This is in response to the recent Boston Globe article about RomneyCare: ‘RomneyCare’ — a revolution that basically worked. Who exactly did Brian Mooney talk to when he researched this article? RomneyCare is the worst thing to happen to Massachusetts since Blue Cross bought the state.
You want the inside word? Romneycare is great if you are Blue Cross. It is not so great if you happen to be unemployed or underemployed and especially if you are middle class. I am head of household for a family of four. My wife is not working. She has zero income. My only income is my unemployment. I apparently earn too much if you can believe that. At what point do I qualify for MassHealth or Obamacare? According to RomneyCare I am only allowed to use the insurance granted to me through unemployment, which is Blue Cross.
Mitt Romney saw a problem with so many Massachusetts residents unable to afford insurance. His solution was to force us to buy Blue Cross (or one of the other companies). If you cannot afford it, that is too bad. The state will give you a hefty surcharge in your tax refund if you do not pay for insurance. For the majority of us, it is buy insurance or pay rent and eat. What would Romney do about the homeless situation? Force the homeless to buy boxes?
Seriously, it is time to return to a single payer plan. Look at the profits that Blue Cross claimed for last year: $222 million (Blue Cross Earnings). And somehow Blue Cross is reported as a non-profit company. What a joke. Their CEOs make more in a year than I have made as a database programmer for ten years.
That is only one company. Add Harvard Vanguard, Tufts and all the other companies and you are looking at a surplus for universal healthcare. I say, enough with these middlemen. Give everyone Medicare. These insurance carriers are driving costs up with their forced administrative fees. I worked for Blue Cross and know how they operate. 97% of all claims are automatically rejected. Yes, they are reviewed and yes, the reviewers are trained to reject them arbitrarily for any reason they can find. This forces the service providers to hire administrative staff to fight with Blue Cross to get paid for services. It is enough already! Brian Mooney is clearly sucking the teat of the insurance industry. Honestly, who paid him to write this, Blue Cross, Mitt Romney or both?
I have been unemployed for 6 months and MassHealth has rejected me for a long list of reasons (I earn too much, I need more documentation, I have to use the unemployment first, etc.). Shame on Mitt Romney and shame on the conservatives who want to privatize everything. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that privatization drives up costs and drives out consumers. The state comes in to force the populace to consume a commodity that is less necessary than food, shelter, clothing and even education. The solution is simple. It will take a complete removal of insurance lobbies from the public sector. Yes, companies like Blue Cross and Tufts will be destroyed. But why are we allowing them to profit from the misery of others? Why should we allow government agencies to force citizens to buy a commodity that they do not need?
Why indeed.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Bad Teacher Sets a Bad Example
I recently witnessed a commercial for the movie the Bad Teacher. In that commercial Cameron Diaz instructs two students to hold the arms of another so she can nail him with a playground ball. As a parent of children who were bullied and as someone who was bullied viciously in school, I am appalled. How can the studio make light of such a horrible act?
In Bridgewater Massachusetts two boys were caught on video holding another boy while a fourth beat him. The savageness of dodge ball has been used on virtually every victim of bullying throughout America. These things are neither funny, nor clever plot devices. These are horrifying realities for many people. The film Bad Teacher spits in the eye of every bullied person.
I would like to think that a multi-billion dollar studio such as Sony would exercise better social responsibility. To glamorize this act enforces the mentality that fosters bullies and perpetuates the violence. Shame on Sony and star Cameron Diaz.
I witnessed one very offensive scene being advertised. I refuse to see this movie on the assumption that other scenes will also portray glamorized depictions of violence or glorify demeaning behavior and bullying. I am calling for everyone who has ever been bullied or has children who are bullied to boycott this film.
In Bridgewater Massachusetts two boys were caught on video holding another boy while a fourth beat him. The savageness of dodge ball has been used on virtually every victim of bullying throughout America. These things are neither funny, nor clever plot devices. These are horrifying realities for many people. The film Bad Teacher spits in the eye of every bullied person.
I would like to think that a multi-billion dollar studio such as Sony would exercise better social responsibility. To glamorize this act enforces the mentality that fosters bullies and perpetuates the violence. Shame on Sony and star Cameron Diaz.
I witnessed one very offensive scene being advertised. I refuse to see this movie on the assumption that other scenes will also portray glamorized depictions of violence or glorify demeaning behavior and bullying. I am calling for everyone who has ever been bullied or has children who are bullied to boycott this film.
