Their Last Game, Chapter Three

friendship photo

Friendship Playground where the fight takes place.

Before his parents and Anna went to his Uncle Finn’s for the Fourth of July, Bobby sneaked out of the house. He picked up his basketball and went out the garage and hopped on his bike and rode to Friendship.

This was Bobby’s first time back there since he punched Harrison. Bobby entered the basketball courts and shot jumpers. His thin lowcut black Chuck’s weren’t much protection against the blacktop’s heat, and the sun stung his eyes, and sweat flicked off his forehead.

After maybe ten minutes, Bobby saw Harrison Bentley, his friend Rick Jenkins and two other, bigger kids advancing toward the courts. Bobby didn’t take Harrison seriously, but respected Rick. He was small and wiry, but didn’t run from a fight. But Bobby wasn’t sure about the big kids.

He bent to shoot again, and felt a hand slap the ball out of his hands and push his back, and Bobby turned and saw Rick Jenkins. Grabbing Rick’s arm, Bobby spun him around, and said, “What’s your problem?” Bobby applied more pressure and said, “Had enough?”

“Yeah,” Rick said, and Bobby let him go. Bobby bent to retrieve the ball, and one big guy slugged him in the jaw and the other big guy came from behind and knocked Bobby to his knees and pinned him to the blacktop with his right knee. Bobby endured Rick stomping and stomping and stomping on his chest.

Everyone except Harrison kicked him in the ribs from both sides, and Bobby prayed they would let up. But he endured one final indignity. Harrison spat in his face and in his little girl’s voice said, “Had enough?”

They started away, and Bobby heard them laugh and say, “That was great.” He lay there oblivious to the scorching blacktop. The greasy sweat stung his eyes, and his face throbbed and his head buzzed.

Bobby winced and stood, and blood dripped off the back of his head and hit the blacktop creating a smudge resembling a child’s crayon shading. Bobby felt the the back of his head. It was warm and sticky, but he couldn’t tell how just how bad it was.

Bobby took off his sweaty shirt and tied it twice around his head. He got on his bike and rested the ball on his lap and pressed the ball against the bike’s frame. Queasy, Bobby rode slowly home.

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My Grandfather, Leader of the Marine Band, Part One

Editor’s Note: this is the first post in a series of posts about my Grandfather Captain Taylor Branson.

pete and sousa blog

On the occasion of the Carabao Wallow in 1932, my Grandfather Captain Taylor Branson (right) shakes hand with John Phillip Sousa, 43 years after the Marine Band Leaders’ first meeting.

On May 2, 1927, 90 years ago today, my maternal Grandfather Captain Taylor Branson received his warrant to become the US Marine Band’s 20th Leader. A native Washingtonian, and the first Leader born to parents born in the United States, my grandfather led “The President’s Own” until he retired in 1940.

Born on the Feast of St. Ignatius July 31, 1881, my grandfather was the fourth child of the ten born to Serena Arnold and James Taylor (JT) Branson, and the oldest surviving son. Referring to himself as a “country fiddler,” JT encouraged his namesake son to take up the violin at an early age.

Good naturedly calling his son “Pete” after “Pete Tumbledown,” a 19th Century comics’ character known for his clumsiness, JT wanted his son to experience a better, more refined, and peaceful life than the one he knew doing the hard, violent, and dangerous work as a mounted policeman for the District of Columbia.

On June 15, 1899, in an astonishingly prescient moment, the father and son saw a significant glimpse into the future of which they dreamed.

On that day, not quite 8, Pete, as his grandchildren affectionately came to call him, was recognized as one  of eleven schoolchildren, who won the Washington Post Amateur Authors Association’s essay contest.

25,000 people attended a ceremony on the Smithsonian grounds, where Pete received his gold medal from John Phillip Sousa, then the Leader of the US Marine Band. And, according to family lore, the future Leader of the band sat in the then current Leader’s lap.

As if that moment wasn’t enough to predestine my grandfather’s fate, as pure lagniappe, he and JT were there when Sousa premiered “The Washington Post March” written for the occasion. Next to “Stars and Stripes Forever,” “The Post March” was “The March King’s” most popular march.

Nine years later, after graduating from Eastern High School in 1898, Pete joined the band as an “Apprentice Musician.” But thanks to JT’s influence, Pete’s apprenticeship began much sooner than that, and like many musicians, he learned in secular and sacred places.

