Remember this was written years ago!
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The “common” voter is less important.
I didn’t know how else to put it. You’ve always had a struggle getting people to come out to vote, sure. But now you have groups making lots of noise for under privileged or blacks or those who are having their rights oppressed, etc… Big special interest groups may smile and shout into their megaphones and want to get your attention, but if you don’t fit into their category, they aren’t interested—maybe somebody else can help you?
There are stories of people whose families were told they had too much income to receive federal aid but then didn’t have the money needed to pay for what they had to get. And they weren’t black to claim they were being discriminated against or from a foreign country, so couldn’t say the United States was taking advantage of them as foreigners. And if you were a boy, you weren’t given any breaks at all.
Really. There have been girls who got through medical school who said it was because their families were underprivileged, they had just immigrated to the United States, she did do well in her studies, granted, but she was a girl. She felt bad for middle-class males who’d grown up in suburbia America and were of identical intellectual ability as she. They would not be given the breaks she had been given, she said.
Is this the way an infinitely wise Heavenly Father would’ve worked it out? I do not know. I mean—who knows—He may actually work out a way in which that “Suburban white male” grinds out studies in book learning at home when denied state aid therefore finds he cannot receive official medical certification. But as a result, he may end up helping—and actually giving needed physical relief and help to folks in the slums and housing districts for those who can’t afford fancy hospitals!
In fact, many of them, because they are unschooled, cannot read or write enough to avail themselves the services of the supposed welfare-operated health center around the block. But they don’t have to worry about walking all the way down there when they can get Jerome to run over to Daniel’s flat and call him; he’ll come with his bag—he always does—to see anything from tummyache to horrible bullet wounds. And he rarely asks for payment, though he’ll never reject it; is always terribly grateful for a hot meal and smiles something big if any of the kids in the house makes or draws something for him.
But Daniel needs a wife. Somebody to fatten him up a bit, and maybe help get his hair looking less tousled and his clothes ironed sometimes, not just thrown together—he rarely thinks about himself.
A competent, female immigrant student, does get State aid and works her way through medical school to become a bonafide physician. However, she becomes disillusioned with what she sees in the hospital situation: legislation red tape; the jostling of rooms given rich and powerful while poorer patients suffer; emergency procedures blocked with power play called “safety measures”, etc…
The young doctor’s name is Ascana. “Did I come to the United States to become a doctor, to do…this?” she asks herself time and time again.
One day, going home from the hospital, from her car, she sees a disturbance and knows there is an accident, pulls over by the curb to see if she might be able to help. From the side of the car, she sees Daniel working tirelessly, expertly, amidst victims of the crash.
Ascana strains her eyes. Who is it? One of the orderlies from their hospital? Theirs is the only medical site this close to the place of the accident. But it is a little too dark to see. She gets out of the car and, doctor’s bag in hand, walks closer to get a better view.
“Jerome! Jerome! Get my bicycle out of the way!” the man is shouting orders to a teary-eyed young lad—a black teen.
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