Friday, June 10, 2011
My First Day of High School
I was never fond of school and despise compulsory activity. As an adult I often have difficulty reconciling the obligations to myself with the statutory servitude of the “free world.” I have had several career success and failures forcing the acceptance of my ideas and beliefs. I want to provide a good life for my family but cannot stomach the political playing field that must be navigated in order to get ahead or survive. When reflecting on my experiences in public school I often yearn to go back in time. If only I could infuse the young Sean with my current fortitude to compel others to take me seriously.
I have always enjoyed learning. Reading, writing and drawing are my favorite pastimes. It was the institution of school that I despised. The inspirational teachers were few and far between. To reach them I had to endure the insufferable hacks who had no business instructing children in their myopic lies about history. Worse than that was the British colonialist approach of shouting ever louder when a student did not understand the logic of a lesson. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to my first day of high school. As a Navy brat, I developed a talent for making friends. I love exploring new places and meeting different people. When I reached my 18th birthday, this would translate into wanderlust. While others focused on their careers and educations, my sights were set on the horizon. My mind begged to know what I was missing out on. Thus, my first day of high school would be an adventure that I embraced with wide-eyed innocence.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums replaced most buildings. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and Joe Friday haircut belied his humanity. Most of the other students were either from the other middle schools or Hanson. I took my seat and thought I heard someone say “dirtball.” I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. We were given our schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, and Queer” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with laughing faces. Granted, my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves, curls, and cowlicks. Did this warrant all of the names and accusations of less than adequate hygiene? The air was thick with menace. Every taunt ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Insults hissed just behind my ears. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some faculty members even chuckled. No one would come to my aid.
Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I only faced forward and walked. Regardless of the surface calm, inside me brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and crew cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts had dissolved. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my bushy mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Oxygen could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing?” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass?” I asked. My voice, cracked just above a whisper. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This was the first of many times that I would be banished from class after being assaulted, but the only time the nurse’s office was my destination. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered her office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled webs of curls were, it was not hacked up until that moment. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. Yet, I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it.
A couple of months later I would stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping off large hunks of my hair. After my first day of high school kids called my house and threatened me daily. People were yelling horrible things from cars everywhere I went. I grew to favor the solitude of the woods. Whitman/Hanson was Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. The last straw came during a gym class where I was cornered by several jocks. They threatened me. If I did not get a haircut by the next day they would cut it all off with their buck knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it.” The words barely choked from my throat. From there forward my hair was a horrific mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it. Whereas I could not possibly battle the Neanderthals and preppies without being beaten severely, I knew the faculty could not touch me. A power struggle ensued between the school authorities and myself. Until I officially quit and took the GED test, all of my efforts went into shattering the façade that the principal and her lackeys exhibited.
My high school experiences resonate deeply within me. Usually my family, work, and school consume my time. I also enjoy the company of friends, get tattoos, and carry on with multiple projects to feed my creative spirit. Every once in a while I will see someone being bullied in the news or closer to home. The recent video depicting three jocks beating up a middle school kid in Bridgewater has fueled my hostility towards aggressors. Although I have many interesting experiences to write about, this topic has gripped my imagination. The catalyst of my high school rebellion was that wad of gum: the spitball heard round the world. My reaction was to lash out and undermine the authorities that fostered the brutal cross that I was forced to bear. I blamed the jocks for their barbarous conduct, but hated the school authorities. In many ways this still feeds my idealism. I hold myself to be a humanist. I have been called a socialist, Marxist, commie, and even a traitor because I care about the plight of people. I blame the myopic views of Tea Partiers and Conservatives, but hate the corrupt politicians and the corporate autocrats who own them.
I wish I could look back at my high school years with a clear mind or a mature perspective. I do not have it in me to do so. I see my experience as a shared nightmare. I want others to read this and feel my pain and anger–to know what I know. Many schools still shelter bullies and punish the victims. The aforementioned Bridgewater student had been bullied for over a year before the video was unleashed on YouTube. His mother had hired a lawyer to draft a letter to the school when the principal ignored her pleas. Now that school claims a “Zero Tolerance” policy regarding bullying. It is clear that this is a lie.
My belief is that I am being challenged to find an effective way to combat bullying. Tougher laws only encourage schools to hide evidence of their complicity. The real weapon is education. Our children must all be taught the importance of acceptance, compassion, and diversity. When I look at the woods I see different types of trees with a plethora of colors and shapes. Even within a specific genus there is exclusivity. Every tree and every leaf has its own unique character. Yet, when I view them as a whole I am confronted with a beauty whose magnitude is beyond words. This is how society should be. Individuality should be encouraged because we all contribute to an eternal humanity.
