A friend of mine sent this in response to the Food Stamp Mercedes story. She changed her daughter’s name to protect her privacy. The “political camp” is something like Girls’ State — a chance for kids to learn how government and politics work. Here’s what my friend wrote:

Two years ago, my daughter was at her political camp, and the big issue that year was entitlement programs. Naturally, all these young men and women had all the answers concerning these people milking the system, especially those with cell phone and gaming systems and nice cars and nice houses and…you know the ones. The ones sucking the government’s financial teats for all they can get because they are just too lazy and loser-ish to do something for themselves. The answer, naturally, was to either cut the checks they received because really, if they could buy all those things, they didn’t need that much money, or simply don’t give them anything at all because again, obviously they didn’t need it.

As the week went on, my daughter tried to speak for the numbers, which was merely seen as being the devil’s advocate, which made these impassioned young people more sure of their judgments concerning these system abusing scum. Then the last full day came, and the comments were flowing loud, and the judgments of these scums’ character or lack thereof had all these hardworking youth on their pedestals with arrogance aplenty to categorize and dismiss these numbers, because that is all they were–numbers, with proper consternation. Then the craziest thing happened.

From somewhere in this mass of more-responsible-than-thou crowd, a young lady stood and walked to the front and beat a gavel on a podium. Voices stopped as 200+ pairs of eyes turned to look at my daughter. My daughter, who didn’t talk about her life much, NEVER mentioned her dead dad there. In fact, only half a dozen knew her dad was dead. The daughter who didn’t want anyone to know much of anything. THAT daughter told them everything.

“You keep talking about these numbers as though they are just things, but these aren’t things. They are people. However, you can’t see that because these people don’t have a face. So I’m going to give you a face. MY face. I am Michaela Kelley, and I receive a government check each month.”

She went on to tell them how we received survivor benefits each month since her dad died, and we have a Wii because the kids got it for Christmas two months before their dad died. She told them we have a nice car because ours died and cost more to fix than it was worth so I used money from her dad’s life savings to buy a new one. She told them that, yes, we all have phones because it is the easiest way for a single mom trying to herd two teenagers to keep up with both while activities are going on. She told them about our house that was paid off, not because the government wrote us a check each month, but because her dad paid for life insurance every month for nearly 2 decades. She told them how the life they think we don’t deserve isn’t a life they pay for but a life we used to have…that we were trying to hold onto. She told them that all it takes to go from middle class and having it all is one heartbeat…that doesn’t happen. She warned them that the lives that paid for their houses, cars, phones, and games could be gone with one lay-off notice, one sickness, one knock at the door saying, “I’m sorry to tell you…”

I wasn’t there, but I am told when she finished the students sat stunned for a moment before they stood and applauded her. The adults wiped tears from their eyes, and the not-really-human numbers had faces and a name.

One check. One sickness. One knock at the door…and all of us could be Mrs. Mercedes. We are outrageously arrogant to think we can’t.

 All my life I’ve felt sorry for my dad, who never relaxes about money. Can’t he just let go and enjoy life without counting pennies? But then again, he was born during the Great Depression, and he knows how hard life can get. He’s told me that many nights, he and his brother had nothing but crumbled cornbread and buttermilk for dinner. To him, security is an illusion. Who am I to tell him he is wrong? I haven’t seen what he’s seen.