Protest of the Weak

by Doron Taussig

Last week, along the stretch of Market Street where everything is a bank and everyone is a banker, at about the time of day when bankers begin to head home, a small group of activists gathered to protest the cuts to Medicaid proposed in Governor Rendell's budget. And the very serious collided head-on with the patently absurd.

The proposed cuts are, regardless of your position on them, a serious matter. Faced with a budget shortfall, the governor is attempting to cut some of the health benefits that Pennsylvania offers the poor. The cuts are strategically aimed so that no one will be cut from Medicaid rolls entirely; rather, some recipients will suffer a reduction of coverage.

The activists sought to inform the governor, who was at a fundraiser inside a nearby building, that these cuts would be extremely damaging and wholly unacceptable. Before the event began, a Medicaid recipient named Carlos Gonzalez, 34, explained the "damaging" part: He is an HIV patient, he said, and needed to go to the doctor at least twice a month — but the cuts would limit him to 18 visits a year.

The "unacceptable" part didn't come as easy. Somehow, the activists — a motley group of about 25, including physicians, med school students, and Medicaid patients — couldn't make their threats to derail the governor's re-election ring true. Some of the attendees appeared embarrassed as others tried to start chants of activist cliches such as "we're fired up can't take it no more!" And when one of the speakers, a straggly haired man named Barry Busch, spent too much time describing his medical condition in careful detail, a med student cut him off. Busch walked away cursing and muttering. Confused bankers hurried past.

The climax of the event came when the activists ascended the steps of One Commerce Square to deliver their "prescription" (a poster reading "Save Medicaid") to the governor. The lone security guard at the door of the building, who had been watching the protest warily from the top of the steps, snapped to attention and, with a "whoa, wait a minute here" expression on his face, retreated inside to lock the doors. The protesters appeared divided about how to proceed. One man wanted to siege the building, and shouted repeatedly, "He ain't got the backbone!" in reference to the guard. Another waddled in through a door the guard hadn't gotten to yet and stood inside, smiling. Some of the more reserved protesters reached in to pull him out. At this point, there was a great deal of shouting and shuffling, and when the dust settled, the man was back outside the door. The poster was inside.

"He has our message!" a woman cried, and a cheer went up from the group. They descended the steps as the guard leaned the poster up against a wall. It is unknown if the message ever reached the governor.