I have always enjoyed learning. Reading, writing and drawing are my favorite pastimes. It was the institution of school that I despised. The inspirational teachers were few and far between. To reach them I had to endure the insufferable hacks who had no business instructing children in their myopic lies about history. Worse than that was the British colonialist approach of shouting ever louder when a student did not understand the logic of a lesson. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to my first day of high school. As a Navy brat, I developed a talent for making friends. I love exploring new places and meeting different people. When I reached my 18th birthday, this would translate into wanderlust. While others focused on their careers and educations, my sights were set on the horizon. My mind begged to know what I was missing out on. Thus, my first day of high school would be an adventure that I embraced with wide-eyed innocence.
Whitman had two middle and four elementary schools in the days before condominiums replaced most buildings. However, the high school was regional. It shared its name and students with Hanson Massachusetts. Homeroom was not too bad. Mr. Ballard’s stiff brown suit and Joe Friday haircut belied his humanity. Most of the other students were either from the other middle schools or Hanson. I took my seat and thought I heard someone say “dirtball.” I was not sure whom it would have been directed at or if I even heard correctly, so I ignored it. We were given our schedules and dispersed when the bell rang.
Each class was smaller than the last. Although the amount of students remained large, the walls seemed to be closing. More names carried over the teacher’s discussions. “Dirtbag, Scumbag, Faggot, and Queer” resounded more in each period. There was no mistaking it; I was the target of the jeers. Whenever I turned to look at the perpetrators I was met with laughing faces. Granted, my hair was a tangled mess of bushy waves, curls, and cowlicks. Did this warrant all of the names and accusations of less than adequate hygiene? The air was thick with menace. Every taunt ricocheted off of the suffocating walls. Insults hissed just behind my ears. The teachers did nothing to reprimand the offenders. Some faculty members even chuckled. No one would come to my aid.
Between classes I walked a gauntlet of humiliation. Balled up paper was hurled at me from every angle. Kids turned and laughed in my face. Heckles raised crescendos of anguish. I did not respond. I did not cry. I did not stop to fight or ask them why. I only faced forward and walked. Regardless of the surface calm, inside me brewed a contempt that would fuel my actions for the next three years. As I walked towards the gym class I saw the coaches. Their large muscles and crew cuts would be of little comfort to me. They chuckled as I walked into the gymnasium.
The stadium seats were open. Kids were filing in to occupy islands of corduroys. I grabbed a seat towards the front. I barely knew anyone. The few that I did recognize ignored me. The shrill tweet of a whistle silenced the din. For a moment I was relieved that the taunts had dissolved. The coaches discussed the militaristic nature of class. We would line up at the beginning. They would bark out the row call by last name first and first name last. We would shout “Here” in response. If anyone did not have a uniform (standard issue gym shorts, tee shirt, sox and sneakers) that person would instead call out “N.U.”: no uniform. The names began to punctuate the coaches’ instructions. Then came the cavalcade of snorts and laughter.
“You got gum in yer hair dirtbag,” a lone voice above the din shouted. I felt around my bushy mop. I found the chewed wad clinging to my thicket of curls. More gibes filled the air. “Idiot, Moron, Get a Haircut, Scumbag,” now joined the chorus. Oxygen could not move into my lungs. My hands shook. My legs were sweating. “Am I pissing?” I wondered. One of the gym teachers beckoned me forward. His large banana hands grabbed my puny arms and turned me.
“Yep, you got gum in your hair,” he said letting go of my arm. As I righted myself I saw that he was stifling his laughter. “Go to the nurses office and have her cut it out.”
“Do I need a pass?” I asked. My voice, cracked just above a whisper. My chest was pounding. I felt fire inside my face. The large sneering smirk before me seethed hatred through my veins. I would not turn to face the bastards behind me. Instead, I focused on the white 200-pound gorilla, with a whistle around his neck.
“No,” he snickered. “Just go.” As I walked out the door I heard the laughter. What I did not hear was any reprimands. No punishments came for the perpetrators of elitist torment. This was the first of many times that I would be banished from class after being assaulted, but the only time the nurse’s office was my destination. The following years would see me escorted by the security officer to the principal’s office, in-school suspension and even being shoved out the door and told to leave.
Tears welled in the bottom lid of my eyes as I walked down the hall. I fought them back before seeing the nurse. I would never give them the satisfaction of breaking me. I entered her office and explained what happened.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed. “I will cut this out today, but you need to get a haircut because I will not do this again.” She continued to berate me. Her tongue lashed at me, kicking a wounded dog in the ribs. Just when I thought she could not hurt my pride further, she un-ceremonially grabbed the offending tufts of hair and chopped a large chunk out. As messy as my tangled webs of curls were, it was not hacked up until that moment. I left her office when the bell rang. My shoulders slumped down. My head hung low. I could feel a breeze in the spot she cut. Yet, I did not get a haircut after that. It would be another year before I would consider it.
A couple of months later I would stand before a mirror bawling my eyes out, lopping off large hunks of my hair. After my first day of high school kids called my house and threatened me daily. People were yelling horrible things from cars everywhere I went. I grew to favor the solitude of the woods. Whitman/Hanson was Lord of the Flies and I was Simon. The last straw came during a gym class where I was cornered by several jocks. They threatened me. If I did not get a haircut by the next day they would cut it all off with their buck knives. So that night I stood before my mirror: crying, cutting and cursing.
“You want my haircut muthafuckas, you got it.” The words barely choked from my throat. From there forward my hair was a horrific mess. It was a cross between Robert Smith of the Cure and pre-afro Jimi Hendrix. When that wad of gum hit my hair on that first day, something inside of me awoke. I have always had a fierce anti-authoritarian streak but what came out in those years was a monster. I hated high school and did everything in my power to undermine it. Whereas I could not possibly battle the Neanderthals and preppies without being beaten severely, I knew the faculty could not touch me. A power struggle ensued between the school authorities and myself. Until I officially quit and took the GED test, all of my efforts went into shattering the façade that the principal and her lackeys exhibited.
My high school experiences resonate deeply within me. Usually my family, work, and school consume my time. I also enjoy the company of friends, get tattoos, and carry on with multiple projects to feed my creative spirit. Every once in a while I will see someone being bullied in the news or closer to home. The recent video depicting three jocks beating up a middle school kid in Bridgewater has fueled my hostility towards aggressors. Although I have many interesting experiences to write about, this topic has gripped my imagination. The catalyst of my high school rebellion was that wad of gum: the spitball heard round the world. My reaction was to lash out and undermine the authorities that fostered the brutal cross that I was forced to bear. I blamed the jocks for their barbarous conduct, but hated the school authorities. In many ways this still feeds my idealism. I hold myself to be a humanist. I have been called a socialist, Marxist, commie, and even a traitor because I care about the plight of people. I blame the myopic views of Tea Partiers and Conservatives, but hate the corrupt politicians and the corporate autocrats who own them.
I wish I could look back at my high school years with a clear mind or a mature perspective. I do not have it in me to do so. I see my experience as a shared nightmare. I want others to read this and feel my pain and anger–to know what I know. Many schools still shelter bullies and punish the victims. The aforementioned Bridgewater student had been bullied for over a year before the video was unleashed on YouTube. His mother had hired a lawyer to draft a letter to the school when the principal ignored her pleas. Now that school claims a “Zero Tolerance” policy regarding bullying. It is clear that this is a lie.
My belief is that I am being challenged to find an effective way to combat bullying. Tougher laws only encourage schools to hide evidence of their complicity. The real weapon is education. Our children must all be taught the importance of acceptance, compassion, and diversity. When I look at the woods I see different types of trees with a plethora of colors and shapes. Even within a specific genus there is exclusivity. Every tree and every leaf has its own unique character. Yet, when I view them as a whole I am confronted with a beauty whose magnitude is beyond words. This is how society should be. Individuality should be encouraged because we all contribute to an eternal humanity.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
This Is A National Debate?
As Americans, should we not care more for the citizens of this great nation than the profit margins of corporations?
Think about it, why shouldn’t we extend Medicare to everyone? It works in Canada and several other EU states. Why should we spoon-feed our money to corporations like Blue Cross Blue Shield?
Why is their profit margin more important than the well being of every American!
The argument is that we cannot afford to do this. I say that we should end the occupation of lands in the Middle East and abroad. This alone would provide more than enough to fund Universal Health Care. I do not understand what the debate is. Either we get universal health care in the form of Medicare for everyone or we should revolt. Fuck Blue Cross and all of their evil piglets who suckle from their teat. You know who you are John Kerry!
--
Sean P. Pratt
339-788-2080
16 Kingswood Dr. E4
Abington MA 02351
Think about it, why shouldn’t we extend Medicare to everyone? It works in Canada and several other EU states. Why should we spoon-feed our money to corporations like Blue Cross Blue Shield?
Why is their profit margin more important than the well being of every American!
The argument is that we cannot afford to do this. I say that we should end the occupation of lands in the Middle East and abroad. This alone would provide more than enough to fund Universal Health Care. I do not understand what the debate is. Either we get universal health care in the form of Medicare for everyone or we should revolt. Fuck Blue Cross and all of their evil piglets who suckle from their teat. You know who you are John Kerry!
--
Sean P. Pratt
339-788-2080
16 Kingswood Dr. E4
Abington MA 02351
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