As a child, I recall a woman coming to our door one evening collecting money for the poor. I pushed my way in front of my mother who stood
in the open doorway. Even at seven years old, the thought of someone not having
enough to meet their basic needs was crushing to me. I ran to my room, got my piggy bank and would
have handed over my entire savings of $3.00 in mostly dimes, nickels and
pennies, had my mother not stopped me. I
don’t remember what Mom gave her, but the image of that woman standing there is
still very vivid in my mind. That may
have been the day I became a “bleeding-heart liberal.”
We were a blue-collar family. My step-father worked for the
town’s public works department, and his job supported four of us. Ours was a two-bedroom, one-bath, stucco
house in a neighborhood of mostly the same. While we were not wealthy by any
means, we had more than some. There was a family in our neighborhood who we
gave my school dresses to once I’d outgrown them. They were really the only
“poor” family I knew, but even they had a house to live in.
Eisenhower was president, the highest tax rate was 90%,
unions were strong, and the country had never been more prosperous. Those folks
in the 90% bracket were mostly the stuff of movies to the rest of us, but
sometimes my family would pile into our old green Hudson and cruise the rich
neighborhood to gaze at all the mansions.
Nobody begrudged them their wealth.
It gave us something to strive for.
It was a society where your birth status took a back seat to your
dreams, and those “poor” kids who wore my hand-me-down dresses needed only a
willingness to work for those dreams in order to achieve them. I miss that America.
At ten years old, I watched JFK receive the Democratic
nomination for president on our small, black-and-white TV. I could barely contain my excitement at the
sight of this vibrant, young, inspiring man and his beautiful wife. Proudly
wearing a plastic JFK-for-President hat that caused sweat to drip down my
forehead and into my eyes, I peddled my blue Schwinn around the block, knocking
on doors and handing out campaign literature.
For the first time in my life, I felt a part of something bigger than
myself. I felt like I could affect
change. When President Kennedy said “Ask
not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country,” it
resonated with us because, despite our differences, we were all Americans
first.
Today, most of those mansion-filled neighborhoods that I
drove through as a child have gates walling them off from the rest of us, and
gone from our collective consciousness seems to be the notion that when we all
have an equal opportunity to succeed our country succeeds. Given an even playing field, Americans are
some of the hardest-working folks on the planet.
Given an even playing field…
It’s not a coincidence that we’re seeing a more violent
society as growing numbers of people see the deck irrefutably stacked against
them. With the assault that has taken place on the middle class, and the stress
so many families are experiencing as they struggle just to survive, I wonder
how many of today’s children feel inspired to make a difference, how many still
dare to dream. Or are we losing another generation to hopelessness?
As for me, I’m still that seven-year-old who believes
everyone should have enough.