Reminiscent of a latter day Harry Connick Jr., who, as a boy, played piano with legendary New Orleans’ musicians, Pete, as a child, was also good enough on the violin to play with adults.

At 9, according to the “Washington Evening Star,” on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception December 8, 1890, Pete performed with adult musicians at Gray’s Hall in Anacostia.

30 persons heard this performance, which the local branch of the fraternal insurance association the Catholic Knights of America sponsored. “Rock-A-Bye Baby” and “Mickey Brannigan’s Pup” were among the numbers featured in the show, which lasted until one in the morning.

A Knights member, JT created this great, heady moment and opportunity for Pete to prove himself among more experienced players while assuring he played in a safe, friendly environment. And Pete returned home likely feeling confident, grateful, and well loved and with quite a story to tell.

Pete also grew as a musician at St. Teresa of Avila Parish. JT and Serena were charter members of the parish, which was the first Catholic church in Washington established East of the Anacostia River. It was founded in 1879, five years after the Bransons were married.

Anacostia was a multiracial community then, and with African Americans contributing significant funding and labor to build the new parish, St. Teresa’s first congregants were African American and White. But White families pre-dominated parish life, which limited African Americans’ roles and say in parish affairs.

The Bransons likely accepted these divisions as the way of life. But we shouldn’t judge our ancestors too harshly because they didn’t live up to our more enlightened ideals, especially when our own racial relations are imperfect.

Nonetheless, Pete’s participation in St. Teresa’s life positively influenced him. According to the “Star,” Pete soloed on the violin many times and occasionally played clarinet: at Sunday masses, on feast day celebrations, at organ recital fundraisers and during Vespers.

Along with his older sisters Lizzie and May, Pete was also a member of the church choir, singing tenor.

His singing ability set Pete apart from other Marine Band Leaders. Audiences particularly enjoyed it when he sang the “The Marines’ Hymn,” but like a latter day Pete Seeger, my grandfather insisted on singing all the verses. And the band couldn’t keep up when Pete got deeper into the song’s more obscure verses.

Pete’s all-in approach to singing characterized the way he lived. When my grandmother Marie urged him not to be so intense, Pete said he couldn’t help it. He believed a person should “to do well what one has to do, and to do it with one’s entire self.”

JT’s encouragement, his close-knit family’s love, and his parish’s influence shaped Pete’s philosophy and more significantly formed him as a musician, and a man, who loved his Church, and possessed an ardent faith, which later informed his daughters Serena and Anna Marie’s extraordinary lives of service.

Nourished with great love, and with a strong faith in a musical future, which he saw clearly and for which he had well prepared, Pete, at 17, took his next step toward that promising life. On September 21, 1898, he enlisted as a Private in the Marine Band.

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Their Last Game, Chapter Two

shirley povich

Legendary “Washington Post” sportswriter Shirley Povich.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table the next morning at seven, and read about the Washington Senators in Shirley Povich’s column in the “Washington Post,” which even a kid could understand.

He thought a lot about the Senators’ planned move to Texas at the end of the season, but the red scratches above his knuckles concerned Bobby more.

His mom had bought the story about hitting his hand on a fence, but he suspected his dad only went along with it not to upset her.

Bobby heard the front door, and JP walked into the kitchen returning from a Friday night out. He was nineteen and had taken off from school to work construction.

6’4”, with a broad chest, and thick, muscular arms, he wore chinos, and brown Weejuns, and his receding black hair fell in ringlets over the collar of his crisp, French blue button down, and thick, long sideburns encroached upon his cheeks.

Bobby watched JP walk to the refrigerator and take out a half gallon can of Hawaiian Punch and rummage through a drawer and find a can opener and open the can. His brother stepped over to the cupboard and reached in and pulled down a glass and poured the drink unsteadily into it.

Some juice spilled on to the counter, and Bobby watched JP wipe the spill with a sponge on the counter and take a long drink of the juice and turn to Bobby and say, “How’s the boy?”

JP forced himself to be still and his eyes wandered away from Bobby, and his thick speech made Bobby wonder if JP was drunk. Bobby said, “Not bad.” And Bobby watched JP take another long drink, and slam his glass back to the counter, which startled Bobby.

Bobby clenched and unclenched his hand, and JP smiled and said, “What’s going on with your hand?”

“I punched this kid Harrison Bentley, and scratched my hand on his braces.”

“Did this Bentley kid get in any shots on you?”

