health and entitlements, another long one

I am a receptionist in an office that provides physical therapy, massage therapy, and acupuncture as well as one-on-one instruction in Pilates and fitness. Most of our clients are very well-off financially and it is my job to make them feel welcome and comfortable before and after their visit. Overall, I enjoy my job. I meet some very interesting people and have conversations with them that I normally would never have a chance to have, hearing their perspectives where otherwise I may just assume. Plus I get free acupuncture and Pilates and discounted massages, which otherwise I would not be able to afford.

When I went to Brunswick, Georgia, for the G8 protests a few years back, the government of our country had sent National Guardsmen in armed tanks to patrol the poor neighborhoods, and we happened to be staying in one, unlike most of the neighborhoods, which only the poor residents inhabited. One time, a couple of us went out to talk with the men in the vehicle parked in front of the church where we stayed that week. When I looked into the Humvee I realized the guys in there were my age. We began talking and I asked him what they had done to prepare for this, and one of the guys told of classes they had taken and trainings they had done to prepare for the protests, and admitted he was surprised at how nice we all had been. I looked at him, sitting there in his uniform and armed vehicle, a young white guy in a completely poor and almost completely Black neighborhood, surprised that people were nice to him.

White men can be very interesting in their obliviousness to the power they wield. And I like white guys; some of my best friends are straight white men. But still, it amazes me.

Once I was sitting at the reception desk in the lobby where I work and a man came in and sat down. He looked over at me and I smiled warmly before getting him some bottled water. He pulled out his cell phone (a Blackberry, actually) and I continued working while he talked loudly on his Blackberry about the mergers he was overseeing, freely discussing the various costs and benefits, and the transfers of debt they will incur. As if I was not even there. As if that room was his office.

I once read in the New York Times about a guy in China who left his rural home to work in the city, at a hospital. He worked there for ten years as a janitor, until he came down with heart disease. Unable to afford the care offered by his employer, he lost his job and died in a poor clinic, although even the minimal care they could provide took all of his savings and family money as well.

A few years ago, I read an article in Cosmopolitan about two women with breast cancer, one who had insurance and one who didn't. The one who didn't, and who happened to be Black, was not expected to survive, because she could not afford the treatment that she and her doctors knew she needed. The other woman, a white woman, would probably live, and would not get nearly as sick, since earlier and more expensive measures could be taken.

At my office, we can't afford to take insurance, since we would have to hire someone else to do all the paperwork and insurance companies require lower fees from practitioners (this is why doctors dont spend much time with you, by the way, since they have to see more people per hour). At our clinic, the patients have one full hour with one practitioner. We take very good care of our clients. And not everyone can afford good care.

Our company was told about this man before he came to see us. His doctor called (well, his secretary) and faxed over a referral, reminding us that he is very "high maintenance" and should be taken care of. As a small business, we certainly need the income that would be generated.

The man finished his call and looked up. Despite the clear signs that I was working, he began asking me about school and my life, questions I found somewhat invasive, since although I keep a blog, I generally don't confide in strangers. Nevertheless, I had to answer, since I am in the service sector. My job is to be nice. I am getting paid to be nice. So I answered his questions about my school, my hopes and career aspirations, and more. He told me about his daughter, who is in graduate school as well. He also told me about himself: he got a Ph.D. in child psychology.

"Let me ask you something," he said. "On a scale of 1 to 10, what would you say your self-esteem is?"

I paused, taken aback, and took a deep breath, confused at the question. Was I going to lie? What was the point? I mean, the rude part was the question, right? I would never ask someone about their self-esteem. I would never think it was my business to know this. And, even though he has an advanced degree in child psychology, I am not a child, and he is not a psychologist.

"3, I guess," I replied, resigning myself to whatever friendly advice he was getting ready to give, and feeling my self-esteem plummet 3 points simply from having to answer the question. "I'm having a pretty tough time in school right now."

"My daughter's the same way," he said as if to comfort me. He then went on to explain that it was because of women's lib.

This is not the first time I have been in a somewhat awkward position of defending women's lib (which personally I think is wrought with its own problems and not 100
efendable). Another very wealthy client once bought in her mother for acupuncture and sat in the lobby the whole time with her Maltese named Baby seated beside her in a large purse. We had some very interesting discussions overall. I gathered she was married to a much older man and no longer worked, although she herself couldn't have been older than mid-forties. Occasionally, she told me, she helped her husband, who "worked too hard." We talked about motherhood; she had decided not to have children and we talked a little about this. She mentioned women who get nannies and spend so much money on childcare so they can work outside the home. To her, this did not make sense, and we talked about the pressures on women to do and have and be everything.

This is similar to the conversation I had with the armchair child psychologist, but picture it: here's this wealthy straight white man with all the opportunities money can buy telling me that women have a raw deal all because of women's liberation. I do not know what to say to these types of comments under normal conditions, because they are so totally ignorant. But when I'm getting paid to have the conversation, I have to think of something. Luckily, he continued.

"My daughter told me men don't even pay for dates anymore," he lamented, looking at me almost with disbelief in his eyes.

"Yes, I have noticed that," I was honestly able to respond. "It is nice when they pay. And open doors."

Wondering where the physical therapist was, I squirmed a little in my seat, anxious to get back to work and more anxious to stop having the conversation, but unable to do either. She finally came out and claimed her client. I heaved a completely unbelieving sigh of relief.

Later that week, I remember driving down Peachtree when this new white Volvo turned into the street in front of me and then slowly and calmly merged directly into my lane. At first I thought he must not have seen me, despite the fact that I laid on my horn. I noticed, however, that he calmly continued until he was in the far left lane. He needed to get to 85, I guess, and figured we would all understand and forgive the inconvenience. I thought at least he would have waved, but I guess the conversation he was having on his cell phone prevented him from doing so safely.

I realized that just like the child psychologist felt entitled to talk on the phone in the lobby, no matter who it was disturbing, and just like he felt entitled to interrupt my work to talk about my self-esteem and his daughter's problems getting a husband, this guy felt entitled to be wherever he needed to be whenever it was most convenient for him.

This is why when I'm walking down the sidewalk and I see a row of men in suits coming towards me, I will walk right into one of them before I walk off the sidewalk.

This is also why I think its ironic that "welfare" was originally considered an entitlement, because it seems like these days, instead of equal entitlement to living wages or health care, rich people are the ones entitled, to whatever they want.

I am not open-minded I guess. I like my job, though, because that child psychologist has come in again, and I have realized that he is a nice guy, actually. He is just missing some information. There are two problems. Aside from having to be polite to him, I also don't feel like it's my responsibility to go around holding his hand, pointing out what it's like to be struggling to pay the bills, or to be unable to pay for health care. I was in an anti-racism group once, and we met in separate caucuses, one for white people and one for people of color. At one point we decided to talk about homophobia. When I said something about being queer, one of the two gay white men turned to me and said with disbelief, "YOU'RE QUEER?" Then he laughed. After I went on a tirade about how I shouldn't have to prove my queerness, and people always make assumptions about my sexuality without knowing me and blah blah blah, a straight white woman started crying (of course) and said she just needed someone to show her what it was like. To be queer, and to experience homophobia (and/or biphobia). She wanted someone to explain it to her, like her Latina friend did with racism.

"I just want someone to tell me when I do homophobic things, like she does when I make racist assumptions," she said.

I flat out refused. "That's not my responsibility," I told her. "Figure it out yourself. I'm tired of explaining queerness to straight people."

The problem with that attitude, I know, is that if I don't explain it to her, who will? And if I don't say anything to that child psychologist about sexism, who will?

Well, hopefully someone who won't get fired for it.