Title One
Many a night I have sat at a posh restaurant at Sunset Plaza and listened to my two best friends argue about the correct phraseology of certain kinds of government assistance. One of my friends is taking care of her elderly mother, Ms. H., a very sweet lady with a list of medications that should entitle her to at least a Christmas card from Pfizer.
Because she is a senior citizen, and because her medical needs strap even a well-employed daughter, Ms. H. qualifies for Medicare and Medicaid. This is known as being medi-medi.
My other friend, who works for those who translate bills from doctor’s office into governmental assistance language, insists that this cannot be so, that Ms. H. must be getting one or the other, and our friend only thinks her mother is medi-medi.
I have no interest in the logistics of the argument. What I enjoy is listening to them bat the phrase medi-medi back and forth. It’s amazing the different ways we refer to government assistance (the more blunt term being welfare.)
My school is called a Title One school. Sounds rather prestigious, doesn’t it? It’s not. It means that the majority of our students qualify for “subsidized meals” (foodstamps, essentially.) The school gets more money for each student that qualifies, so we are under pressure to get the students to turn in applications for foodstamps. Many’s the time I’ve heard a student protest, “We don’t need this,” only to be required to tell them, “The school still needs the application on file.”
More disturbing is when children do indeed qualify, though they don’t consider themselves poor. It’s quite a shock for them, sometimes, to be handed a sheet of foodstamps during homeroom. You can see the sudden dawning of understanding in their eyes: I am considered poor even though we pay our bills.
But I’m sure their self-esteem is a small price to pay for our school’s ever-increasing budget. And it’s not charity. It’s not welfare. It’s Title One. Not as catchy as medi-medi, but still, quite nice, yes?