“No.”

“Why the face?”

“I don’t want mom to know.”

“She won’t figure it out unless this kid squeals on you. Will he?”

“He’s too afraid of me.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“What about dad?”

“It won’t upset him if you’re fighting, if the kid had it coming, and he doesn’t want mom to know her angel is fighting.” His brother smiled and laughed, and said, “I’m going to hit it, buddy. Don’t sweat this thing.”

“Alright. Thanks,” Bobby said. Even if his brother’s words seemed to run together too quickly, Bobby still heard what he meant. And he watched his brother try to keep his balance as he left the room.

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Their Last Game, Chapter One

Editor’s Note: In the tradition of the old serials, I’m releasing the first chapter of my short story, “Their Last Game.” Look for more chapters in subsequent days.

TLG Blog 1

Where our story begins.

The first day of summer in 1971, Bobby Gallagher rode his bike to the corner of 46th and Van Ness Streets and met his best friends Mario and Vince Donatello, and the boys rode down Van Ness the short block into Friendship playground.

Bobby lived in Spring Valley with his parents Mike and Liz, older brother JP and sister Anna, but the brothers lived in Tenleytown above their family bakery.

Bobby’s parents said the Donatello’s bread was the best in town, but his mom’s warning not to hang around the brothers from the wrong side of the tracks was lost on him.

Bobby and Mario were 11 and going into the sixth grade at Annunciation Catholic School, but Vince was going into the eighth, but should have been going into ninth.

Bobby was tall and thick- chested while Mario, of average height, was muscular and quick. And already shaving a face dotted with acne, Vince lumbered after the others when they got off their bikes at the basketball courts.

Bobby went to the clubhouse and came out with a basketball, and they entered the courts, passing a three-on-three game between Jesuit and DeLasalle High School boys. Bobby observed Chuck Alfoghinis playing with the DeLasalle boys and knew not to mess with him.

A glistening, snorting bull of a man-child, who came from a large, tough family, a menacing brown crew cut revealed his skull’s veins. Two brothers had been thrown out of DeLasalle, and their old man allegedly slapped around their mom.

Everyone at Friendship knew Bobby was JP Gallagher’s brother. Something of a local legend, JP seemed destined for a college basketball career before he blew out his knee his senior year at Jesuit. Bobby dribbled to a basket opposite the court where the three-on-three game was played.

Wanting others to see JP in him, he rose to shoot and made three shots in a row. When he missed, he retrieved the ball near the chain link fence surrounding the court and saw Harrison Bentley outside it. A geeky, sissified, rich mama’s boy, he came around periodically and became annoying when the others didn’t let him join them.

Bobby believed some of Harrison’s behavior wasn’t completely his fault; he had two last names and went to St. Dunstan’s where they made kids dress like old men in blue blazers with elbow patches and grey trousers.

Bobby observed Harrison giggling, trying to hide his braces, and he said to Bobby, “My sister can shoot better than you.” Bobby collected the ball and tossed it to Vince, and glanced again at Harrison.

“Who’s that snot?” Mario said to Bobby.

“Some kid from my neighborhood: Harrison Bentley,” Bobby said, clenching his teeth, imitating Thurston Howell III from “Gilligan’s Island.” He observed the Donatellos laugh and glance at Harrison.

“Hey, little Gallagher,” Alfoghinis, from across the playground, said, “It’s your game.” The DeLasalle boys were bigger and stronger, but not quicker than Bobby and Mario. The DeLasalle boys also couldn’t fight through Vince’s picks, and Bobby and Mario had ample time to shoot.

With each basket Bobby and Mario made, the DeLasalle boys grew rougher. Then Alfoghinis knocked Vince into Mario as he shot. Vince called, foul, and the brothers reeled backward, but Bobby stepped in and said to Vince, “Be cool, man. Just one more hoop and this game is ours. They’re not worth it.”

Bobby saw one of the DeLasalle boys pick up the ball and go in for a layup. Annoyance quickly replaced Bobby’s disbelief when he heard Harrison, still safely behind the fence, giggling like a schoolgirl again. Bobby said to the kid who made the layup, “Didn’t you hear him?”

“That big goon,” the kid said, “has been moving on those screens all game.”

“What do you mean? He’s just standing there.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, little Gallagher, he can’t extend his arms like that,” Alfoghinis said.

His voice quivering, Bobby said, “You’re just hacked because you’re losing to kids.”

