I received two important notices recently having to do with my children. The first came via the U.S. postal system. It was an envelope full of information that boiled down to a threat: prove your children are yours or you won't be able to have them covered by your health insurance. Apparently this is a new provision of the euphemistically named 'Affordability Care Act'. I have company insurance and have never had to do more than provide social security numbers and birth-dates. The new requirement is two forms of proof -- a tax return showing my children as dependents and a copy of their birth certificates.
Contrast this with the cheerful, colorful e-mail from Barnes and Noble announcing that one of my children in the B&N Birthday club was eligible for a free treat in the cafe. What did I have to provide to get that notice? Simply a first name and birthdate. What do I have to do to redeem it? Simply show up with said birthday club member and coupon in hand. No other proof required. Were I inclined, there are any number of ways I could 'game' that system. But B&N assumes that their customers are generally honest, trustworthy people. They believe my daughter is my daughter because I say so.
The government is not trying to win my patronage. They already know they have a monopoly. Theirs is a raw exercise in power and control. Underneath it is a presumption that everyone who signs up for health insurance is prone to fraud and the truth needs to be weeded out by this faceless bureaucratic exercise. The information I collect and send to 'prove' my children are truly mine will do nothing to change the reality of their existence or our relationship. It is simply a large waste of my time.
Barnes & Noble on the other hand, is doing their best to convince, not coerce, me that a trip to their store will be worth my time, my daughters time and their time -- a mutually beneficial interaction. And I can't wait to get over there and prove them right.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Snakes In The Dark
Other than headlights of passing cars and one or two other
regulars who brave the pre-dawn hours to pound the pavement, I am alone as I
jog. I like it that way. Running takes little thought and my mind is
free to consider my day, my life, the cosmos.
For those who need lots of social interaction, this may sound odd, but I
have never had enough time by myself to actually get tired of it. Of course, with my family, I have never had
an opportunity to test the limits of solitude.
On my route a few weeks ago, I came upon a surprising
sight: a person standing in the middle of the intersection I was approaching,
apparently trying to flag cars down. My
first thought was that there was some sort of an emergency. As I drew closer, I saw under the glare of
the street lights that it was a young man, quite agitated, wanting to cross the
street but unable to.
He saw me and started to speak from about 30 feet away. Something about needing to get home and his
phone battery was dead. Then he took a
few steps in my direction, which put him right in the traffic lanes. Although there is not much traffic at that
hour, a car had to swerve slightly to avoid him. I told the young man to get out of the
street. Reluctantly he came over to the
sidewalk where I was standing. He made
a distinct effort to appear harmless, intentionally keeping his hands out and
up, giving his name, explaining that all he had was his ID, social security
card and dead phone.
Then the story got more complicated. He had been riding with friends who had been
in a car accident. Apparently no-one was
seriously hurt, but the car was inoperable.
Rather than wait around, he had decided to walk home. I asked where home was, and I don’t remember what he told
me. But, his aunt lived just up the hill
in a large apartment complex. Then it
got really interesting.
“I was going to walk up there, but I’m afraid of the
snakes.”
He was sure he could see snakes in the shadows, which explained why he was standing in the
middle of the street where the lights were brightest. Even standing next to me, he was agitated and
kept looking around and asking, “Aren’t you afraid of the snakes? Can’t you see them?”
I used the excuse that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and that
it was a little hard to see in the dark.
So, how to assess this situation?
Here was a troubled young man that needed to get to his aunt’s
house. And he couldn’t get past the
snakes. What else could I do? I asked for a little more information about
his aunt to gain some assurance that this part of his story was real. Then I volunteered to walk him the several
blocks to his aunt’s place.
That was one of the most unusual walks I have had in a long
time. It only took 10 minutes or so, but
most of the time was spent quietly, walking next to a young man who looked
furtively at each dark shadow we passed and had to be encouraged to keep
walking more than once.
“Don’t you see them?”
“No,
I didn’t see anything.”
“Are you sure there are no snakes there?”
“Yes. Come on.
You are going to be fine.”
“That’s amazing that you aren’t afraid of them.”
“Thanks. Let’s keep moving. We’re almost there.”
Once we arrived at the apartment complex, he visibly
relaxed. After navigating through the
buildings, we came to the right one. His
aunt lived in an upstairs unit, so we parted at the foot of the stairs. I shook his hand and wished him well. He thanked me and headed up the stairs. I turned and walked briskly away, throwing a
glance over my shoulder to make sure he didn’t come back down, not completely
certain of my own safety. My morning
routine still waited to be finished and I was going to have to hustle if I was
to make my train.
There are any number of psychiatric* or physiological explanations
for his ‘snakes’, no doubt. Drugs, head
trauma, genetic disorder. Maybe his aunt
wasn’t all that happy to have him show up at 5 am. But, all I could think of was that here was a
young man, lost, afraid, in the dark.
Now, he was in a safe and familiar place. Most of us have been there, or maybe are
there now: lost or afraid or in the dark, or all three. Physically or spiritually or both. And aren’t we thankful for someone who comes
along, the unexpected Samaritan, who takes time to bring us back into the
light?
Next time, it may be me, it may be you who needs a guide.
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