Still, she said, Arizona “may have gone a little too far in its authority, in encouraging local law enforcement officers to take action” against anyone they reasonably suspect of being an illegal immigrant.
Opponents say the provision invites racial profiling.
“It doesn’t read that way, but it might work that way,” O’Connor said.
This space doesn’t see the logic in one state boycotting another — as some in California, including State Democratic Senate leader Darrell Steinberg, are suggesting. But Arizona’s law is wrong. And O’Connor is right in saying that “It’s the job of our federal, national government to secure our borders, not a job of state government.”
Now, if the federal government would just get to work…
The U.S. government thinks you’re doing okay if, in a family of four, you’re pulling in something over $22,000 a year. It might be a little tough to get by on that these days. But the way poverty is measured, and plans made around the measurements, are obtuse and arcane at best.
Exactly who qualifies for state and federal assistance varies. More important than today’s index though, unless you are someone missing out on help, is tomorrow: plans for adequate housing, food stamp and other assistance programs are all based on some very old data. When the current federal index was set, for example, some 3% of the family budget went for food; today’s actual food costs are more like 10%.
A group of California seniors converged on the state capitol a few days ago with an eye toward bringing that state’s poverty line and real-time poverty closer together. The group is enthusiastically supportive of a far more accurate index developed by the UCLA Center for Health Policy Research. They were careful to be “advocating and educating” only in meetings with legislators — the Senior Leaders Program is funded by the nonprofit California Wellness Foundation and lobbying is a no-no. But they would like to see AB 324, a bill crafted by Assembly Member Jim Beall, finally pass. Beall has watched it pass the Legislature twice, only to meet a Schwarzenegger veto; he told the seniors he thinks this time around the governor’s objections have been addressed.
This particular senior fails to see any reason to stick with inaccurate data when accurate data is available. The main argument against adopting a better measurement has centered around the cost issue — If we update the index, we might find more poor people. Hello? A town builds housing for 10 people and 100 people knock on the door?
Whether or not there are any incipient seniors in your family (we seem to make up a substantial percentage of the poor, by any measurement) you might want to see what’s going on in your state. Maybe, some day, the U.S. Government will even go for poverty line fact over fiction.
She is 46, a breast cancer survivor for four long years, a regular user of medical marijuana. She told me — as we were introduced by a mutual friend and she was updating the friend — a horror story too ridiculous even for an ‘Only in California’ tale. Her name is not Emily, but I’ll call her Emily to protect the innocent.
Emily has a solid career in social services with a California nonprofit. For years their funding has come partly through federal grants. This has been fine with Emily’s regular use of medical marijuana, which is legal in California and which keeps her chronic pain — a result of cancer and several other issues — under control. She smokes one joint in the morning, and four at night. (An editorial caveat here: I’ve not tried marijuana, which is wise since I’m addicted to anything that comes down the pike, so I know from nothing about dosages, etc. I’m just repeating what she explained.)
Not long ago, a new project was offered Emily’s organization and she was named as its head. Only problem? Everyone would have to take the federally-mandated drug test. Only solution? get Emily off of the weed for six weeks in order for her to pass the test. She had done that, finishing it all and passing the test and starting the project, a few months earlier. It was not fun.
“In order to get through all this,” she said, “I was prescribed a total of six different pain-relief drugs which I took every day. They were expensive, but the only way I could have made it. So for six weeks I poured six different toxins into my system at an obscene cost, both financially and physically. But hey, you do what you have to do.”
Emily is now back to growing, and smoking, her own.
California voters, thanks to a ballot issue certified yesterday by our secretary of state, will decide next November whether to legalize marijuana for any adult use. The issue is being rather hotly debated elsewhere on True/Slant and I frankly have no idea where I’ll come down when the dust settles and I read the whole business. Friends tell me it’s fine, others tell me it’s addictive, the state needs the money, who knows where legalization and regulation could lead? Neither does much to curb alcohol abuse, but then, I quit drinking years ago so it’s easy to be holy about alcohol abuse; some of us can handle the booze, some of us can’t.
But all of us need pain relief. Marijuana is a proven pain-relief drug. Why in the world it should be denied those who need it boggles this increasingly boggled mind.
President Obama’s proposed budget for FY2011 includes a broad range of programs addressing homelessness, from provision of new services to the “Zero Tolerance” initiative for homeless veterans; I wish them all well. Aside from national efforts, most of us struggle with our personal relationship to the growing numbers of homeless citizens: Look the other way? Drop coins in cups? Buy snacks? Volunteer with the Food Bank? Most of us try to give something.
Occasionally, we get something more. This is such a story.