Alfoghinis said, “It’s our ball.”

“Alfoghinis,” Bobby said, “you’re a bully and a cheat and if you’re that desperate, we’re going to go.” He wanted to add his old man was a drunk and wife beater and his brothers thugs.

Leaving the court, Bobby heard Harrison laughing, and he said, “So, the little baby is going home.” Bobby slugged Harrison in his mouth, cutting his hand on Harrison’s braces.

“Are you alright?” Mario, not even looking at Harrison, said to Bobby.

“Yeah, but what about my mom? She’ll want to know how I cut my hand.”

“Just tell her,” Mario said, “you hit it against the fence or something. She’ll believe anything.”

Bobby laughed and smiled at Mario, and the three of them got on their bikes and rode away and left Harrison – his hand on his bloody mouth and whimpering and sniffling – not sure what hit him.

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Joe Judge Deserves To Be in Baseball’s Hall of Fame

joe judge

“That other WashingtonMonument” as Mel Allen once called him, Joe Judge, during his playing days. He deserves to be in the Hall of Fame.

March 11, 1963, while shoveling snow outside his Chevy Chase, DC home, former Washington Senators’ first baseman Joe Judge died of a heart attack. He was 68.

Judge, who hit .385 during the 1924 World Series when the Senators won Washington’s only Major League Championship, died believing baseball’s Hall of Fame had unfairly passed him over for election into the hall.

Judge’s grandson and local writer Mark Judge has argued for more than a decade Judge belongs in the hall. I had erroneously assumed Mark’s understandable devotion to his grandfather clouded his judgment. But having investigated Judge’s record, I’m convinced Mark is correct.

I have my own biases however. Mark’s older brother Mike is a good friend from Georgetown Prep. And Judge later coached players on the Georgetown baseball team dear to me: my Uncle Bill Byrd and good family friend Jim Castiglia, who also played in the NFL for Washington.

A clear-eyed look at Judge’s numbers, however, makes his case for the hall.

More than 80 years after his 1934 retirement, with 2,352 hits, Judge currently ranks 134th among Major League Baseball’s (MLB) all-time hit leaders. That’s more hits than Hall of Famers Joe DiMaggio and Yogi Berra respectively.

In 20 years, Judge hit .298 and higher than .300 9 times, with his best season coming in 1930 when Judge hit .326 and had a .919 OPS, both career highs.

Also, Judge only struck out 478 times in his career. By comparison, Ted Williams, arguably the best hitter in MLB history, struck out 709 times in 19 seasons. Judge struck out 6% of his at-bats, which is the 96th best strikeout percentage in MLB history.

Among Minnesota Twins’ all-time franchise leaders (the Senators moved to Minnesota in 1960) Judge also ranks in the top five in Games Played, At Bats, Runs, Hits, Doubles, Triples, Total Bases and Walks. Judge’s company in these categories includes: Hall of Famers Harmon Killebrew, Kirby Puckett and Judge’s teammate Sam Rice.

As good as he was offensively, Judge was better defensively. The anchor of the legendary double play combination Peck (Roger Peckinpaugh) to Harris (Bucky) to Judge, he was arguably the best defensive first baseman of his era. Judge’s .993 fielding percentage stood as a record for first baseman for 30 years after his retirement.

And he’s in the top 25 among first baseman in MLB history in putouts, assists, and double plays turned. These numbers are especially remarkable when you consider first baseman’s mitts then weren’t as large as they are today, and at 5’ 8”, Judge was an undersized first baseman.

Judge’s defensive prowess was most evident July 1, 1920 in Fenway Park. His teammate Walter “the Big Train” Johnson, arguably the best pitcher in MLB history, was one out away from his only no-hitter. Boston right fielder Hall of Famer Harry Hooper drilled a ball, which hooked over the first bag and had double written all over it.

Playing deep, Judge dove and snared the ball with a backhanded stab and flipped the ball to the covering Johnson. He caught Judge’s toss with his bare hand and beat Hooper to the bag, securing his no-hitter. Judge, according to several accounts, erupted into a war dance, and the much bigger Johnson jumped on his back.

His all-around play garnered Judge consideration in the MVP voting in 1922, 1923, 1926, and 1928. If Baseball’s Veterans Committee compares Judge’s numbers against players from his era, who are currently in the hall, they’ll conclude Judge belongs in their company.

Consider how he stacks up against outfielders Hooper and Kiki Cuyler.

Hooper finished with more hits than Judge, but he hit more doubles and RBIs, and his batting average was 17 points higher than Hooper’s .281. And Hooper’s banal .966 fielding percentage was 27 points lower than Judge’s.

Cuyler, whose Pirates defeated Judge’s Senators in 7 games for the 1925 title, hit .321, 23 points higher than Judge. And he hit more homers and drove in more runs while Judge had more hits and doubles. Cuyler’s prosaic .972 fielding percentage, however, was 21 points lower than Judge’s.

Acknowledging Judge was a better all-around ballplayer than some of his contemporaries already in the hall, will, I hope, convince the Veterans Committee finally to punch Judge’s ticket to Cooperstown, where he has long belonged.

 

 

 

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“Paterson,” A Wonder of a Film

“Paterson”

Written and Directed by Jim Jarmusch

Amazon Studios

Rated: R

1:58

In the 80’s, Director Jim Jarmusch’s ironical, whimsical, quirky, and funny films such as “Down By Law” and “Mystery Train” felt like revelations of something truly new and Indie filmmaking’s essence. Over time though, releases of a new Jarmusch film weren’t quite the events they once were.

Absence of anticipation will enhance your gratification discovering his new film “Paterson,” which reflects Jarmusch’s refreshing new sincerity, which moves beyond the irony that had characteristically marked his films.

Paterson (Adam Driver) lives in the small city of Paterson in northern New Jersey with his wife Laura (Golshifteh Farahani). His job is bus driver, but his vocation is writing poetry. The film’s minimalist structure is one of its charms.

It takes place from one Monday to the next. Each new day begins with the couple in bed; their sleep positions – back to back, face to face, she resting her head on her chest – their routine’s only modifications.

Watch in hand, Paterson awakens at 6:15 am and walks down the city’s narrow, serpentine streets, and assumes his seat in his NJ Transit bus.

Stealing moments before his shift, Paterson works on that day’s poem when his supervisor Donny (Rizwan Manji) greets him and complains hyperbolically about his life that’s falling apart.

At lunch, Paterson takes his lunchbox and sits on a bench and watches the city’s spectacular waterfall. And inspired by Laura’s photograph taped to his lunchbox, Paterson works on his poetry.

He returns home at night, and eats dinner with Laura. After dinner, he walks his English bulldog Marvin, and stops at the neighborhood bar. Paterson drinks one beer, which he doesn’t finish, and returns home.

There, in a sense, is your movie. But “Paterson” is much richer than that. Bus driver and poet, on the surface, may seem like an unlikely juxtaposition, but Paterson’s work enhances his poetry because he goes everywhere, sees everything, and allows himself to smile as he overhears his bus’s passengers.

Two adolescent boys discuss one of the city’s natives Rubin “Hurricane” Carter. Memorialized in song and film, he was falsely accused of murder and later exonerated.

One of the boys says, “Denzel looked like him,” conflating film illusion with actuality, revealing the gentle humor, which marks Jarmusch’s films. The film also celebrates other city notables: Lou Costello, Dave of soul music duo Sam and Dave, and anarchist Gaetano Bresci.

Much of the joy you experience watching “Paterson” derives from its celebration of poetry and poets. As you hear Paterson work out that day’s poem in his mind, the words appear on the screen, deepening our appreciation for how a poet brings a poem to life, as if we discover the process for the first time.

Paterson takes an ordinary object – a matchstick – and looks beyond its practical purpose to create an image – the matchstick that lights your lover’s cigarette – that evokes a surprisingly gratifying response.

Laura encourages Paterson to publish his poems, but he doesn’t seem motivated to do that. As Laura nurtures his poetry, Paterson lovingly indulges Laura’s ever changing creative outlets.

One day, she’s convinced her cupcakes are the next big things, and the next she orders an expensive guitar, sure she’s the next great country singer.

All the while her obsession with black and white polka  dots – the walls, drapes, and shirts she wears –  almost overwhelms them. The film celebrates how these well-suited foils nurture each other to be the people they’re called to be.

Also very good in the new film “Silence,” Driver well modulates the subdued Paterson’s movements and expressions, his hangdog face always portraying the right measure of emotion. And the Iranian actress Farahani is vivid, striking and winsome as Laura.

Except for one moment at the bar when Paterson intervenes to stop a lovesick acquaintance Everett (William Jackson Harper) from harming others, there’s little dramatic tension in “Paterson.” More than a drama or a comedy, an observation might be a better way to describe the film.

