47% Henry.

When I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I was unemployed with no health insurance. The next morning, I called a hotline and within a half hour, I had an appointment at a community clinic the next day and an appointment at the health & human services office to sign up for Medi-Cal later in the week.

My first job out of college was the Outreach Coordinator for the American Red Cross WIC Program. It was my job to not only know the WIC program, but to know all the community partners that provide resources for women and families. Even with this knowledge (I worked there for two years) and the years of nonprofit work after (six more years), I had a roughish time navigating the system.  

After confirming the pregnancy at the clinic, they set me up with appointments: five of them a month. Two with the doctor/nurse. One with the nutritionist. One with the social worker. One with the prenatal counselor. And at each appointment, I waited a least an hour, even when I arrived on time. If I’d had a job, a job that didn’t have healthcare and would require me to go to the clinic, I can’t imagine my employer would have allowed me to leave once a week for two hours for an appointment.

To sign up for Medi-Cal, the original woman on the phone told me the six pieces of paperwork I needed to bring with me to the appointment. Again I waited over an hour in a room filled (FILLED) with people. Lines so long by 8am that some of them wouldn’t be seen that day. I was called to three different windows and then sat behind a scratched desk and handed over the pieces of required paperwork, proof I was desperate. And after an hour in that back room, it was declared that I would most likely (it was still not for sure) receive assistance.

After this was settled and I’d attended a month of appointments, I signed up for the WIC program, returning to the office I once made bulletin boards in and counseled participants. They gave me vouchers for healthy foods and I took them to the grocery store each week. Jared and I studied the list of acceptable and unacceptable types of orange juice and peanut butter and inevitably were told at the cash register that we’d chosen the wrong one. Half of the cashiers were assholes about it and the other half treated us like normal customers.

I’m not trying to complain about what a pain in the ass all this was. I’m still extremely grateful for the help I received during a joyful, but stressful time. I was lucky and had a healthy baby. I had prenatal care, was able to transfer to a birthing center and then the hospital where Henry was born. I’m still “friends” with other women from my birth classes on Facebook. Did I feel entitled to the care? To the resources? No. But on some level, I think those resources are somewhat like insurance. You pay into them, you contribute to society, and when you need them, they are there.

I’m writing about this now because I'm pissed off and scared. Because I’ve been watching the presidential debates and reading all the articles posted on Facebook (okay, not all of them) and hearing the discussion of the candidates. And President Obama repeatedly says they have a “fundamentally different” approach to the job. This, above all other things, summarizes it for me. For a while there, I was part of the 47%. I had my son as one of the 47%. Did I feel entitled to jump through hoops to get help when I really needed it? No. But I was thankful. Do I feel offended when a man who wants to lead our country infers, no, blatantly states to the people he wants to impress the most that half of our country is victims who will never help themselves and want to take advantage of the rest of the country? Yes. And disgusted. Mitt Romney is a mean girl. His presidency will not be about leadership and strength, but about power and suppression.

As anyone who’s ever stepped outside their front door knows all people are imperfect. We bite our nails or snap at people when we’re tired or forget to give the courtesy wave while driving. We can be selfish and unforgiving; short-sighted and unprofessional; or petty and cold. We can even be quiet during a presidential debate or not accomplish everything we set out to during a presidential campaign. But if we can, for the most part, be kind and patient with our words, gather as much information as we can to make prudent decisions, and keep the least of our people on the top of our minds, that’s pretty impressive. That deserves another go. That’s everything I would want my 47% son to be.