Playing Fair and Being Kind

Yesterday was a odd type of day. I had many good things happening around me as I wandered hither and yon. My day began at Maine State Prison. I met one of my Alternatives to Violence Project, AVP,  co-facilitators just before noon to go inside the Medium Unit to make preparations for our scheduled workshop next Friday the 25th. It’s a three day workshop and we were checking on our supplies and other necessities. We had a successful visit seeing old inmate friends and also having cordial, informative moments with the Warden, Assistant Warden, and the Medium Unit Manager. We left on a high note. The two of us had minor tasks to perform on our own between now and the beginning of the workshop.

I came home and began doing chores around The Castle. I watered the Royal Vegetable Gardens and I went to the library in the Harbor. While I was down town I stopped at the Hannaford to purchase several items for making blueberry pies next week and other victuals for myself. When I got back to The Castle I remembered that I needed to get a poster laminated at Staples before the workshop. I checked the time and called Staples. Their large laminating machine was operational and they were open until 9 P.M. I had time to hustle down there to accomplish my task.

It was dark by the time I began my trip back home. I crossed the Bath Bridge coming north on U.S. Route 1 and while I was entering the bottle neck at the turn for state highway 127 that goes up toward Dresden there was a line of cars moving along but kind of slow. I was in the empty right hand lane but this lane ends at the turn and then the left lane is THE lane for continuing north on U.S. 1. I was going to be forced to stop by the shoulder unless I goosed Rocinante and got ahead of the line of cars, which I did. The final car I passed on the right was an unmarked police car. Wouldn’t you know it. I was going over fifty mph in a thirty five zone. Well, you know what happened. Blue lights and all the rest.

I stopped at the top of the hill by the Taste of Maine restaurant. I had a nice chat with the officer. He was a little incredulous that I would pass him on the right at that rate of speed. White privilege, older respected driver, other markers of good-guy-ism in his eyes. he let me go. No warning, nothing. He said it was a courtesy stop. Blow me down! I thanked him and promised to never, ever do that again and we parted company. Whew! I drove perfectly the rest of the way home.

I fixed a snack for myself and began perusing the news pages and blogs online. I came across an article describing the waivers the State of Maine had applied for to reduce the amount of health coverage provided by Medicaid. This was new to me so I spent a little time checking it out as well as some links to other related articles. I began to see that our Governor, Paul LePage was on board with Trump’s call to reduce Medicaid funding over time. Cuts in funding in the billions of dollars are being sought by the conservative element of our grand tribe. There seems to be a lack of money in our country and our leaders are going to recoup what is missing from programs that help the poor and disenfranchised population. You know. From those who have no means to fight back. The money to make things better in the budget systems will need to come from those programs that do nothing for the ones who don’t need them.

So I wrote a letter to my state representative and copied the editor of the Boothbay Register. That’s all I can do for now. Anyway while I was grinding down my teeth over this I was recalling how a group of us always found a way to help those without money to live tolerable lives. I began to remember those days back in the seventies when I lived in Coronado, California.

In 1977 I found it necessary to begin attending AA meetings. I happened to be living in an alley apartment in Coronado. I had begun to drink too much and too often. I was drinking and driving so I tried various strategies. I owned a mustang, a motorcycle, and a bicycle. A ten-speed made of aluminum. High end for those days. Anyway, I had to think about being careful not to drive the car or ride the motorcycle during drinking bouts. I began to rely on the bicycle. I ended up eventually being down on Orange Avenue unable to ride my bike back to my apartment. I was mortified. I was in the Little Club just a few doors up from the Mexican Village. I couldn’t walk a straight line to save my life. I was meandering from curb to building back and forth. That was quite a stagger, believe me. I decided then to seek help. I found the AA gang and began going to meetings.