It observes two people, affirming each other, who re-discover the blank page’s power to write their lives’ poems each day. Amid the glut of more high-profile Oscar contenders, don’t overlook “Paterson,” one of 2016’s best films. You’ll kick yourself if you miss this wonder of a film.

 

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Creative Maladjustment Will Help End Poverty

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The site of a proposed shelter for homeless families. Why can’t we eliminate the need for these kinds of shelters?

In my Washington, DC neighborhood – the most affluent in the city – people are upset about a homeless shelter proposed to be built in the neighborhood.

Some of my neighbors’ NIMBY attitudes aren’t unexpected, but our neighborhood hasn’t been singled out. Part of a city wide plan, which attempts to re-structure the way the city houses persons who are homeless, the proposed shelter is one of five designated to support homeless families throughout the city.

Instead of housing 270 families in one central shelter, which, all agree, is dangerous and overcrowded, these new shelters would house 50 families in each shelter, offering them more privacy and dignity.

With fewer families to help, the new shelter system’s proponents believe case managers won’t lose track of families or neglect their needs, and receiving more individualized attention, families will more readily escape homelessness.

Because these shelters promise a better future to these families than our current broken system, in one way, I hope the city overcomes my neighbors’ objections and builds the shelter. But, in another sense, if for the wrong reasons, my neighbors are right: no one should want a homeless shelter built in their community.

Each new one our society builds signals a collective failure of will and imagination to think more ambitiously about eradicating homelessness.

We shouldn’t debate where to put shelters and how many persons to house. We should work instead to eliminate the need for shelters. Because, however, it feels as if there are homeless persons on each corner asking us for spare change we can’t conceive of ending homelessness.

We’ve become too well acquainted with the wide range of reactions we experience when we encounter homeless people. We think nothing of walking past someone sleeping on a subway grate. Or we avert our eyes or walk to the other side of the street. Their begging exasperates us or we’re ashamed of our failure to act.

Unable to sort through these conflicting emotions, and overwhelmed by a problem that feels too enormous, we feel powerless to act, and have become too accepting of the status quo.

We need a revival of what Dr. King called, “creative maladjustment,” which refuses to adjust to the scandalous outrage of more than 560,000 persons nationally living without homes. Our maladjustment, I hope, will disquiet us enough to engender the creative solutions necessary to end homelessness.

Bringing together people irrespective of their ideologies, we should create greater solidarity among poor and non-poor persons that encourages them to work to end homelessness. Fully aware it’ a symptom, we’ll understand poverty is the disease we must overcome.

To convince others to end poverty, we should help them understand current government programs and private charitable efforts haven’t lifted 43 million of our brothers and sisters out of poverty.

Programs such as SNAP and Medicaid generate $2 for each dollar spent, and create jobs, and it’s estimated SNAP kept 4.7 million Americans out of poverty in 2014, and Medicaid kept 2.7 million people out of poverty in 2010. These effective programs shouldn’t be cut.

However, the reality of 43 million persons reliant upon SNAP, and 69 million persons reliant upon Medicaid starkly remind us of the great need that stubbornly persists, despite our best efforts and intentions.

In similar ways, programs that help feed families, and help them meet their rent and keep their utilities connected are admirable, but only help so many. Requiring furthermore people go one place for food and another for clothing and three more to pay their bills diminishes their dignity.

And when you spend most of your time and energy scrambling to gather resources to survive, you can’t think about how to create a better future for your family.

Poor persons are best qualified to articulate they deserve much better. And their non-poor allies should empower them to advocate for solutions for their problems: greater societal investment in a stronger safety net, preparing and training people for jobs that pay living wages, affordable housing, food security, affordable and outstanding education, universal health coverage, and safe and peaceful neighborhoods.

Better advocacy by itself won’t overcome poverty, however. Poor persons won’t escape poverty until they can determine, as all people desire, their own futures. With others’ support and that of a better safety net, poor persons will need to avoid the destructive behavior that traps them in poverty and take advantage of the educational, training, and economic opportunities, which present themselves.

But those who don’t believe poor persons can rise or change haven’t paid attention. They’re among the more creative and resourceful people in our society. If we channeled the effort poor persons make gathering resources into creating good jobs or helping poor people own their own businesses, that could mean homelessness and poverty’s demise.

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