Debbie’s Story: Slipping Through the Cracks
Debbie answered my email faster than I expected. Only then did it sink in that I had written to a complete stranger, asking how much money it would take to keep her electricity and phone on. Was I planning to send her some? Yes, I realized, I was prepared to do that. I’m no savior-mission junkie, though I will admit to a tendency toward a bleeding heart. Besides, Barack Obama had more than enough in his campaign coffers, and I’m sure if he knew of her plight, he’d rather I send my money to Debbie than his campaign. As surely as I knew I couldn’t save Debbie, that I couldn’t realistically expect to solve all her problems, I also knew that I could not sit idly by and do nothing. Not when it would be so easy to do something.
At the same time, I wondered, as I’ve so often wondered in my upper-middle-class-sheltered, and by many standards, privileged life, how do people like Debbie get to be on the brink of losing everything after a life of hard work? So many others I’d seen in this position all inevitably had themselves to blame; at least, society painted that picture and those individuals willingly stepped into the role. Some had, through assorted dysfunctions, addictions, or self-destructive behaviors, backed themselves into their own miserable corners.
Others, despite many advantages, opportunities, and much prodding, had taken the easy road and never stepped up to much of anything, let alone basic hard work. Still, vast populations of others were mired in ignorance, having either never had the chance for a decent education, or skirting school altogether. None of these scenarios, I was to learn, applied to Debbie. Instead, her life it seemed was one test of fortitude and survival after the next. Her path has been a Himalayan trek the likes of which I hope never to see the trail head, let alone attempt to walk.
I asked for her address. I didn’t know if she’d give it. Despite my nagging skepticism (This was, after all, Florida, a state with more than its fair share of fugitives, vagrants, criminals, con artists, and scammers.), I realized I was a stranger to her as well. How could, and why would, she trust me to help? But she did, writing:
