Malusinka's Open Salon Blog

We're in the 47%

Tue, 18 Sep 2012 05:09:02 -0400

My husband and I are in the 47%. We’re voting for Obama and there’s nothing Mitt Romney can do to change that. Here’s the thing, We’re rich and we’re successful. In one year, a few years back, we paid more in federal income taxes than my twenty-year old self ever imagined I’d see in my lifetime.

My husband is the son of immigrants who came to America with nothing but a desire for freedom and the willingness to work hard. My husband worked as a bus driver and a busboy to put himself through college. His first post-college job paid minimum wage, but he saved and made it to business school. He graduated in an economic slump and pounding the pavement for a job, he literally wore a hole in his shoes. He’s worked 60 hour weeks, 80 hour weeks, 90 hour weeks and now he’s a CFO, earning a nice income --- over a third of which we pay to the federal government. That’s twice the rate Romney pays, BTW. The Republican party loves stories like this. A man who worked hard, invested in his education and pulled himself up by his bootstraps.

But that’s not the whole story. You see, my father-in-law came to America with nothing except memories of not enough to eat. He was nineteen and had had about 6 years of schooling and not much English. It’s really tough for a smart, energetic and ambitious man to do much without an education.

My father-in-law joined the army, which taught him English, trained him to be a mechanic and offered correspondence courses giving him a high school diploma. The GI bill meant he could afford college, where he became an engineer. By the time my husband was born, his father had a good job and a comfortable home in a suburb with excellent schools. My husband, too, received government loans and grants for college and grad school. My husband and father-in-law were successful because they are smart and hard-working, but also because the US government gave them the opportunity to invest in themselves.

That’s the government we’re voting for, one where people get the help they need to succeed and live the American dream. That's why we're in the 47% of confirmed Obama voters.

The Way Things Are "Supposed To Be"

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 03:02:03 -0500

Families can be divided into two types: those created by parents who use birth control and those which don't. According to Rick Santorum, one type is "counter to the way things are supposed to be."

Which of these two families do you feel is the way a family is supposed to be?

The family which uses birth control?

Or the one that doesn't?

Birth control is essential to most American families, which, of course, look a lot more like the Obamas than the Duggars.

Further, older women are much more likely to have birth defects. Compared with a baby born to a 30 year old woman, a baby born to a 40 year old is 10 more likely to have a birth defect. A baby born to a 45 year old woman is 30 times more likely to have a birth defect and a baby born to a 49 year old woman is a staggering 100 times more likely to have a birth defect.

We can see this in life, too. Sarah Palin was 46 when she had a child with Down Syndrome. Karen Santorum 48 when she had a child with a different chromosomal abnormality.

So, birth control is necessary for older women who don't want the tragedy of a handicapped child. At 49, an age at which clearly some women are still fertile, the chances that a baby will have a birth defect are 1 in 10.

Birth control isn't just a woman's issue. It's an issue for all responsible men, too.

Romney's Tax: Politics of Envy or Height of Unfairness

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 04:01:52 -0500

Mitt Romney released his tax returns. It’s now official: he paid 14% of his income of $21.6 million in federal income taxes. A family below the poverty line, with in income of $16,000 is asked to pay more --15%.

In a single day, Romney earned about $35,000. If that was your annual income, you’d pay 25% in tax.

Obama calls this,"the height of unfairness," a statement which Mitt Romney says is, “the politics of envy.”

Watch him say it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tF7-qvECW8

Maybe I do envy Mitt Romney. Not for his fortune, but for his tax rate. 14%. That’s less than half what I paid. I could do a lot with the money I paid in taxes. GIve me a 14% rate for the next 10 years and that’s my kids’ college paid for. What would you do with the difference between your tax rate and 14%?

Scenes from the Russian Election

Wed, 7 Dec 2011 02:12:46 -0500

http://youtu.be/eL5e6cLJFss

The ending words say, United Russia, the Party of Crooks and Thieves.

