Posted on 01/06/2005 4:16:18 PM PST by nickcarraway
I didn't recognize the cellphone on caller ID but answered anyway. A man started talking about a local charity. ''Look,'' I interrupted, ''I don't have any money to give you. My husband left me. I've got two little kids, and I'm behind on the rent.''
He quickly clarified that he wasn't calling for a donation but to help. He said he was a doctor and a volunteer for an organization called Warm the Children, and I had signed up for help at my son's school. He offered to give me $80 for each of my children to buy clothes. All I had to do was meet him at Meijer -- a local, family-owned superstore -- to do the shopping. I was shoving pants onto my son Gabriel, who never wants to get dressed, so it took a minute to comprehend: Could it be true?
The doctor mentioned filling out forms. While I imagined letting a stranger pay for our clothes, Gabriel took off his pants and ran away. Did I really want a handout? Should I endure a bit of humiliation to provide some essentials for my kids? I felt as if I had no choice. Sammy, my 7-year-old, had outgrown his shoes.
The night before we were to meet, the kids were with their dad, so I went to the store to shop, making sure to stay within the allotted amount. Then, I found a manager. We put a note on the clothes and left it behind the customer-service counter. I was hoping this would expedite the process and minimize my contact with the doctor: here we go, hey, thanks, goodbye.
In the morning I dressed the kids in clean clothes. (There, I thought, we don't look poor.) On the way to Meijer, the boys jumped in puddles, soaking themselves to the waist. With mud.
The lady behind the service counter couldn't find my basket but had a good idea where it went. ''There's an Asian woman who doesn't speak English,'' she said. ''I bet she put it all back.'' I ran around the store grabbing snow boots, dress shirts and socks I chose the night before.
While we waited by the entrance, my littlest guy climbed out of the cart and started hopping up and down while watching himself on a security monitor. I knew this dance; it meant I had about 10 minutes before he had a meltdown. I thought about leaving; maybe my father would give me more money. But then I saw Sammy, who never complains, just sitting bleary-eyed in the cart, tolerating his boredom.
When the doctor arrived, he looked as kind and reassuring as he sounded on the phone. He greeted me and introduced a lanky teenager: ''This is my son, Jack.'' He didn't tell Jack my name or introduce my kids. I shook Jack's hand before he retreated a safe distance behind his father, eyeballing my kids and me. I could not imagine why the doctor brought him along.
Once we were in line, I tried to keep the kids quiet; the doctor smiled and blinked at me. I talked nonstop, peppering Jack with polite questions: ''What school do you go to? Do you play sports?'' He gazed at the ground in my general direction. Occasionally he spat out a one-word answer. This stage of growing up is so awkward. I wondered who had it worse that morning, Jack or I.
The doctor showed me the forms we had to fill out. By mistake, he also handed me a set of instructions for how to facilitate this ''encounter.'' At the top, it said: ''DO NOT OFFER TRANSPORTATION TO THE CLIENTS.'' I looked at him in disbelief and repeated it aloud. Do not offer transportation to the clients? The doctor just shrugged. I couldn't tell if he was as embarrassed as I was, or if he had any idea how hard it was to accept charity.
Our cashier didn't know how to process my forms. After the manager showed her how, I realized I'd overshot my limit, so the cashier called the manager back for an override. The line behind us had grown long with frustrated shoppers, all of whom I assumed intended to pay for their purchases. Everyone stood in an uncomfortable silence -- except my boys, who pestered me for some water and got way too close to the doctor. I fantasized about adopting a hillbilly accent and shouting, ''Now you kids shut up er Santa ain't coming!'' Finally we were done. Gabriel was clinging to me and chanting, ''I want a drink.'' The doctor and his son said goodbye and hightailed it out of there.
Back at home, a friend called. I couldn't shake the feeling that the doctor used me as an example. ''For what?'' she asked when I told her. ''I'm not even sure,'' I said. To make his son grateful? To put a face on poverty? Realistically, the doctor could have just been on his way to drop his son somewhere, but now I was angry. At my soon-to-be ex-husband. At the polarized society we live in where the working poor voted themselves into deeper poverty while the rich still coast. Despite the doctor's best intentions, I felt scrutinized -- especially with his son there to witness my inability to buy my own kids their damn socks.
''You are under an incredible amount of stress,'' my friend insisted. ''I hardly remember most of my divorce.''
With luck, neither will I.
Charmie Gholson is the host of a public-affairs radio show, ''Renegade Solutions,'' and a writer in Ann Arbor, Mich.
I don't have a landline anymore, so I guess that's why I forgot.
"It feels like this law is applied discriminatly but I can't find the actual wording. Help!"
You too can be a profeshonal righter!
I wish I could do away with mine. It just isn't pratical for us to do so at the moment.
