Howard Dean and the Art of Death

by Mona Shaw

It has always astonished me how much rancor you can bring down on your head simply because you don’t want people to suffer and die.

In 2009, I attended a lecture given by Howard Dean at the Unitarian Church in Des Moines, Iowa. He was promoting Obamacare, specifically its “robust” public option.

I was wearing an “HR676, Single Payer Now!” t-shirt.  HR676 was a bill in Congress that had been introduced by the late US Congressman John Conyers. I also handed out pamphlets on the bill and its benefits.  This led to me receiving no small share of dirty looks. However, it awarded me plenty of empty seats around me at the talk.

The effusive valentines to Governor Dean in his introduction led me to think that the presenters may be biased. The governor told us Obama’s bill was nothing less than the second coming. Even I was a little impressed. Still, I had questions.

For the Q and A, questions had to be submitted in writing and given to a staff person. I watched the staff person lay aside the questions I had submitted.  Still a few questions leaked through from others that led Governor Dean to respond more than once.

“The ACA can’t be everything to all people.”

The sad-faced nods of acceptance from the progressive Democratic audience horrified me.

The time for questions ended. I saw my shot. I stood and loudly asked this.

“Governor, how many people is the ACA willing to let die?”

All Hell broke loose.  I continued.

“I don’t want to be rude, but this is an important question. How many?”

“You are rude, ma’am,” said Dean, “I don’t respond to rude people.

While people grabbed my arm and escorted me out, I kept talking.

“There will be no public option at all. The health insurance industry will see to that!  And the premiums of the Market Place options will be far from affordable…”

I was called “Liar!” and booed. I quickly found myself on the side walk by the church.  A man yelled from the door, “And don’t come back here, EVER!”

I received many contemptuous emails that all began with, “I’m a progressive Democrat, but…”

My behavior was described as “unacceptable, shameful, and outrageous.” I was schooled on incremental change, the definition of “reality,” and the “art of the possible.” I was advised on what I would do if I “really cared.” Several said they wanted nothing to do with me ever again.

I don’t want to say the audience cared more about social propriety than the lives I was defending, but the thought did occur to me.

I’m still waiting for an answer to my question.

How many are we willing to let die?

Slow Boat to China

by Mona Shaw

I’ve never been to China. I never will travel there. But, most of things in my apartment have been.

Most arrived in bulk at some customs port. They tumbled through a scanner and landed in several destinations for a time until I gave up my debit card number and they came though my door.

But, before that, at the nascence of their creation, they were in human hands.  I stare at my coffee mug, and I wonder about the person who made it. Is she a she? Is she a child? Is she a grandmother? If she is a grandmother, how many grandchildren does she have? Boys or girls? Does she see them often? What kind of games does she play with them? Is she thin or fat? What was her day like they day she made this mug? Was she feeling ill? Did she have a backache? Was she worried about her children? Is he hair long or short? Does she paint her fingernails? Has she gone through menopause? How bad were here hot flashes?  Was she having hot flashes when she made this mug? Does she have a coffee mug like this?

Printed on the side of my coffee mug are the words, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Did she know what the words meant? Did she find them ironic?

This worker and I are forever connected by this mug. Our respective class stations will prevent our knowing each other. I wish this were not so.

A swift glance around my living room presents the spirits of dozens of workers, perhaps even hundreds. Human lives with human dreams and human hearts and souls. When I close my eyes, I can feel them here. I wish I could offer each of them a cup of coffee and thank them for my mug.

Beating Swords into Plowshares

by Mona Shaw

Many know about Dorothy Day’s work with the poor and her anti-war activism. Not as much is known about her as a brilliant intellectual and gifted writer. Her book All the Way to Heaven is one of my favorites. It’s just not merely food for thought, it’s an endless and sumptuous banquet. Her keen intelligence led to acts of profound and comprehensive wisdom.

Brian Terrell (a life-long Catholic Worker, who lived with Day) told me a story about Dorothy several years ago that has catalyzed endless insights as it continues to refuse to leave my daily consciousness.

It seems that one day at Mary House, a man arrived and gave Dorothy a valuable diamond ring from an estate.  Dorothy thanked the man and noted it was lovely and generous.

She, then, called to a homeless woman who was a guest of the house.

“Mary,” Dorothy said, “I think this ring will fit you.”

She placed the ring on Mary’s finger

“It does fit. It looks so pretty on you.  It’s yours.”

Unsurprisingly she was criticized for this. How much could have done for the poor if she had sold the ring instead?  But, in her infinite wisdom, she knew that selling this bauble would perpetuate it as a symbol of class oppression. She knew that long after the proceeds from its sale were spent, it would land on some wealthy woman’s hand as a flagrant witness of class supremacy. She resisted class inequality by taking one tiny weapon away from the war on the poor.  It was a brave, longer lasting, and more powerful gift to the poor.

This remains a prevailing guide in much that I do.