A radio show announcing the reported election results: United Russia won just under 50% of the vote in Moscow. ‘Do you know anyone who voted for United Russia?’ asked the DJ. ‘Please call in.’ The show was inundated by callers saying they didn’t know anyone who voted for the government party, either. Unofficial exit polls put the vote for United Russia at 20%. On and on, the show went, until someone called in and admitted voting for United Russia. ‘Finally!’ exclaimed the DJ. ‘Are you the only one in the city?’

The official results show Moscow at just under 50% for United Russia.

The official numbers for the city of Moscow show a number of the districts suspiciously close to 50%: 51.08%, 50.95%, 50.30%, as if the officials needed to make sure their party won a majority of the vote. St. Petersburg officials weren’t as careful. The party of Putin polled under 30% of the vote in his home district, Central St. Petersburg.

United Russia had its best showing in the regions with active separatist movements. The Caucasus voted resoundingly for the Kremlin, with war-torn Chechnya leading the way. Somehow, despite years of rebellion against Moscow, every citizen in Chechnya went to the polls and voted 99.5% for the Kremlin party. Their love of their leader was only exceeded by the Libyan’s love of Gaddafi, who used to win by similar landslides. As Stalin once put it, it doesn’t matter how people vote, but who counts the votes.

Voters and volunteer election observers used their cell phones to witness hundreds of incidents of voting fraud --- a crime for which the fine is something like $50. YouTube is full of homemade videos of citizens following buses carrying the party faithful from one polling station to another, of pre-printed ballots, or ballot boxes with broken seals.

United Russia got a majority, but less than the 60% needed to control the Duma. Perhaps, the opposition parties will grow a few spines and start challenging the government. If so, the Russians might be patient while a real democracy is developing.

If not, I can’t see the Russians tolerating another 12 years of the Party of Crooks and Thieves. Nor can I see Putin trusting the democratic process; a true democracy might well ask how much of the country’s wealth he’s stolen. Some estimates but his net worth at four billion US dollars. Nor do the siloviki, bureaucrats and oligarchs supporting him want anyone pushing their noses out of the feeding trough or looking too closely at how they managed to afford their villas in France.

How will Putin handle the transition from being a popular leader to being the chief of a party commonly known as The Party of Crooks and Thieves? Nothing in his background suggests much respect for democracy.

So, while this election could be the start of real reform, I wonder, is this the way repression begins?

Heidi and the Horse, Part 1

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 20:07:46 -0400

1986

The boom box was blasting Talking Heads while I washed my clothes at the tap in the backyard of Heidi and Martha’s house in Croix-des-Bouquets. I had been a Peace Corps Volunteer in Haiti long enough to appreciate the luxury of running water and electricity, so I was feeling pretty pampered as I swished my undies in the cold sudsy water.

Heidi, who’d been out when I’d come back from the PC office appeared, turned off the tap and responded to my, “Hi, how’s it going?” with, “What do you know about horses?”

She was a petite, intense PCV with a disdain for authority and a house close enough to Port-au-Prince to save me the extortionate $15 a night at the Guest House near the Peace Corps office. Her pale blue eyes fastened on mine as she waited for an answer, so I said, “Not much, why?”

Heidi was always planning projects and although half of them fell flat, she was one of the more productive volunteers, since she never got discouraged.

“There’s a horse lying on the road,” she paused and I may have murmured something trite like, “Oh, that’s too bad.” The year and a half that had taught me to appreciate electricity and running water had inured me to the sight of mistreated animals and the abject poverty of Haiti. If you bleed for every sad case you see in this country, you’ll kill yourself in a week.

“There’s a crowd of people staring at it,” Heidi continued. “Just like Haitians, they aren’t doing anything; they are going to let it die.”

I refrained from pointing out that, in all probability, they recognized the futility of opposing fate. “Where is the owner?” I asked, instead.

“He walked off and left it in the middle of the road after it was hit by a car. It isn’t bleeding or anything,” she added after seeing my face.

There was a short silence while I contemplated what to say that wouldn’t seem callous. By this time, I didn’t feel much guilt at my callousness. Dying man at the side of the road and I do nothing, yes, the guilt kicks in. A horse? Not so much.

“So, what do you know about horses?” Heidi still believed she could make a difference.

