| Topic: |
Politics > Politics-USA |
| User: |
"Harry Hope" |
| Date: |
30 Jan 2005 08:15:29 PM |
| Object: |
The forgotten veteran |
From Stars and Stripes, 1/30/05:
http://www.estripes.com/article.asp?section=125&article=26879
Show troops real support
The stir created by the University of Oregon’s removal of a troop
support sticker this month from a university vehicle is a dubious
reflection of how Americans define support.
Concern over the removal is unfounded and, ironically, overshadows the
quality of life for returning troops, those for whom the stickers are
intended.
Our support is woefully conditional.
When troops come back safe and sound, we’re there for them, providing
hugs and handshakes.
Yet we walk right past the less fortunate getting off the same plane.
What they need is time, attention and someone to stay on task with
them.
The personal-responsibility rule suggests troops and their families
must deplete their personal resources in the effort to secure
assistance.
This is ludicrous.
We quietly nod or say nothing as budget cuts are proposed to veterans
programs and assistance programs.
We deliberately avoid the veterans’ new reality.
We shun them into areas of life designed for the less entitled.
We reduce their image by labeling them "disadvantaged" and think this
releases us from our responsibility to care for them as completely as
they deserve.
Unlike the derelict who never contributed to society’s benefit but
benefits from society, troops and their families have earned our
support to include basic living allowances, all levels of health care,
financial assistance, education and employment that befits their now
differing talents and skills.
This is what they deserve.
Anything less is just a sticker on a car.
Diana Hartman
Stuttgart, Germany
_________________________________________________________
Harry
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| User: "Joe Blow" |
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| Title: Re: The forgotten veteran |
31 Jan 2005 12:57:38 AM |
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From Stars and Stripes, 1/30/05:
http://www.estripes.com/article.asp?section=125&article=26879
Show troops real support
Our support is woefully conditional.
We deliberately avoid the veterans' new reality.
We shun them into areas of life designed for the less entitled.
We reduce their image by labeling them "disadvantaged" and think this
releases us from our responsibility to care for them as completely as
they deserve.
Anything less is just a sticker on a car.
Diana Hartman
Stuttgart, Germany
***
So the other day last month, I stopped into my fave drug-variety store down
in Chicago, it's a little mom-and-pop place run by an independent pharmacist
name of James S.
The little bell over the door jingles as I walk in. "Hey, Jimmey!" I
exclaim on seeing him, "How ya been?" Jimmey's always there,
ruddy-cheeked, bright-eyed, greeting me with a big smile. Jimmey's such a
good egg, I always think to myself when I come into his store
"Hey there Joe! What can I get'cha?" Jim asks me, still beaming from behind
the counter.
I silently pick up a pack of gum and drop my selection in front of him,
along with a dollar and change. As Jim is completing the routine transaction
for me, I notice a new display beside the register.
I say, "Hey-hey, I see you got those big yellow ribbons, 'Support Our
Troops.' Ya know, I've been seeing them stuck on the cars everywhere around
town." "How do they work Jim?" I ask.
"Oh they're really neat." Jim says. "They're magentic. You just slap them
right on your car, won't even ***** up the paint! For you, two
ninety-five, ...plus eight percent tax, of course. Got two of 'em on my
Lexus. 'Support Our Troops' you know." he adds with a big smile. I guess
Jimmey's doing his little bit of selling here I tell myself, but he's still
a good egg, and I've known him for years.
"Um, sure," I say. "But what I mean is, how does the *money* work? What part
goes to 'support our troops' like it says?"
Jim's face flushes all over again, he looks to one side and after a moment
seeks out my gaze and almost shouts, "Half!" "Uh, ...half," he says
more quietly now. "We send it in once a month" he adds hastily. Jim shifts
in his stance behind the counter ever so slightly.
Before thinking about it, I ask, "Just curious, where do you send the
money?" I suddenly realize I'm pushing it.
"I'm not sure. My wife handles that stuff. I can check with her about it if
you want." Jim is almost scowling at me now. *****, I can see I've really
pressed the issue. "Anyway Joe, you wan't one?" Jim is pushing back now.
"Lemme think about it," I mumble. My turn to avoid his eyes. Still, for
appearance sake, I momentarily drag my gaze up to his, force a quick smile,
grab my purchase, turn and make my way out of the store.
Later, back at home, I'm fucking around on the computer so I Google in:
"ribbon," "support our troops," and "wholesale." Hey, I hit the "I'm
Feeling Lucky" button and well, I'll be goddamned if these things don't all
ship directly from Mainland China and go for $4.95 a dozen, in lots of
twelve dozen or more, free shipping included! Lessee, pop up the ol'
Windows calculator, that's forty-one and a quarter cents a piece! *****,
even if he's sending in half like he sez, ol' Jimmey's still pulling in at
least a buck for his trouble. But then I dunno, he was pretty uncomfortable
back there, like maybe he's just figuring the "goodwill" of the message
should be enough for 'our troops.' Then I start to rationalize, okay so
it's a 'trickle-down' economy again, like when Reaganomics usta be. The
Chinese get their part. The big boys who go over to China and tell them what
the ***** to stamp out, get their BIG part. I mean they prob-ly only give the
China boys a few pennies a piece for their sweat by the shipload. Then when
it comes over here, little guys like Jimmey get their turn at it. And from
there, in some cases, just maybe if guys like Jimmey actually feel like it,
maybe some trickles down to the troops themselves through some VA, or USO or
some fucking thing. Yeah, it all trickles down, that's it.
Then again, maybe the only thing really trickling down is the blood of our
sons and daughters, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sisters and
brothers. And maybe Jimmey's just some little ***** vampire who
pokes his head out to lap up a drop or two that trickles down his way.
Maybe that's really it, yuh know, fuckin' free market. Meat-wagon
free-market pass-the fucking-bacon if you please. Everybody gets a piece of
the action, even Jimmey, that sonofabitch. Man, I'm really pissed at him
right about now. Yeah, "Support Our Troops," right, Jimmey. "Merchandise
Our Troops," and leave 'em stiff, is a lot more like it. That sonofabitch.
I'm really pissed that he could be like that. Good thing that ***** isn't
standing in fronta me right now. I'd put his lights out. My eyes start to
burn. Then I gotta do my best to lighten up. I can't put the whole thing on
his shoulders, I tell myself. He's just one little guy trying to get by,
trying to make a living like everybody else.
It takes me two weeks to screw up my courage and go back into his store. I'm
such a fucking coward. But for better or worse, I'm ready to have it out
with him about these fucking ribbons. When I jingle open the door, Jim is
standing there behind the counter like always, but no smile crosses his
lips.
"Hi," he says in a small voice. He could see me coming in through the glass
door. I look to the counter and the ribbon display is gone. There is a
stack of Beanie Babies in its place. I do my best to cheer him up as I buy
my usual pack of gum. We never spoke of the ribbons again.
***
Thank You, Diana,
Joe Blow
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