My friend Kevin left our neighborhood park in December, bound for Bakersfield in California’s central valley. “The Saint Vincent de Paul bought me a ticket,” he said. I worried about who would look after him. In our neighborhood he could sit in the sun and watch the birds on the lake, the joggers and strollers, and children on the playground. On rainy days he could sit on a corner bench inside the library. He never asked for money, but many of us gave him a dollar or two whenever we met. “Oh, I think he’ll be okay,” said one of the dog-walkers who is also among the Mountain Lake Park regulars. “He’ll find a meeting, and they’ll help him. He’s been doing really well with his drinking.”
Turns out it was not really Kevin I was worried about, but myself. Things were not the same. I would finish the hop kick on my loop around the parcourse fitness trail, and Kevin was supposed to be there. Instead, I would encounter an empty bench, or a disinterested stranger preoccupied with someone at the other end of a cell phone line. I missed the “How you doin’?” or the “Where you been ?! I ain’t seen you in a long time!” The occasional pause to sit beside him in the sun and pay attention to the feasts of nature everywhere. Most of all I missed the wide, semi-toothless grin and the parting “Have a guht one!” that sent me brightly on toward the push-up bars just around the next bend in the trail. I was bereft.
Then a couple of weeks ago, headed from the chin-up station (I wish), I spotted a vaguely familiar figure walking slowly toward me. Decked out in a puffy new jacket (Kevin’s fashion tastes lean toward multiple bulky layers) and a new, bright blue cap, his beard somewhat trimmed, I did not recognize him until the great, toothless grin broke across his face. I ran down the trail, catching myself at the very last minute to restrain the hug I felt – this, I think, would’ve been too much for Kevin to handle – but grabbing both of his mittened hands.
“Kevin!” I said. “I thought you’d left us, gone off to Bakersfield forever!”
“Naw,” he said. “It’s too wahm in Bakersfield.”
So there it was. We were redeemed by the perpetually mild weather of the San Francisco Bay, where it seldom gets too warm and on rainy days one can find refuge in the library.
Did he have a good time in Bakersfield? “Oh, yes.” Did he get to see family? “Mmm.”
I still don’t know all the answers, or whether one day I’ll get to the hop kick station and find him gone again, for good.
What I do know is that for now the universe is proceeding as it should. And that one man with seemingly nothing to celebrate has brought the spirit of celebration back to Mountain Lake Park. It’s a great gift.
This is the initial report from the field re geezer drivers and brain exercise. This space hereby goes on record as a believer. Just a minimal believer, but I — a certified geezer driver — actually think aging brains can become better-driving brains.
I recently downloaded, accessed, stored, signed in and completed whatever else one must do to begin the Posit Science DriveSharp program, an initial exercise in brain sharpening for computer Luddites. There are other programs out there to sharpen the skills of geezer drivers, and plenty of computer-game exercises aimed at the same goal. Posit Science (I am not on their payroll) offered me their program without charge, and little by little I plan to get all the way through.
For now, I have only done some initial roaming around and a few of the exercises. But an interesting thing has happened. Much of this is about how, as one ages, one’s “useful field of view” diminshes. So one might see the stop sign but miss the car speeding around the corner to the left. (If that’s a texting driver, you’re toast.)
I don’t think I’ve improved my useful field of view. But on an extended driving trip with my husband and a friend — in his wife’s fancy Lexus — this past weekend, I was actually complimented on my skills (ever try the two-lane, pothole-filled miles over the mountains from Hwy 101 to California’s Lost Coast?) by the car’s owner who had retired to the back seat. I think just the awareness of what “useful field of view” means makes a difference. Plus, I think brain exercises, even if they’re just teasers (Teasers for Geezers, this could be a new hit) build awareness of the complex issues drivers can face.
Try thinking about that “useful field of view” business, taking a test or doing a few brain exercises before your next drive, and see if you notice any difference. If I can ever find some actual time to do so I will undertake a few hours of actual DriveSharp program and report back.
Meanwhile, hang up the phone, please, and watch out for texters and geezers behind the wheel.
What that means is, turn a profit for the company every day. If you are in business to make money, that is the right thing to do.
On the other hand, when Margolin says the company’s goal is to provide “care, comfort and coverage to those in need,” that is simply not true. Physicians and health care professionals provide care and comfort. Anthem provides coverage which sometimes pays for these things and often does not, if they can help it.
Is there no way to connect those dots? Care and comfort for those who need and deserve it — i.e., every human being — are not going to happen until we get the coverage people out of the equation.
OK, not going to happen any time soon. It couldhappen in California, except for Governor Schwarzenegger‘s probable veto. It should happen in Washington, except for the money and muscle of the coverage people. In lieu of those realities, a health bill that takes a tiny step in the right direction would be welcome.
