure martial order? Maybe the victim of some practical joke gone awry? Some kind of madman?
The last question, however, was just loud enough. While she was distracted by her own need to know who he is, she kept an eye on him the entire time and had just enough wits about her to realize what happened when he hefted the short spear in his hand as if to throw it and looked toward her, calling out, “Asai? Asai verix pason?”
She sighed and hissed as quietly as possible. Not only did he possibly know where she was, he apparently spoke ancient Imperial. Hoping that the shield was no lie, she carefully raised her hands and stood up. “Asai!” She called out in what she knew of ancient Imperial, though it was clear ther her native tongue was accenting her quite a bit. “I am known as Hind, daughter of Iqbal, archer and scientist! Are you of the esteemed and honorable Legions?”
The man lowered his spear slowly. “I am Preatorius, by the name of Caillus of the House of Vortix. Where am I?” She crept closer, keeping her hands clear of her belt and pack. He was a good looking man, with a thin dusting of facial hair and a strong face tempered by compassion and…something else. His skin looked fresh. New. As if he was still a child, yet the size of a man.
“You are in the Boneyard,” she said, trying her best to stay in his language but having to use Low Flendish for the Boneyard itself. “An ancient battlefield where the esteemed and honorable Legions did march against the Unholy Host in the name of our Warden, may she watch over us all.”
He looked around slowly, eyes tracing the escarpment then looking back to the south west, to the forest that made up the barrier of Estra and Flendar. “This is Syvaius? This is what remains of the fertile plains of the Sylvan host?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Sir honorable and noble Judge, what year is it?”
He chuckled softly, “That is simple, it is the three-hundred and forty-seventh year since the descent of the Warden.”
She shook her head slowly. “You may want to sit, honorable and noble Judge. For it has been nearly six hundred years since then.”