Is it Really Welfare?

Once again my destination is the sixth floor of the tall green building on Cleveland Avenue - the Welfare Office. Stepping into the elevator, sadness envelopes me, for I feel surrounded by the hopeless. The elevator never seems to take anyone in or let anyone out on its non-stop trip up to no-mans land. Everyone exits with the same glazed look and tired smile, hoping for support and encouragement. The waiting room...and waiting is definitely what it's for, is packed with society's most diverse population.

I always sit facing the crowd, affording me the ability to observe an unforgettable experience. Being a part of the young, old, black, white, sick, and destitute sea of people searching for relief from the indignity life forced upon us saddens me. As the stories reach my mottled brain, tears well inside out of sheer anguish for them - for me. They do not speak in hushed whispers, but loudly state the nature of their downfall. As much as I don't want to listen in, there is a curious need to hear their strife.

The 400 plus pound woman that can barely walk laboriously pants as she winds her way through extended legs. Almost every set of eyes fixate like mine. Pity overwhelms me at observing her obvious discomfort. Averting my glance, soft, white, cotton candy tufts of hair catch my roving eyes. The tired, withered face of a 90 year-old woman is staring into space. She has seen things most of us cannot begin to imagine. The steady growth and progress of what was once a simple world has carved lines in her face. Only her eyes glow with a feverish desire for life. I wonder if she has mentally taken herself back to those times, or if she is astounded that another day has greeted her. I marvel at the old woman, when a curly-haired, boisterous toddler, decides to use my feet as springboards. To my surprise, a girl of about seventeen grabs the child's arm and profusely apologizes. I smile. The child squeals in over-exaggerated agony. The girl's distended belly comes into focus as she drags the tot to a row of seats where another child sits quietly. I have to know. Looking over and smiling, my comment of how beautiful the children are is proudly received. That connection is all it takes to initiate the girl's diatribe of why she's there. It's shocking to hear the words "I'm getting fixed - three is enough and not one of the daddies stuck around."

I can't help noticing the young man just two seats over from me. His condition forces me to reflect on mechanical bad guys in B-grade movies. Some sort of modern medical contraption is molded around his head, holding it up. Mom sits next to him, telling an older lady that he'd been in a car accident.

"Before this happened," she boasts, "he was the quarterback of the high school football team."

"I'm so sorry," the other lady sadly replies.

They speak as if he were not there, yet the tears well in his eyes with each word she utters. The sadness of his condition inevitably falls back to an ever-growing problem in this country - teenagers driving drunk. In the blink of an eye his life had been altered. A young black man is intently listening to the tragic story when he gazes at the mother and says, "at least he'll live. I'd trade with him any day."

Her horrified expression belies the emotion she feels at such an odd comment.

"If I could turn back the hands of time, I would have listened to the warnings about unprotected sex. Contrary to popular belief among young people, no one is immune from the reality of AIDS."

An endless barrage of the destitute and melancholy fill the rows of chairs. The employees (all women) sit behind barred windows glaring at us, their looks of contempt very apparent. Though everyone has a story to tell, we're viewed as a mass of pathetic creatures: jobless, homeless, and uneducated. I am none of those things. Welfare - that word is hardly appropriate. According to my understanding, welfare implies for the good of a need. Few of us choose the circumstances of hard times, yet here we sit in the company of a litany of reasons that brought us here. Dignity is not an operative word in this place. Like cattle, we are herded from the reception window, to the rows of stained gray chairs, then shuffled from floor to floor for forms and finally ushered into cubicled offices. Sitting across from the worker, we divulge all of our life's private details in the hopes of getting what we need to survive. All of the elements of self-recrimination are fed to us, however, what we really need to make the situation bearable is basic human compassion.