Gil Ahrens knows health insurance. One terrible accident. Years of life turned upside down. Denials of payment. Claims argued. Liens placed on property. Throughout a long and arduous struggle to get life back on track, obstacles created by insurance issues stood in the way of what should have been everyone’s focus: care. It is a story familiar, in one variation or another, to millions of Americans.
Author of the recently released Shattered, Shaken and Stirred, Ahrens began his eye-opening journey through the catacombs of our health insurance system almost simultaneously with a devastating automobile accident. He escaped with a badly mangled foot and other injuries, his wife was left paralyzed. Their three-week-old daughter survived intact — but that was about the only good news the Ahrens family would have for a very long time. For the successful California businessman/entrepreneur and his family, life was forever changed; the book tells the years-long challenge of that change.
In recent appearances and radio talks, Ahrens has spoken out against what he describes as a health system “in shambles. In its current state, health care is a bigger threat than terrorism. And needless to say, we are paying through the nose.”
Shattered, Shaken and Stirred, written in the form of a letter to his now-school-age daughter, is part description of unbearable tragedy and misfortune, and part how-to guide for rebuilding one’s spirit. But underlying it all is an unvarnished message to America from one person who has been entrapped in the system: insurance is the #1 evil of American health care.
Elsewhere around the globe are examples of how to do health care right. The world’s top ten livable cities, Ahrens points out, share one characteristic: their citizens have health care. Not health insurance, health care.
“Americans do not want coverage,” Ahrens says; “they want care.”
His father-in-law, aged 91, got a new 5-year driver’s license from the State of California, with zero proof of intact driving skills. The family was worried, but without much power. According to an op ed piece by Santa Cruz, CA writer John Moir, the community was saved from potential disaster at the hands of an age-challenged driver only when a mild heart attack prompted his physician to order him away from the wheel.
Meanwhile, a nationwide population of licensed drivers young enough to be his great-great-grandchildren are navigating our roadways with one eye on the intersection and full attention on a text message in progress. Another op ed piece not long ago, this one by the Atlanta Journal-Constitution‘s Cynthia Tucker, told of accidents caused by phoning/texting drivers that are estimated at close to a quarter of a million per year. There is a growing movement to address this truly scary problem. And it is scary: if you walk in cities much you know how often only your own wits (Can’t make eye contact? Don’t trust that driver) keep you alive. In Nebraska, for example, activist teens, largely motivated by the horrific BBC YouTube video now gone viral, are pushing for a state ban on phoning/texting while driving. A national organization, FocusDriven, was started by a group of individuals who had lost loved ones to drivers on phones; they offer support for victims and tips for advocacy. FocusDriven is patterned after MADD (Mother’s Against Drunk Driving.)
But the issue of geezer drivers gets sticky. My own father was fond of pointing out, well into his 80s, that he had never had an accident. We bit our tongues not to comment on the disasters that probably followed in his wake. But the Commonwealth of Virginia continued to renew his license and none of his four out-of-state daughters was able to convince him that his driving was not in others’ best interest. It took a family friend, who pointed out how much money could be saved on gas, upkeep and insurance coverage, to get my father to sell his car.
The primary problem with aging drivers is the ease with which they are (in California, at least) re-issued a five-year license. Not long ago, at the ripe age of 75, I renewed my own. My eyes tested just fine — although prescription distance glasses make me way safer behind the wheel, especially at night. I studied for the written test (same test as anyone gets at any age) because it is full of trick questions, often concerning factoids that have little to do with public safety. Presumably, if one is not mentally acute one would fail the written test — but you can retake it the next day. There was no road test of any sort, so if I were becoming prone to miss road signs, clip corners or misjudge parallel parking distances nobody would know. (I hope I’m not.)
Mandatory age limits for driving, such as commercial pilots have, probably aren’t going to happen, and probably shouldn’t. Many seniors must drive their own cars for endless reasons. Time and manpower required for road tests may put them beyond what states can afford these days. But why aren’t other answers possible?
Why couldn’t AARP put its considerable muscle and money behind a volunteer training program that would set in motion volunteer-led senior driving sessions? Why couldn’t states then require completion of such sessions before licenses were renewed after a certain age? Why couldn’t some insurance agency — AAA comes to mind — get behind a state-mandated program of this sort, offering the lower rates for graduates that are commonly offered graduates of safe-driving programs? Why couldn’t safe-driving seniors be offered a small compensation for running such programs, in return for the savings in lives and ER costs?
My license expires on my 81st birthday. I’ll happily sign up for a seniors class. Meanwhile I will remain on the alert for texting juniors.