During those first great days of being sober and hanging with similar friends I learned the value of generosity. In fact, just this afternoon I called old friend Linda Oliver. She still lives in Southern California. We were good pals in those days, forty years ago. I wanted to talk on the phone with her to verify my memories. We were always hanging out together and hitting all the good restaurants along Orange Avenue. We also were part of a small group of friends who attended AA meeting together and we’d go for coffee or dinner after a meeting and continue the good conversation over food. We usually headed for the Mexican Village at the end of Orange Avenue.

It turned out to be a regular event after local AA meetings. The wait-staff of the Mexican Village would know when we’d be showing up and over a dozen of us would. Sometimes more. There was always room for any number of friends at our table. One waitress in particular took it upon herself to save one long, long table that would seat twenty people. She would greet us and show us to the table. A side story is that upon entering the Mexican Village we had to walk past a full bar to get to the dining area. It was always fun because we were in a group and having a good time sober. Also, one of our good friends from AA named Bo was working the bar. He rarely came to meetings but he was sober and always shouted a greeting to us when we walked past.

One of our members at dinner was an older woman with new sobriety who was named Jane. Jane was the wife of a retired four striper, a Navy captain. Coronado was a Navy town, still is. There are more retired admirals and four stripers per capita in Coronado than any where else in the world. Jane was older and well-off and newly sober and on the AA “honeymoon”. She was glad to have friends and she was glad to be generous to other newcomers. Jane was a delight for brand new sober people because she would lavish them with lots of attention. She could speak the language and she was genuinely interested in their stories. They adored her. Jane also had blue hair. It was a complete package. In fact Jane was a caricature of a wealthy grande dame. If you are old enough to remember Wayland Flowers’ puppet Madame you have a good idea how Jane appeared.

The fun memory I have of the after-meeting dinners at the Mexican Village is that only about half of us diners had any money. Many of our gang were dirt poor. You see Coronado was an eclectic mix of haves and have-nots. It was a retirement community for very wealthy folks as well as a place with a military presence. Lots of young sailors lived right there in town as well as on the base close by. Therefore the population of the AA meetings matched the overall population. When the check came it as like watching our favorite waitress delivering a court summons. Many of our group tried to not notice. What happened was those of us with cash would pass the check back and forth and notice what was being ponied up to cover the expense. The check and a healthy tip always got paid. No one was embarrassed. Everyone was welcome and everyone was comfortable. That’s how it is supposed to work.

There is a lot of money in this country. This is a very, very rich country. The problem as I see it is that we have a new type of rich person who has been creeping into our country since the sixties and seventies. This person hordes their money. They don’t spend and the money is stuffed away in a bank vault in some country where none of us can access it. The money is out of circulation and is not being “trickled down”. Every gain by the rich population simply stuffs more cash into bank vaults. Nothing gets spent therefore there is no circulation of the cash. This is how the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Of course you do know that the money comes from unpaid wages. That is the proper definition of “profits”. Profits are unpaid wages or labor for free.

So there you have it. The prescribed method of community and money and riches is like that gang of recovering drunks at the Mexican Village. The described situation is like Paul LePage cutting spending for health care for those who need it the most.

Which brings me to my final word. I was reflecting on how to write about this when one of my nearly nine hundred and something stored tunes on my laptop began to play. It was John Trudell reciting one of his poems. The name of the poem is “Famine in the Land of Plenty”.  I will provide a link to a youtube video so you can enjoy it. Read about John Trudell. He is a hero. He is a quiet activist with a deep sense of purpose. Actually, John has passed over. He died of cancer in 2015. I admire him. Long live John Trudell.

https://www.google.com/search?q=john+trudell+famine+in+the+plenty&oq=john+trudell+&gs_l=psy-ab.1.1.35i39k1l2j0i20k1j0.3358.3989.0.9995.5.4.0.0.0.0.174.510.0j4.4.0….0…1.1.64.psy-ab..3.2.293…0i67k1j0i22i30k1.Di7NHg0Y5IU

G. M. Goodwin 18 August 2017