During our return from Mississippi Sunday, we stopped at a fruit stand somewhere between Gulfport and Hattiesburg.
The folks outside were obviously local "cooters,” a bit rough around the edges, but interesting. We picked out some produce, including a jar of local raw honey. The older, unshaven fella bundled up and sitting behind the counter in front of the double-wide was friendly enough—seemingly possessed of genuine “southern hospitality.” He was also an expert on various produce for sale, especially the raw honey.
Off to the side, another somewhat younger man was sprawled out on his back, large, white belly protruding from beneath a rusting, gold Cadillac perched precariously on flimsy floor jacks. Further to the side a young woman was laboring, feeding chunks of wood into a wood splitter and stacking it for sale.
“What’s up with the Caddy?” I inquired.
“Transmission went out; needs a transmission in ‘er.”
We conversed over a variety of matters, mostly fruit and vegetable-related. Suddenly he asked “Whaddaya think of our president?”, quickly adding “I voted for him.”
I replied, “Well, I DIDN'T. And I don’t think much of him at all. Our country is in great trouble under him. It’s amateur day at the White House.”
I felt that all-too-frequent and familiar sensation of hostility rising within me, prelude to argument. But self-awareness won the moment; I grasped control of myself as he mumbled something about Hillary.
I continued: “This tax bill SHAFTS the little guy. Favors big billionaires. It’s gonna lead to huge cuts in everything—Medicaid, Medicare, Social Security, public school funding—things the average person relies on.”
He scoffed. “I ain’t gonna get none o’ that anyway. I can’t get any of that. I don’t need it. I figger the Lord will take care of me as long as I need, whatever happens.”
“What do you mean you aint gonna get any of that? How old are you?”
“61.”
“Well, you should sign up for it, when you’re close to 65. You can get it.”
“Naw, I can’t get none of that.”
“You’re eligible for benefits. You’re a hard worker, right?”
“My whole life. Not much for it, but I work.”
The young woman to my right was grunting as she worked to position a large nugget of wood between the blades of the splitter.
“Well, you can get it. But you HAVE to sign up for it.”
He digressed about his father who “was in the special forces (of course) during WWII” and “never got nuthin’, even tho’ he was a veteran.”
I asked him if his father ever signed up for anything. He didn’t respond. My wife tugged at my arm. I shook his hand and wished him luck.
“We better get rolling.” We moved toward the car. I had avoided an argument.
As I opened the car door he called toward me, "Whatcha mean ‘sign up?’ Sign up for what?”
“Just go to the county courthouse and tell them you want to sign up for benefits.”
He nodded, thanked us, and waved as we drove off.
That man had NO idea what Medicaid, Medicare, or SS are, much less any knowledge of how to apply for those benefits. Uninformed and unfamiliar with the human services bureaucracy—and simply relying wholly on a Biblical worldview—it’s no wonder people such as this are easy prey for a host of distracting conservative talking points and are voting against their own self-interest.
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