The Gipper and the Iron Lady are safe for now. My sincere thanks to Bob Grover for his kindness and compassion. It must come naturally to Progressives.
The implications of the so-called science are impressive. Progressives are compassionate and Conservatives are heartless brutes.
It’s time to mount some so called science in my defense. It is true that Progressives are people of the left and it’s also true that the Latin word for left is sinistro, which in turn is the origin for the English word sinister. There you have it. The inference couldn’t be clearer.
I suppose I could also point out, ad infinitum, that for every Tom Delay there’s a William Jefferson with a freezer full of money or that for every Newt Gingrich there’s a Nancy Pelosi. But that would be pointless, a bit like saying “Saul has slain his thousands and David his tens of thousands.”
My wife recently heard something on NPR. It was an investigative piece about the systemic abuse of Native Americans by the Federal government and the South Dakota division of social and rehabilitation services. Hundreds of Native American children are being taken from their loved ones and placed in white foster homes. The state agency claims it’s about compassion. In reality it’s all about money. The overwhelming majority of the children come from loving families. They’re poor, but they are loved. But that doesn’t seem to matter. The agency gets $17,000 from the Feds for each child placed. In the past year the individual bounties have added up to millions.
I listened to the story this morning. By the time it was done I was blubbering like a child. Then the anger welled up. The South Dakota social welfare system, in the name of Progressive compassion, has uprooted children from loving homes for money. It’s compassion run amok.
It makes my blood boil to hear Progressives skillfully manipulate public opinion by telling America that anyone who has the temerity to question the root motives and the lavish spending is “hard, ruthless, and unfeeling toward others.”
A couple of weeks ago my brother’s wife sent us several photos of a recent family gathering. On the last page of the album there was a 1948 picture of my brother, sister and me that was taken while we were living at Prendergast Preventorium, a state funded facility in Mattapan. Friends who’ve seen it tell me I didn’t look very happy. I tell them I wasn’t, thanks to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and Progressive politics.
My brother, sister, and I grew up inner city poor. Our father was a stereotypical Irish alcoholic. Our mother was an uneducated (she’d only completed third grade) immigrant from Newfoundland. When our father died from complications of tuberculosis and alcohol, our mother had a nervous breakdown. My brother, sister, and I were then defined as “wards of the state” and shipped to Prendergast by the Commonwealth. While they were tinkering with us, our mother was institutionalized, pumped full of drugs and given shock treatments for a couple of years. It was the very best Progressive care Massachusetts could buy. She somehow survived. When she left the hospital she weighed 80 pounds. She was neurotic for the rest of her life.
I have a photo taken the day our mother left the hospital. I keep it as a reminder of the damage compassion run amok can inflict.
My mother fought desperately to escape the clutches of the state sponsored compassion. In the end it was her love for us, and not institutional compassion that saved her, and us.
My mother and I lived in a government housing project for several years after that. She would occasionally take me down to the welfare office for case review or a handout. I remember once hearing a couple of welfare workers whispering to one another. “Who’s that kid?” “That’s the Dillon kid. His dad died an alcoholic and his mother’s an uneducated dolt…Poor kid… We’re gonna’ need to take care of him for the rest of his life.” When I got old enough to legally work I tried to get a summer job cleaning up the housing project. I was told I didn’t qualify. The jobs were earmarked for college interns who needed to learn the ins and outs of poverty so they could later become professional caretakers of the indigent.
It was compassion run amok.
Thankfully, the military became my escape route. In 1965 I learned all about guns and butter. Thousands of us, many who had migrated from housing projects, got the guns. Progressives in ivory towers and universities got the butter in the form of grants to study poverty. It’s a fairly standard Progressive career path.
So, here’s my bottom line. I think Progressives would be better served to examine the scars they leave in their wake instead of constantly reminding the rest of us how compassionate they are.