The first time I attended my congressman's satellite office hours, I couldn't keep the shake out of my voice as I explained to the young staffer how crucial food stamps and Medicaid had been for me in the past. The second time was worse; I cried and swore.
I didn't see it coming. I was having a good day. Walking to the meeting spot from work, I enjoyed the sensation of my arms and legs churning through the heat, creating a microbreeze to sustain me for my ten minutes between AC units. In my purse was a letter from my congressman. All the best words and phrases were accented with pink highlighter. I was organized. I was upbeat. I was ready.
Inside, I was happy to see that the staffer was once again Matt Reed, the same personable fellow as last time. Just like last time, I sat in the chair immediately to Matt's left. I was a couple of minutes late, and the meeting was already underway. Matt seemed to be providing an update on Tom McClintock's recent efforts in Congress. Coincidentally, the agenda item I walked in on was the Emergency Forest Restoration Act, a pet peeve of mine that I've written about previously. Matt was explaining how this bit of McClintock genius would benefit District 4, in that it would fund the removal of our beetle-killed trees, and otherwise improve forest health.
It didn't sound half-bad, but the room was full of McClintock skeptics who knew to expect the proverbial drop of the other shoe. Someone asked Matt how the program would be funded. Matt explained that it would be through timber sales, but only of trees that would be dying soon anyway. The sales, he said, would target the same species as the beetles--in our area, presumably the ponderosa pine--and would be located near the site of infestations.
This boded better than the bill text I had read a few months ago, which had not held the timber sales to any sort of sustainability criteria. I gave Matt the benefit of the doubt, and assumed that the bill had been amended.
But in re-reading it a few days later, I saw that the bill was just as it was originally introduced in February. The Emergency Forest Restoration Act's main aim, from what I can tell, is to grease everyone's chainsaws. Sure, it funds actions by the U.S. Forest Service and other agencies to deal with insect infestations. But it requires those monies to be paid back in full through timber sales. The bill sets no ground rules as to where and what to log, provided it's outside of wilderness and roadless areas. The crux is that all activities carried out under the Act--both the insect-related actions and the timber sales--get to skip environmental review under the National Environmental Policy Act. That means that, while the Forest Service might analyze the projects internally, there will be no formal process for public participation. No public notices, no public hearings, no public comment periods.
Big picture, that means less accountability. And less democracy.
Big picture, that means less accountability. And less democracy.
It wasn't McClintock's feigned concern for forest health that made me cry and swear at the office hours, though. It was his lack of concern for human health. The Better Care Reconciliation Act, or BCRA, is the latest attempt by U.S. lawmakers to topple Obamacare. It's the Senate's version of the American Health Care Act, or AHCA, which McClintock helped pass out of the House in May. And it's ugly.
The BCRA is a moving target. Perpetually unable to garner the votes it needs, it's been revised twice since the June 21 office hours. The version of it we were discussing on June 21 had a to-do list like this: 1) reduce subsidies, 2) rein in eligibility, 2) lower the bar for insurance plans, 4) cut taxes for wealthy income-earners and corporations, 5) defund Planned Parenthood for a year, and 6) gut Medicaid forever.
Nobody at the office hours, except for maybe Matt, wanted to see the BCRA--or anything close to it--become a law. There was a pharmacist who knew firsthand how the "whatever the market will bear" dynamic hurt the low-income and elderly people that he dispensed prescriptions to. There was an occupational therapist who spent a lot of her time in nursing homes. If Medicaid collapsed, she didn't know how her elderly patients would be able to afford residential care.
There was a woman whose grown daughter had a serious health condition
requiring regular infusions. Her treatments were enormously expensive,
and untenable without insurance coverage, which in her case happened to
be Obamacare. The woman worried about what would happen to her daughter
under the BCRA. Would she lose her coverage? Without insurance, she
wouldn't be able to get her treatments. And without her treatments, she
would die.
By this point, the emotional timbre in the room was dialed up a notch. And I was close to losing it. It was the way the woman talked about her daughter--so sweetly, with such motherly concern. She didn't seem angry at Matt, or Tom McClintock, or anyone else. She was just scared.
