The Washington Post's promotion season is here. I don't know for how long, Gentle Readers, but for now you can get the Post free in your e-mail. Sections of the paper are e-mailed separately and will fill up the in-box. Worth the trouble if you want to follow Washington news. Anyway, Michelle Singletary's "Color of Money" column has been a great favorite for a long time. This week's article is called "Poor Little Rich Me." It's about politicians who think that telling stories about their relatively less wealthy days will win them votes from people who really feel poor. It's recommended, and the rest of this post will make sense after you have clicked here:
http://view.ed4.net/v/O914NF/6V9JJT/8AAAMJR/YAQ5UE/MAILACTION=1&FORMAT=H?wpisrc=nl_persfin
Maybe the difference between voluntary poverty, or at least voluntary
non-wealthiness, and crushing poverty is partly a matter of personal opinion.
Maybe that's the point the affluent politicians are trying to make. But it may
backfire, because people dealing with whatever they define as crushing poverty
don't want to listen to other people's stories of voluntary or acceptable
non-wealthiness.
When I lived there Takoma Park, Maryland, was full of young people sharing
acceptably grungy basements and attics, drinking soda pop from washed-out jam
jars on thrift-store armchairs in sitting rooms lined with brick-and-plank
bookshelves. The books, records, and tapes on the shelves were the part of the
decor that defined our social status. Most of us had rich parents; some had
super-rich parents. For some of us pinching pennies and not taking money from
rich relatives was a point of great pride, and could even compensate for
inadequately stocked brick-and-plank bookshelves. And it was cute, and we were
cute, and we had fun, except when we were pining for the maturity and gravitas
we now have instead of all that cuteness, energy, and shabby chic.
Later on, some of us ventured into places where poverty was not cute. I don't
think those of us who worked and made friends there would have confused our
shabby-chic adventure days with the grim reality of, e.g., having a disability
that qualifies you for home health care but not getting home health care because
the providers were afraid to park cars on your street. (That happened in northeast D.C.)
Or, in a more affluent neighborhood, being one of half a dozen families on
your block that have been making payments on nice houses for years, but then one
little piece was knocked out of your personal economic puzzle, and now inside
your nice house you're rationing water you've pumped into gallon jugs at the gas
station because your water's been cut off, eating one meal a day, which is
either peanut butter or bologna sandwiches, because you can't spend much on
food.
Maybe in the classical era of Nashville music Depression survivors really
bonded by sharing memories of "The Good Ol' Days When Times Were Bad," but I
think that's a dubious move when people who've never felt really crushed by
poverty are talking to people who feel that way now.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
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