10/10/2010, 2:58 pm
There's nothing like the month of October for Progressive thought and action. The One Nation rally. The anniversary of Lenin's Revolution. Breast Cancer Awareness Month, with NFL players wearing pink. Halloween, when we get to dress up in scary outfits and go out marauding the streets, screaming to be given free stuff. (I wish every day were Halloween, don't you?) It's a glorious month when we all say, “Hey, we're progs—let's put on some free T-shirts and grab some free signs and board a free bus to someplace where we can party and someone else will clean up the mess and we can call that jobs saved and lives touched!” Pretty cool even with the unseasonably not-so-cool weather that makes us all swoon and faint in droves at Obama's feet.
Of course, the cognitive diffusion of October and the reality in this country, especially with the upcoming mid-terms, will sometimes bite you on the butt like man-made Global Warming-induced bed bugs. This precise thing happened to me yesterday.
Here I was cruising down busy, congested Busch Boulevard in Tampa, easing into the left-turn lane that would take me onto I-275, when what did I see teetering on the barely foot-wide concrete median but a pregnant woman, holding up a crudely lettered cardboard sign: PREGNANT, NEED MONEY TO GET HOME, GOD BLESS.
As I caught a glimpse of her nicely styled blonde locks and bright nail polish of the same hopeful shade of blue as the new Democrat logo, I could see at once that she wasn't just another down-and-out homeless panhandler, or even another ordinary pregnant woman. One rarely sees those anyway this close to Busch Gardens, with all its well-to-do out-of-town tourists full of bonhomie and good cheer from the park's famous beer gardens and roller coasters, and the plethora of motels and restaurants surrounding it.
Not only did she not have money to get home, but she didn't even have maternity clothes. Not for her those billowing smocks or stretch panels; nor the current fashion of so many young moms-to-be of letting her bare baby belly hang out. No, all she wore was a regular short skirt not too unlike the one that hangs in my own closet, with an oversized shirt stretched over her belly and tightly tucked under it, as if she were desperate to keep the baby in place until she could safely reach home, sweet home—or at least collect enough money to get her there.
Her legs were bare; on her feet were ordinary rubber flip-flops, all she had in which to pace the unforgiving narrow median surrounded by traffic and exhaust fumes. But perhaps the most heartbreaking piece of her ensemble was her fluorescent green vest.
That vest is required to be worn by anyone who finds themselves forced to take to the streets in search of help. The evil city government will tell you it's for her own safety, when it fact it's little more than a scarlet letter to mark her as just another one of society's dregs to be ignored and forgotten. They may as well require her to carry a big sign shouting, DON'T GIVE ME ANY MONEY BECAUSE I'LL JUST SPEND IT ON DRUGS AND BOOZE.
As I sat there waiting to make my left turn, I almost lost my appetite for the White Russian Mocha Latte in my hand, so sickened was I by the realization that I simply didn't know what to do. Maybe I could've rolled down the window and told her to collect $8,000 and then she'd have enough to get home. Maybe I could've given her directions to the nearest Planned Parenthood clinic, or some other public resource or agency that might have helped her with her dilemma. But it was also a Saturday, and this is a three-day federal holiday weekend, so any public agencies are going to be closed until Tuesday. She'd be making a long trek across town for nothing, and besides, so much exertion could bring on the baby, so really, she was better off just staying where she was.
Yet because I care so much, I couldn't stop thinking of what more I could do. I suppose I could've just gotten out of the car and given her a hug, but at that very moment, the light finally turned to a green arrow and there was traffic behind me, and they all wanted to make their left turn. None of them wanted to take the time to give her a hug, because none of them care as much as I do. So I had no choice but to step on the gas and leave her there, and hope that as I sped by her and she started coughing from the burst of fumes from my tailpipe, that she wouldn't lose her balance and topple off the median—because somehow I don't think that green vest would've saved her like those unfeeling fat cats on the city council seem to think it magically will.
Comrades, when this sort of thing happens, we must admit to ourselves that the mess Obama inherited was so much worse than we thought before he was elected. We must admit to ourselves that while things would be a lot worse if not for his stimulus or the passage of health care, that stimulus and the provisions of that bill are still not enough—and that's because of a partisan minority of Republicans who would hold innocent people like this woman hostage to special interests. We must continue to loudly proclaim that it was Republican policies that drove this woman into the ditch of despair, and that it would be a disaster to let them have the keys back when all they would do is run her down, despite her fluorescent green vest.
By the way, if anyone knows if that woman is still on that median, then maybe there's something we can do collectively to help her. I thought maybe we could pick a day when we all wear fluorescent green vests to show our solidarity with her plight. Since NFL players are wearing pink accessories today, maybe we could get them to join us by wearing the green vests next Sunday.