Then came my friend Lynn. Lynn is a retired professor of social welfare policy who has pledged to spend the rest of her days fighting for people and the environment. Diplomatic by nature, she didn't mince any words about the BCRA. It was nothing more than an $800 billion tax cut for the rich, she said. Obamacare had provided a mechanism for the most privileged members of our society to give a leg up to the most vulnerable; the BCRA would take that away, and then some. At 76, Lynn worried about the future of Medicare and Medicaid not just for her own age cohort, but for those of her children and grandchildren. She worried about it for everyone.
When Lynn talks about her causes for the greater good, she is always passionate. But I've never seen Lynn get angry. At the office hours, she was angry. She interrupted herself to apologize for it--"I'm sorry to get angry," she said, and went on. This is what did me in.
I started to cry. It wasn't just an eye-misting sort of cry. It was the kind of cry that comes from down deep, that clenches you up and cuts off your air. I at first felt a little embarrassed to be sitting right next to Matt, wiping away tears with the backs of my hands. Then I worried that I was headed toward wholesale sobbing. I focused on breathing, and kind of blacked out for the tail end of Lynn's contribution. But my heart was wide open, and fused with most of the other hearts in the room.
Matt had a few things to say in response to people's concerns about the BCRA. To Lynn's point about the $800 billion tax cut, he acknowledged that yes, a medical device tax had been removed. McClintock and others like him considered it to be unfair double taxation. But Matt didn't mention the tax cuts of consequence--the ones that actually accounted for the $800 billion price tag. He didn't mention the elimination of a 3.8 percent investment income tax for families with annual incomes over $250,000, or a 0.9 percent Medicare surtax on wage income in excess of $250,000. And he didn't mention the tax breaks promised to insurance and drug companies over the next 10 years.
As to Medicaid, Matt echoed McClintock's sentiments that some people just weren't needy enough to be receiving government-sponsored health care. To me, this notion is heartbreaking. Obamacare expanded Medicaid for American children by raising the household income cutoff from 100 percent to 133 percent of the federal poverty level (FPL). It also gave states the option of covering childless, able-bodied adults with income at or below 133 percent FPL; previously, this population was categorically disqualified from Medicaid. As the pharmacist at the office hours put it, Obamacare's Medicaid expansion helped the "donut hole people" of our nation--those who were plenty poor, but just not poor enough to receive government aid.
Just how poor is 133 percent FPL? For an individual, it's $16,040 per year. For a family of two, it's $21,599; for three, it's $27,159. And so on. We are not talking big income here. These aren't people who are trying to scam the system. These are people who work, and can't pay their bills. These are people who, prior to Obamacare, might have had to weigh out the relative benefits of a doctor's appointment and a shopping cart full of groceries.
These aren't people that should be getting the ax. But according to Tom McClintock, who presumably earns at least the $174,000 default salary afforded to members of House of Representatives, 133 percent FPL is far too generous a threshold. If the BCRA passes, these people are once again headed for the donut hole.
In response to the mother who feared what the end of Obamacare would mean for her medically needy daughter, Matt said simply that people don't die from lack of health insurance. There was no hostility in his voice. It was as if he meant to reassure her. But coming from the office of a man who acknowledges his constituents' concerns only insofar as they dovetail perfectly with Tea Party ideals, I doubt the mother felt any relief.
Me, I felt ready to burst. How could people be so greedy? How could people be so mean? Why was everything ruled by money? How had we let corporate interests infiltrate every aspect of American life, so that the very few at the top dictated our principles, our morals, and--through puppets like McClintock--the Law of the Land?
With just a few minutes remaining in our office hours with Matt, I pounced. Unfolding the letter from my purse, I said I was deeply disturbed by McClintock's recent words for his newsletter recipients. He had appealed to his readers, many of whom hadn't even voted for him, to take a stand against the "radical left," who were attempting to "deny the legitimacy of the election, to obstruct the administration from fulfilling its promises and to threaten, intimidate, and bully anyone who disagrees with them." He warned his readers that their progressive neighbors were operating under centralized direction, and were working to "portray their radical views as mainstream." He suggested that he and his ilk were "men of good will," while those on the other side of the aisle were "evil."
