Collectivism Vs. Freedom (a story)
Long, greasy and matted hair, he walks through the door. His leather jacket hangs open exposing a tired t-shirt of a death metal band that no one else remembers. Hands of concrete and sandpaper speak of a life un-pampered, un-cared for. Black jeans with holes and tears caused by age, by conflict, by pain– they are reminiscent of the jeans that have been so popular in the past several years. The ones that are falsely torn, worn and aged by machines rather than life. Velcro shoes leaning to the side with every step, it is apparent he hasn’t visited a shoe shop in some time. The concrete hand reaches out slowly, with a tremor, “They call me ‘Dallas,’ but my Christian name is Larry,” he says with a thick and recognizable accent that carries a bit of a slur.
“Dallas” (a fictitious name) is in his fifties but could pass for much older. He carries himself with a slow determination that speaks of a man who once had great confidence. Through the next hours he recounts his existence on this earth. Broken family, loneliness, thousands of needles. For many years now he has been selling heroin to support his habit. He shoots three times a day, just to stay well. He has a depth in his eyes that screams regret. Both for himself and those he has hurt. He talks about the feeling of desperation he gets when he has run out. He recounts a life that has revolved, for over twenty years, around one thing: heroin. He says, with an eerie calmness, “I’ve had to hurt a lot of people to get well.” He’s not exactly the portrait of a repentant soul, but as the hours click by a depth of honesty, of love, of humanity begins to come out of him. It seems many years have passed since anyone saw this part of him. Quickly the conversation changes as his face contorts slightly. He quickly inhales and holds that breath. Leaning forward in his thick, slurred, street stained voice and says, “Help me, I’m going to die.”
Through the next several months he is in and out of hospitals, emergency detox centers, residential rehabilitation and methadone clinics. He comes by frequently for updates and check-ins and he slowly becomes, again, the person he so nearly lost. The person who cares, who loves, who has grace for his enemies. He becomes, again, a man who is free to act in compassion and love. His recovery brought about his retirement as a dealer. His impact on the community went from extraordinarily negative to inconsequential at worst and positive at best. Though the ripples of his retirement are not easily measured, their exponential potential is a source of great hope.
“Dallas’s” recovery was his own. He fought for his recovery. But the the collective community, the common good is what made his recovery sustainable, possible, permanent. The programs he accessed and the funds he received to help him get clean and sober were supplied by tax dollars. The salary of his counselors were paid for by tax dollars. The buildings he received treatment in were paid for by tax dollars. The roads he used to get to those treatment centers were built with tax dollars.
The collectivist idea that we are responsible for the poor, the addicted, the oppressed, the homeless and the sick is what made this man’s recovery possible. It’s what brought him freedom and in that freedom he was given a second chance to do right, to stop dealing, to stop hurting his community. With the grace that was extended to him, he turned and extended and multiplied that grace in his own community. With nearly a year clean and sober “Dallas’s” life represents true freedom. Politicians and pundits espouse the belief that “freedom” is capitalism, trickle down economics and low or no taxation of the wealthy. That’s not freedom, it’s blindness to justice, to equality and to community. It’s simply greed, masquerading as freedom.
Collectivism=Freedom.
Disclaimer: Names, dates and geography may have been changed to protect privacy and confidentiality.