What better way to raise awareness of how much we care during this most Progressive of months?
Commissarka Pinkie is a frequent contributor to The People's Cube, and is renowned and admired for her dedication to raising awareness of how much she cares. Her award winning articles include Have Cancer, Three Kids, Need Gas! When she isn't busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys beating proles with her shovel and spending other people's money.
Of course, the cognitive diffusion of October and the reality in this country, especially with the upcoming mid-terms, will sometimes bite you on the butt like man-made Global Warming-induced bed bugs. This precise thing happened to me yesterday.
Here I was cruising down busy, congested Busch Boulevard in Tampa, easing into the left-turn lane that would take me onto I-275, when what did I see teetering on the barely foot-wide concrete median but a pregnant woman, holding up a crudely lettered cardboard sign: PREGNANT, NEED MONEY TO GET HOME, GOD BLESS.
As I caught a glimpse of her nicely styled blonde locks and bright nail polish of the same hopeful shade of blue as the new Democrat logo, I could see at once that she wasn't just another down-and-out homeless panhandler, or even another ordinary pregnant woman. One rarely sees those anyway this close to Busch Gardens, with all its well-to-do out-of-town tourists full of bonhomie and good cheer from the park's famous beer gardens and roller coasters, and the plethora of motels and restaurants surrounding it.
Not only did she not have money to get home, but she didn't even have maternity clothes. Not for her those billowing smocks or stretch panels; nor the current fashion of so many young moms-to-be of letting her bare baby belly hang out. No, all she wore was a regular short skirt not too unlike the one that hangs in my own closet, with an oversized shirt stretched over her belly and tightly tucked under it, as if she were desperate to keep the baby in place until she could safely reach home, sweet home—or at least collect enough money to get her there.
Her legs were bare; on her feet were ordinary rubber flip-flops, all she had in which to pace the unforgiving narrow median surrounded by traffic and exhaust fumes. But perhaps the most heartbreaking piece of her ensemble was her fluorescent green vest.
That vest is required to be worn by anyone who finds themselves forced to take to the streets in search of help. The evil city government will tell you it's for her own safety, when it fact it's little more than a scarlet letter to mark her as just another one of society's dregs to be ignored and forgotten. They may as well require her to carry a big sign shouting, DON'T GIVE ME ANY MONEY BECAUSE I'LL JUST SPEND IT ON DRUGS AND BOOZE.
As I sat there waiting to make my left turn, I almost lost my appetite for the White Russian Mocha Latte in my hand, so sickened was I by the realization that I simply didn't know what to do. Maybe I could've rolled down the window and told her to collect $8,000 and then she'd have enough to get home. Maybe I could've given her directions to the nearest Planned Parenthood clinic, or some other public resource or agency that might have helped her with her dilemma. But it was also a Saturday, and this is a three-day federal holiday weekend, so any public agencies are going to be closed until Tuesday. She'd be making a long trek across town for nothing, and besides, so much exertion could bring on the baby, so really, she was better off just staying where she was.
Yet because I care so much, I couldn't stop thinking of what more I could do. I suppose I could've just gotten out of the car and given her a hug, but at that very moment, the light finally turned to a green arrow and there was traffic behind me, and they all wanted to make their left turn. None of them wanted to take the time to give her a hug, because none of them care as much as I do. So I had no choice but to step on the gas and leave her there, and hope that as I sped by her and she started coughing from the burst of fumes from my tailpipe, that she wouldn't lose her balance and topple off the median—because somehow I don't think that green vest would've saved her like those unfeeling fat cats on the city council seem to think it magically will.
Comrades, when this sort of thing happens, we must admit to ourselves that the mess Obama inherited was so much worse than we thought before he was elected. We must admit to ourselves that while things would be a lot worse if not for his stimulus or the passage of health care, that stimulus and the provisions of that bill are still not enough—and that's because of a partisan minority of Republicans who would hold innocent people like this woman hostage to special interests. We must continue to loudly proclaim that it was Republican policies that drove this woman into the ditch of despair, and that it would be a disaster to let them have the keys back when all they would do is run her down, despite her fluorescent green vest.
By the way, if anyone knows if that woman is still on that median, then maybe there's something we can do collectively to help her. I thought maybe we could pick a day when we all wear fluorescent green vests to show our solidarity with her plight. Since NFL players are wearing pink accessories today, maybe we could get them to join us by wearing the green vests next Sunday.
What better way to raise awareness of how much we care during this most Progressive of months?
Commissarka Pinkie is a frequent contributor to The People's Cube, and is renowned and admired for her dedication to raising awareness of how much she cares. Her award winning articles include Have Cancer, Three Kids, Need Gas! When she isn't busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys beating proles with her shovel and spending other people's money.
