One is the loneliest number, especially when it is the star on your flag at a socialized medicine protest rally

I lost control of my email months ago. Until yesterday, I thought I knew what I had read, just not where to find it again. Without searching the thousands of read messages for verification, I decided to attend a healthcare rally that I knew was scheduled yesterday.

Since my grandchildren are nerdy enough to consider politicians their rock stars, I planned this event as a summer fieldtrip, just in case Congressman Yarmuth was in town. They prepared by discussing the issue – the problems with healthcare, why something must be done, and why people have different opinions about what should be done – and by making their own posters. They’re old enough now (6, 8, and 11) to come in with information and opinions, and to discuss issues without many prompts. I get to sit back, enjoy the conversation, and swell with pride.

“Some people don’t have enough money to go to the doctor,” the middle one explained to her little sister. “If they get sick they might not ever get well.”

“I heard a lot of people don’t have insurance,” the oldest said.

“And if people can’t afford insurance,” I reminded them, “they usually won’t have money to pay for doctors, hospitals, and medications. Those things are expensive.”

“President Obama wants to give everybody money for doctors,” the little one said.

I wished, but explained. “That would be nice, but he can’t just give everybody money. He's trying to get everyone to agree that we all have to help each other. That will probably mean that some of us will have to pay a little more in taxes, or do without something we already have, in order to help others.”

The little one decided she wanted to save her blue poster board for another day. The oldest had a great idea – I have heath care and want everyone else to have it, too – but he hadn’t wanted poster board when we were in the store, and his message didn’t fit on his 8.5 X 11 paper. When the middle one told me her brilliant idea – Give a little, change a lot - I decided she should drop out of school and start working campaigns now. She wrote her slogan over a smiley face and hers was the only poster we took – on the bus, so we could be socially conscious and I could rack up enough pain to become a martyr.

Not only did I not retrieve the notice, I didn’t remember it correctly. This was not a pro socialized medicine rally like I hoped – it was a gathering of about thirty, middle-aged, white protestors, obviously more proud of being there than emotionally vested in their project, and twenty-nine of them too lazy to do anything unless cameras were on them. Then, they half-heartedly chanted a few rounds each of “Throw John and Obama out,” and “Where are you, John? We want town hall meetings.”

It was bizarre, to say the least, but nothing compared to protester #30, who must have been the Libertarian of the group. I gave her credit for not caring if she broke a sweat or melted a hair product, and for expending more energy than her twenty-nine pals combined. She will be known forever in my family as the Lone Star, because she sported a full-sized Lone Star flag, on a pole that looked like she might have yanked it from the White House lawn.

(sorry, I couldn't back away far enough to have her and the flag in the same shot)

Lone Star didn’t stick with the others; she marched around the building several times and mingled through the wannabe-crowd, including my granddaughters who stood with the others, holding their sign which actually did not look as out of place as the lone star flag or the sign that demanded an apology to all doctors from Congressman Yarmuth.

Eventually, loneliness must have set in. Lone Star approached me, standing behind a dry fountain with employees who had come outside to smoke. I was taking pictures – of my grandchildren – and checking the bus schedules I had written on my notebook since this bus thing was new to me.

“I know you’re one of them,” she spat at me.

I looked at the smokers and they shrugged. “Who are them?” I asked, thinking how heavy that flag must be.

She pointed to the building. “You’re writing for them.”

“No,” I answered. “If I write this story, it will be on my own.”

She pulled out her camera, took a picture of me, and then shot a number of pictures of the dry fountain. “There’s your tax dollars at work,” she said. “And you want to give them more money?”

I ignored her, but she wasn’t discouraged.

“They spend tax payer money to build a fountain and now they won’t maintain it,” she explained in a tone that said I most certainly was the stupidest person she had met.

I know nothing about fountains but said this one didn’t look especially neglected. It looked like it was not in use, probably because the city is broke and it makes more sense to turn off fountains than to lay off employees. But that was merely a guess and she wasn’t buying it. She ranted about the condition of the abused fountain. I couldn’t resist.

“Do I understand you correctly? You are here, protesting the use of tax dollars to treat ailing humans but you are crying because we aren’t using tax dollars to maintain this fountain?”

