I am a person. I have a name, a family. I tuck my children into bed each night; I kiss my husband before he leaves for work. And every day, I’m reminded by looking at those struggling around us that for many the concept of “person” fails to exist. We’re merely numbers lost in the turmoil of accounts that remain unpaid.
I watch as the country struggles. I watch as few people try to help those next to them and all of us get drug into the mire and depths of the pit of mud the government has created. Whatever party you support really does not matter — no one is currently doing anything to help us out of the mess.
I live in a community where we all struggle. Many are on state help; many have sat at our tables burning candles from both ends and still not been able to make it work. Bills go unpaid; wolves knock on doors. The government has not offered to bail us out.
We must learn to work together as a community. We must learn to support our neighbors who live here. Because we’re not numbers. We’re not accounts unpayable. We’re people.
