My Brother’s Keeper
Lest you suspect I am naïvely setting myself up for a huge letdown, let me set the record straight. I know that as tough as Debbie’s path is, she must ultimately walk it herself. Although it is seldom of comfort in situations like Debbie’s, a belief that nothing is wasted—including and especially the most wretched and unimaginable suffering—is central to my life philosophy. I know from bitter experience that all the wishing in the world will not send angels down to pluck you off your pot-holed road if that is the route you are destined to travel in order to learn what you are supposed to learn in this life. I don’t know why Debbie’s road is what it is, but I recognize that it is undeniably hers.
On the other hand, I also believe in everyday miracles.
I was still trying to understand how she got to where she is today. The complexity of Debbie’s story thickened as she continued to tell it:
“I never got rich financially off the theater, but rich from giving back. And it made me a pay check. I lost that business just before my husband died due to his need for me to care for him and high medical bills. Six months after his death, one of my daughters, then ten, had to have open heart surgery, which left her somewhat disabled. Today she is twenty, but I can’t get any help for her. They say she is not disabled enough. So we care and provide for her as best we can.
I have also been raising my grandson from birth. His mother was a victim of bad abuse when he was born so he has been with me since he was six weeks old. My husband died when my grandson was one. My grandson spent most of his school years in special education. But my current husband fought for him and his education and took on the schools all the way to the courts to get this kid out of special education and the chance to have a better future. I am proud to say he has been in general education now for two years and doing very well. It takes a lot of work from us to help him get good grades. Just two years ago, he could not do simple math or even hold a pen correctly. Now he is much better.”
During the years after my first husband’s death and before I met my current husband, I worked four jobs. My dad died and my mom moved in with me, where she lived for fifteen years. After the death of my husband, my mom cared for my grandson and my daughter while I worked hour after hour to keep my family going. My daughter (grandson’s mother) later remarried and moved here to Florida. She has three children, and although she wanted to take my grandson back, I would not allow it because he and I bonded so strongly. To uproot a child that was stable was wrong. My daughter agreed and I understood why she gave him to me. It was the right thing to do at the time. But after my husband died, it was hard rising a baby at forty and working four jobs.
Thinking back to one year ago today, I would be here with all bills current and food in my refrigerator, wondering what to cook for dinner. The kids would be home from school soon, my husband at work, also home soon. I’d be trying to think of something we could do as family over the weekend that wouldn’t cost a lot but yet be fun. Maybe a trip to the drive-in, or may to one of the state parks. We’d be talking about Halloween and, “What costume do you want me to make this year?” There’d be the thought of Christmas coming soon and me thinking maybe I should start looking for those little gifts now.
One year ago, I would have never thought that today I’d be sitting here jobless with no prospects for work in sight; with nothing in the refrigerator to cook, so no worry about what to make for dinner. But worry, god how I do, and what can I feed my children? The food bank gives us mustard, baking chocolate, and spices—not exactly a meal. I’m behind on my bills with the lights ready to be shut off. I’m $987 away from eviction. Having a meal is what is on my mind for the family weekend. I’m begging for work, never mind applying the normal way. Telling my kids to make sure they eat all their free lunch (provided by the state of Florida) at school; praying this nightmare comes to end. Every time I see the news, it seems this nightmare has just begun. Does anyone hear us out here? What has happened to this country, our jobs? How do we fix it? What can I do as a mother but worry about what is in store for my children, for my future?
I don’t think they get it in Washington. They just don’t get it. I may be one small fish in a large ocean and overlooked. But I never saw this coming; I never got it until it got me. I truly hope and pray no man, woman, or child in this country has to deal with the stress, worry, and pain I have dealt with over the past five months, hanging on to that last thread of hope in a nation that is falling apart. Every voice—every person—counts in this election. Please let your voice be heard.”
I couldn’t resist and sent Debbie another $200, again knowing it would not be enough. Despite the driving urge to bail her out myself, I knew neither of us could keep going this way. So I drew on the only other resource I knew how to tap: the passion to inspire others. By telling her story, Debbie and I would launch a social experiment to elicit random acts of kindness for a stranger. This would be a grassroots effort to help those who, like Debbie, have slipped through the cracks and are $1,000 from homeless. Debbie is one of many, I suspect, who has exhausted all available sources for financial and employment aid (governmental, United Way, churches, and more), and for whom—incredulously—many legitimate charities will not help either precisely because she is not employed, or because she is not destitute enough. Yet.
I wonder who will heed the call to help Debbie, especially today when none of us can be sure just how much we might have to help ourselves. I know it’s scary. More than once, I’ve had to confront my own cowardice and muster the courage to put myself on the line for her. Worse yet, I have pondered the awful possibility that I’ll issue an appeal and no one will answer the call—then what? Have I attempted to be “my brother’s keeper” only to make the situation worse? Only to create false hope for a woman whose hopes are dashed to bits already?
Why, when we intellectually know we can help one another, do we fail to translate realization into action? It seems we stop ourselves before we even get started, before we can become committed and therefore, vulnerable. What are we more afraid of—failing or succeeding? “If I help so-and-so today, then what about all the others waiting in the wings? When will it end?” we wonder. Or we hear a story like Debbie’s and despair takes hold. We think, “My five dollars won’t make a difference,” or “If I can’t solve the problem I might as well do nothing.” The only thing this self-talk and over-analysis succeeds in doing is shutting us down before we can begin. Don’t listen to it! It’s not the truth.
What is?
As of July 31, 2008, the Barack Obama campaign raised over $390 million dollars with an average donation of around $25. Millions of Americans, each contributing a small amount, generated a fortune equivalent to the 2007 GDP of Samoa or Dominica. We know we can do it, we’ve proven we can do it, and in fact, we’ve done it. Was that so hard? Couldn’t we raise the bar a bit? We must not help just once, or when we feel like it, or when we are passionate and connected to the cause. Nor must each of us help every time. But enough of us must decide, more than just occasionally, to become our brother’s keeper. Only by saving one another do we save ourselves.
To make a contribution to Debbie’s Cause, please contact the author through this site.