“I rode a pony at the zoo when I was five.” My closest encounter with a horse. From Heidi’s expression, this didn’t cut it, so I continued, “I read Black Beauty in fourth grade.”

“We need to do something,” Heidi announced when she realized I didn’t have any more credentials to offer. “Come on.”

I got up and followed her because I admired the way Heidi refused to accept that life here was nasty, brutal and short.

The horse was about a block from the house, lying on its side in the middle of the road. It was one of the sorriest looking animals I had ever seen. It was a peculiar mud-gray color, with oozing saddle sores on the spine and prominent ribs. It twitched its ears as Heidi stroked it, proving that it was still alive.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going to adopt him.” Heidi blithely ignored the fact that if the sorry thing could stand, its owner would not have left him in the middle of the road. The short block back to the house seemed very long when I considered the dead weight of the horse. Skeletal or not, that thing had to weigh a ton.

“Oh, you poor darling,” Heidi crooned to the oblivious horse, examining its sores. “Ay-dee, Ay-dee” the children in the crowd yelled. The adults speculated as to who I was; they knew Heidi and Martha who lived in Croix-des-Bouquets, but I was just visiting from the North. They knew Heidi could speak Creole and could guess that I might, but since we were Blancs (whites, foreigners) and, therefore, not quite human, they felt free to discuss us as if we couldn’t hear.

Heidi ignored them. “We need to clean these sores,” she told me. “Get a pail of water from the house.”

I was glad to retreat, even if only temporarily. The crowd that had been watching ---abject poverty means you find entertainment on the street as you don’t have books or a TV --- had been enlarged when the scene was enlivened by two Blancs.

When I came back with a pail of water, Heidi sprinkled water on the wounds. Muddy rivulets ran down the side of the poor beast. It was absolutely filthy.

“You might want to put some iodine on those sores,” I said.

Heidi brightened. “Great idea.” She broke into a jog back to the house, leaving me as a one-woman show for the gathered Haitians. I was about to follow Heidi when Martha came down the street.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Poor horse.” Since she shares a house with Heidi, she recognized an attempt to save a lost cause when she saw it. “I’m going home. I don’t want to be laughed at. That horse is as good as dead anyway.”

I liked Martha, she was full of good sense.

However, before Martha could leave, Heidi came back with the med kit all PCVs were given for emergencies.

“Good,” said Heidi, seeing she had another hand. She pinned Martha with a look that said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

Martha stayed. You join the Peace Corps sure that good intentions can save the world and even after you learn they can’t, it’s hard to say the words.

“What are you going to do?” Martha sounded resigned in the face of Heidi’s conviction.

“I’m going to take him home and feed him. All he needs is a little food.” Heidi squirted iodine on the horse’s sores. Since I was still holding the pail, I dribbled water at the creature’s mouth. He opened his eyes and lapped up the water.

Heidi beamed. “See, all he needs is food and water.” She’d been proved right.

By this time, we had a huge audience and were getting plenty of advice. “Ay-dee, give him some V-8,” someone yelled to a roar of laughter. “Buy him some Appetivit,” another mentioned another product whose advertisers promised miracles for the weak. “Maybe they’ll treat it at the hospital.” Each of these sallies had the crowd in stitches.

“I’m getting out of here,” Martha said.

“You can’t,” Heidi told her.

“Yes, I can,” said Martha. “You two can make fools of yourselves, I won’t. Give it a V-8 --- right,” she repeated in disgust. “Besides, the thing’s practically dead.” She turned towards the house. I turned too, figuring this was a good time to escape.

“You aren’t going to abandon this horse, are you?” Heidi demanded incredulously. “You can’t leave him to die, can you?”

We were and we could, but we were too cowardly to say so in the face of Heidi’s moral outrage. We stared at the horse in silence.

Having quashed the mutiny in the ranks, Heidi put us to work. The three of us crouched in the dirt burrowed our hands under the horse’s muddy body. Our audience tittered. No one volunteered to help.

. .2. .. 3 . . . Lift!” Heidi yelled. We heaved.

The horse didn’t budge.

Good intentions only get you so far.