At that point, she insisted I was a reporter, and I decided she really, really wanted me to be a reporter. So, I dropped the unanswered question about the fountain and asked another. “What does you flag represent?”

She rolled her eyes, danced around her flagpole, shook her head, and sighed. “You don’t know? You don’t know your history?”

“I’m assuming the lone star represents the State of Texas,” I ventured. “But I don’t know why you brought it to this healthcare function in Kentucky.”

“Why do you think?” She looked at the other smokers, and my grandchildren who had gathered behind me, indicating she would accept an answer from anyone.

When no one else answered, I tried again. “Seriously, I would like to understand. What does that flag represent to you, today, in this place?”

“I guess you don’t know about state’s rights?” She asked. “Do you know anything? Do you know that Texas wants to secede?”

“Yes. I wish them luck with that. Alaska, too. Is that why you are carrying the flag at this healthcare protest in Kentucky? To show your support for Texas’ secession?”

Her frustration with me changed to anger – maybe hatred for anyone who knew so little. She went into a long history lesson, still not answering my question. I pointed that out.

“This represents states’ rights,” she finally shouted.

My grandson, who had taken the poster while his sisters hid behind the smokers, gave it a shot. “Do you want every state, including Kentucky, to become an independent country?”

“NO! I support secession,” she answered.

“Isn’t that what secession is?” He addressed me and the smokers. They nodded.

“I bet you don’t ask him what his sign means, and if he pays taxes,” Lone Star accused.

“I’ll bet he can explain the sign and what taxes mean to him,” I said. “And the sign doesn’t even belong to him.”

“My sign means I support giving a little more because it would help a lot of people. I would give up eating out one night or doing something fun so my Dad can pay more taxes and help people who don’t have insurance.”

“The federal government can’t help any of us,” she said. “We should all drop out.”

I smiled. “I get it now. You’re carrying that flag to represent your support of any state that wants to ignore the federal government.”

The cameras left and mini-crowd, Lone Star included, followed. The kids were disappointed. “I thought he would come down,” the grandson said.

“I’m positive he’s in Washington,” I consoled. “How many times have you seen him out, talking to anyone who approaches? You know he’s always willing to talk to people.”

He nodded, but still wanted to go up to the office and see. I sensed a hint of doubt or disappointment so I sent him to ask the guard at the door. The guard didn’t know if the Congressman was in the building but said he’d let them go up and find out, if I showed ID and accompanied them.

I hid the poster behind a shrub, showed ID, and the kids made it through the scanner. The suspected weapon in my purse turned out to be a bookmark, which they considered confiscating until my granddaughter said she had given it to me for Christmas.

Congressman Yarmuth was in Washington. His assistant assumed we were with the protestors when we arrived at his office and explained that, although she had provided his calendar, the event planners had chosen a day when he was not scheduled to be in town. However, she would give him a message when he returned, or answer our questions for us.

The grandson volunteered to be our spokesperson. “We saw all of those people outside saying they don’t like what Congressman Yarmuth and President Obama are doing. We just wanted to come up here and tell him some of us agree with him and President Obama that we should help everyone get healthcare.”

She thanked him first, said she would give that message to the Congressman when he returned, and went on to explain that as much as they appreciate hearing from people who agree, the protesters also have a right to express their opinions. She hoped that didn’t frighten or upset them. He waved the idea off and said these protesters weren’t as bad as some he had seen.

She sat the kids down and talked about how important it is to understand that some people are resistant to change, so we have to arm ourselves with facts and patience, until the people who are afraid understand that no one wants to hurt them. I caught his reproving eye when she mentioned patience, and regretted the fact that she isn’t in every classroom teaching this wonderful lesson. She also told them that some people would still have a different opinion, even after they receive the facts. Middle girl said that’s because some people are selfish so they don’t care how many people can’t see a doctor, and the very diplomatic assistance said, yes, different personalities and emotions influence opinions.

We left with books for each child, the assistant’s card in case they want to set up fieldtrips for their classes when school starts again, and assurance that our congressman was not in his office ignoring the people who pretended they wanted but weren’t getting his attention outside. I knew that going in, as well as I know that each of them would have been treated with the same kindness and concern we received if they had entered his office.

Rep. Yarmuth draws line in sand on public option.