I wonder if she means they voted Republican or Democrat? I suspect she meant Republican, though Democrat makes more sense.
I hope she thanked the doctor profusely for helping her out in her time of need, though I don't understand all the filling out forms stuff right there in line. I can understand how that would make her uncomfortable. Maybe that's to discourage folks from taking advantage and using the system too often, but the folks who would do that wouldn't be embarrassed one bit by it.
We didn't do it until after we moved two months ago.
Sheez a talintud righter two.
She is one of many among the new "journalists", a fabulist.
...
He quickly clarified that he wasn't calling for a donation but to help. He said he was a doctor and a volunteer for an organization called Warm the Children, and I had signed up for help at my son's school.
That is the reason why it is so hard to help people in this country. First of all, if she can not only afford a cellphone but also blow minutes on unrecognized callers, she has plenty of money to buy clothes for her kids.
But she signed up for charity anyway. And resents the h#ll out of the people answering her call for help.
It is really hard to help a family when they feel like they are entitled to car payments, a steady supply of alcohol and cigarettes, videos, cell phones, and divorces.
My comments had nothing to do with this woman's character, motives, etc. I was only commenting on how hard it is to have to accept help from others.
The forms thing got me too. Apparently, the schools do notify organizations who do this but how they get the information I don't know. I had an experience with my son's school that I was reminded of when reading this. Last November I was sent a letter by my son's homeroom teacher asking me for his sizes so that he could receive "gifts for the underpriveledged". I had never signed up for anything like this so I was sort of insulted. I mean, my son wore very nice clothes, was clean etc. IOW, there was nothing to cause anyone to view him as underpriveledged. As a matter of fact I was in the habit of donating his nice name brand clothing to the school for such kids. I replied to the letter pointing these things out to the teacher. Come to find out, my son had the same name as another child in the school who was indeed less fortunate than others. I don't know if I would fel insulted had my son actually been the one in need but the thought of someone thinking I could not provide for my child was insulting.
Really, my life has not been too hard.
I have known many people who have lived it much harder.
Some with lots of money in the bank, but without good health, or those who have endured the death of their child.
Since I have known them, it is hard to think of myself as one needy or deserving of any kindly meant charity.
Does this mean she stands in line at McDonald's, yells, "That's not good for you!" then steals your fries?
There is no doubt that the acceptance of charity, from someone born with self-respect and pride, is difficult.
But you obviously did not know what she is 'going through'. Because you didn't ever feel the need to write a column for the NYT (which identified your children) about how accepting charity from big-shot doctors with indolent children of their own was beneath you.
Yeah, I guess I didn't express that very well. I just immediately thought of how low it makes me feel to have to accept or ask for help from anyone. That was the only thought I meant to express.
When I read this on Sunday, I had no feelings of concern or sympathy for this woman. I did feel that she should learn how to control her kids, be less trusting of strangers, be less callous and critical about those who may be helping her, and be less flippant when writing about it.
Usually the 'end page' story leaves me pondering the message. This one left me with a 'so what' attitude.
*** I don't understand all the filling out forms stuff right there in line. ***
From warmthechildren.org's website:
One of the nice things about the experience, volunteers said, is that unlike some other holiday-related charity programs - they get to meet the families and spend some time with them.
Here's how it works:
Volunteers are assigned families and make arrangements to meet with them either at the store. Once there there, the volunteers and families shop together for the children, each of whom are allotted $80 for coats or other clothing.
Once the shopping is completed cashiers ring up the items - minus sales tax, since Warm the Children is a certified, non-profit program and validate paperwork, which volunteers return to program coordinators. No money changes hands at the store.
The key, Carr said, is to stay flexible and let the parents and children choose the clothes they feel are best for them. The volunteer's primary role is to make sure the purchases don't exceed $80 per child.
"Your agenda and concerns aren't always the same as those of the kids of the parents, he said "Sometimes, you have to wing it a little bit."
Ya nailed it. And her.
My Mom (God rest her soul) did and it wasn't until I grew up that I realized how painful that was for her. The shame she lived with all those years. And the guilt for having put up with my Dad until they got divorced (which for a Catholic in the 60's was another shame). 7 kids, Dad all but abandoned us, I didn't have a real pair of Levi's until I had a job as a grown-up.
My Mom went to Junior College and got an AA, then a job, then got us OFF OF WELFARE. That is the way it was supposed to be -- a safety net not a lifestyle.
There was a price to all that -- she died a few years ago in her mid-60s. The finest woman to have ever trod upon this earthly coil. She was just too tired. She was a smoker and that is what did her in -- it was too difficult to quit.
I think you would be amazed at what you could do for your kids if you had to.
Do you have a Ross? My wife and I buy name brands there all the time -- $50 designer single-needle tailored shirts for like 7 bucks.
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