Poverty? Your Problem.

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Blame the Rhode Island Affordable Housing Bond for sending me officially over the edge. The referendum called for $25 million to fund the construction or renovation of about 600 affordable housing units statewide. It got approved alright. By the smallest margin of all the referendums. Why? Because no one gives a shit about poor people.

Barrington, Foster, North Smithfield and West Greenwich, thank you for proving my point. For those of you who don't call the Ocean State home, what these communities share is the luxury to be removed from the situation. In other words: Not my problem.

The percentage of people voting to reject the affordable housing bond in these communities was, respectively: 54.2%, 51.2%, 54% and 50.6%. (November 7, Providence Journal).  How does this compare with the child poverty rate? Pretty darn directly. According Kids Count, the 2006-2010 stats, per respective community, are: 2.4%, 3.1%, 5.6% and 9.3%. But in Providence? My  'hood? The child poverty rate clocks in at 35.6%. Let that marinate for a second. Over one third of the kids living in the capital city live under the poverty line. Here, the bond got approved by 80.5%.

Go figure.

Newsflash: This IS your problem. This is my problem. This is everyone's problem.

The mindset we've created in this state, where fake casinos have become the third largest source of tax revenue--your problem. (Trust. No one's going to confuse Twin River with Foxwoods. Ever.) The culture created where big money goes to a washed-up major league pitcher to create fantasy jobs--your problem. That the 'affordable' in-state university now costs $10K + for tuition alone--your problem. The fact that I've recently counseled four young people in my community about getting a GED--all your problem.

And what do these 'poor people' have in common with you? Humanity for sure. A desire to do better. And yes, economics. I was recently floored by a point made by Race 2012 on PBS that presented a concept that should change the tide of opinion, and needs to be re-broadcast. Loudly, even though it's strictly financially based and a sad commentary that money always commands attention, especially over social reform.

So, hear this:  Those uneducated young people that have no place in your world? Those 'poor, poor people' that you manage to avoid on the daily, so you won't catch something from them? Someday in the not so distant future, you're going to need them. That's right. This young generation, currently deemed as disposable, are someday going to be the ones to finance YOUR social security.

I repeat. Your problem.

The amazing thing about poverty is that it's just a symptom. It's not a lifestyle choice. It's not a grand aspiration. It's not a death sentence. And the solution? Shockingly easy. Education. For all. So can we just commit to doing our part to help?

As I was feverishly typing this, my husband recruited me for a mentoring opportunity at Rhode Island College, called Learning for Life. Its mission? To provide support to help first generation college students stay in school and obtain their degrees.

No accidents. I'm in.

And you?

The Politics of Presents

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Welcome to November 1st--otherwise known as only 54 shopping days until Christmas.

When did this become our starting point? Or more importantly, how do we make it end?

For me, the gig is finally up. Yup. 2012 marks the official start of our no presents policy. No holiday gifts. No birthday gifts. BAM! There are a few exceptions to the rule. Little ones. Secret Santa, but that's about it. I know you're secretly jealous.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to address the issue a few years back. But I wasn't as strong in my convictions. It took a bit more soul searching--and needling from my husband who prodded with, "Well, you could just keep being a follower..." to put me in a brave(r) place. (Attacks on my personal character, even tongue-in-cheek, never fail to motivate.)

The problem for me? The complicated politicizing of presents, that goes way beyond massive consumerism. I'm a communicator. And a relationships girl. I like the connections fostered with others. I enjoy learning about people. Their passions, dreams. What makes them tick. Really listening to what they're saying. And I value the experiences shared with the folks in my life, way over stuff.

To me, gift giving is extension of that day-to-day connection, not some sort of obligation or, worse, a replacement for it.  In its purest form, A present should say:  This made me think of you. Or:  I thought you would enjoy this. Period. End of story. There's no ill will behind true gift giving. No one-upmanship. No competition. It should be a simple, joyful act, to give and receive.

But when presents go rote obligation, as dictated by our society and the National Retail Federation, the communications behind them get a whole lot more complicated. Instead of buying something because you want to, you do it because you have to, cursing those hard-to-buy-for peeps on your list. But the greater truth, here, is completely ignored. The real reason they're hard to buy for is because you don't know them.

At all.

And granted, it's easy to just continue the cycle. Same as it ever was. You could follow the template, placating yourself with the tired mantra:  It's the thought that counts. And maybe it is, as long as you're counting the real thought:  I grabbed this right before I got to the check-out, so I could check you off the list.

And really, how is this good for anyone?

When Andre started a new job just weeks before last Christmas, and small gifts began appearing on his desk, he was faced with the dilemma of what to get his co-workers. I made the really bold suggestion that maybe it should be nothing. Maybe he could opt out of the stuff, with a personalized card, telling each co-worker how they helped him transition into his new position. It was a hit.

None of this should be revolutionary stuff.

But unfortunately it all is.

I Ain't Afraid of No (Other) Ghost (Either)

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My mother was on the phone. And she was frantic.

"Did you move the chair?!" she asked. "Did you move the chair?!"

I had no idea what she was talking about.

"The chair?" I asked. "What chair?"

"Grandma's chair. Did you move the chair?!"

I don't remember exactly how my maternal grandmother ended up with the coveted 'captain's' chair at our dining room table. It was just her seat. On special occasions, my mom would sit at one end of our dining room table, nearest to the kitchen. And my grandmother would sit directly across from her daughter. In her chair.

At the head.

Even though it wasn't her house.

And my parents were very much married.

Gram's joke was her chair was the only one with arms. Consequently, she had to sit there, so she wouldn't fall out. Everyone knew better than to issue a challenge.

My grandmother passed in September, 2000, at a spry 91 years old. And before the holiday season began, she apparently took it upon herself to do a bit of redecorating. Physically and metaphorically.

One day, Gram's armed chair made its way to where my mother sits. And no. I didn't move it.

But I've got a pretty good guess on who did.

I Ain't Afraid Of No Ghost

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In the spirit of the season, a personal tale from beyond:  One part Alfred Hitchcock and one part Iyanla Vanzant.

After our wedding ceremony, in June 1999, my husband, Andre, and I were living the high life, for a minute at least, being chauffeured in a limo, off Ocean Road in Narragansett. We were trying to get to the remote spot that we had scoped out for pictures. Only the driver had taken a wrong turn.

Thanks to Andre's misdirections.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

"Stop the car," Andre said, mumbling something about having to get a hat.

I waited patiently, wondering if I had scared him away already.

(Not really. Seven years would give a brother an idea of what he was getting into.)

When he returned, he was casually clutching a Minnesota Vikings cap. Let me be clear. We live in New England. Patriots country. Some thirteen hundred miles from Saint Paul. This was not an item you'd see casually discarded on the grass.

We did know a hardcore, lifelong Vikings fan, however. Andre's father. Who had passed suddenly two months earlier from a stroke.

And what did Andre's dad, Nate, say to us when we told him we were getting married?

"Wherever I am, I'll be there."

And indeed he was.