I shared with Matt and the rest of the group, as if it wasn't obvious, how distressed I was over what we had heard today. Over the past hour, people had spoken about life-and-death health struggles, their concern for their loved ones, their concern for their patients, and their general apprehension about the future. Where, I asked Matt, were the radical views? Were we radical because we believed our society could, and should, take care of its most vulnerable? Were we radical because we saw health care as a basic human right, not a privilege? Were we radical because we were afraid?
My voice rose in pitch, and I started to lose track of what I was saying. I think I might have waved the letter around a little bit. I wrapped up my speech by bellowing "That's bullshit!"--not exactly at Matt, but through the portal of Matt to Tom McClintock.
Matt remained calm. He explained that the letter had come from McClintock's campaign office, not his congressional office. ("What difference does it make?" people protested.) It had already been the subject of much scorn at Town Hall meetings and other venues. People were upset, he admitted. And the letter was probably a mistake.
These aren't people that should be getting the ax. But according to Tom McClintock, who presumably earns at least the $174,000 default salary afforded to members of House of Representatives, 133 percent FPL is far too generous a threshold. If the BCRA passes, these people are once again headed for the donut hole.
In response to the mother who feared what the end of Obamacare would mean for her medically needy daughter, Matt said simply that people don't die from lack of health insurance. There was no hostility in his voice. It was as if he meant to reassure her. But coming from the office of a man who acknowledges his constituents' concerns only insofar as they dovetail perfectly with Tea Party ideals, I doubt the mother felt any relief.
Me, I felt ready to burst. How could people be so greedy? How could people be so mean? Why was everything ruled by money? How had we let corporate interests infiltrate every aspect of American life, so that the very few at the top dictated our principles, our morals, and--through puppets like McClintock--the Law of the Land?
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With just a few minutes remaining in our office hours with Matt, I pounced. Unfolding the letter from my purse, I said I was deeply disturbed by McClintock's recent words for his newsletter recipients. He had appealed to his readers, many of whom hadn't even voted for him, to take a stand against the "radical left," who were attempting to "deny the legitimacy of the election, to obstruct the administration from fulfilling its promises and to threaten, intimidate, and bully anyone who disagrees with them." He warned his readers that their progressive neighbors were operating under centralized direction, and were working to "portray their radical views as mainstream." He suggested that he and his ilk were "men of good will," while those on the other side of the aisle were "evil."
I shared with Matt and the rest of the group, as if it wasn't obvious, how distressed I was over what we had heard today. Over the past hour, people had spoken about life-and-death health struggles, their concern for their loved ones, their concern for their patients, and their general apprehension about the future. Where, I asked Matt, were the radical views? Were we radical because we believed our society could, and should, take care of its most vulnerable? Were we radical because we saw health care as a basic human right, not a privilege? Were we radical because we were afraid?
My voice rose in pitch, and I started to lose track of what I was saying. I think I might have waved the letter around a little bit. I wrapped up my speech by bellowing "That's bullshit!"--not exactly at Matt, but through the portal of Matt to Tom McClintock.
Matt remained calm. He explained that the letter had come from McClintock's campaign office, not his congressional office. ("What difference does it make?" people protested.) It had already been the subject of much scorn at Town Hall meetings and other venues. People were upset, he admitted. And the letter was probably a mistake.
Having spoken my piece, I settled down. The meeting ended. Walking back to work, I again swung my limbs in the heat, trying for the fan effect. I chuckled at myself for having lost my composure. And I nourished just the tiniest nugget of pride that I, a fundamentally non-confrontational person, had mustered up the indignation to call bullshit to Tom McClintock at a public forum.
There is a beautiful mural on one of the outbuildings at the Methodist church, which marks the approximate halfway point of my monthly walk to McClintock's office hours. I'm not sure how long it's been around. I started noticing it only recently. On June 21, it was a salve for my spirits. They tried to bury us; they didn't know we were seeds.
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