By the time you read this, it will have been 30 days since the federal government shut down. I’d like to say that by now, something has changed—but this is America, where optimism goes to die in a subcommittee. Despite protests, strongly worded letters from federal employee unions, and a lawsuit from twenty-five states (including Arizona) demanding the continuation of SNAP, I’m feeling confident—perhaps too confident—that nothing will happen again this week.
The House of Representatives met for three minutes and two seconds today. In that generous span of time, they said a prayer, recited the Pledge of Allegiance, and then heroically adjourned before overexerting themselves. Essentially, members of the House have been on paid vacation for one month while expecting their staff to work without salaries. “Justice for all,” indeed—though apparently not for “all” all. Maybe the pledge’s author just meant “all” as in “all of us who get to keep our health insurance.” It’s the kind of Orwellian equality that makes me want to write a different Letter from Home, but I’m not quite at that stage of despair yet.
Inclusivity, like so many things in America, is often performed rather than practiced. Our representatives say they work for all Americans. Right now, it seems they’ve redefined “work” to mean “press conferences.” It’s a new era of performative representation without even a pretense of any actual representation.
There are, of course, many ways to protest. Back when we lived in Washington, D.C., my favorite quiet rebellion was printed right on the license plates: “Taxation Without Representation.” It has since been updated to “End Taxation Without Representation,” a minor edit that gives it just the right note of optimism—like adding a smiley face to a ransom note. I’ve even seen online movements where people have stopped having federal taxes withheld from their paychecks. It’s the kind of protest that really says, “Fine, if you’re not working, I’m not paying you.”
I never thought I’d consider not paying taxes. I’m the type who likes taxes—at least, in theory. I’d happily pay 40 percent if it meant universal healthcare, better education, and other public services. We’re already paying about 30 percent anyway; it’s just that 10 percent currently goes to maintaining the world’s most well-compensated stalemate. When healthcare and incarceration became profitable industries, we should have recognized it as the end of compassion—but who can say no to a good IPO? As a child of the 1980s, I was dazzled by capitalism and the mistaken notion that all rich people must be good people. Eventually, I realized that success isn’t so shiny when it’s built on other people’s backs.
Speaking of taxes, my husband and I have been navigating our fifth government shutdown since 1995, when he became a federal employee. In previous ones, back pay was assumed. This time, the administration seems to be testing the waters of “what if we just… didn’t?” They’ve already hinted that the Government Employee Fair Treatment Act doesn’t guarantee anything. Apparently, if federal employees didn’t work during the shutdown, they shouldn’t be paid. By that logic, shouldn’t Congress also get the same treatment? The difference, of course, is that they’re protected by a certain interpretation (theirs) of the Constitution—a document written long before “accountability” became a buzzword. Since they’re still getting paid, I assumed they might actually show up and fix the budget impasse. But I’m a dreamer that way—still holding out for that “justice for all” sequel.
Maybe the real issue is that the U.S. hasn’t passed a comprehensive budget on time since 1997. Continuing resolutions have long been the norm—basically, government’s version of hitting the “remind me later” button on the national debt. It’s like watching day traders bet on how much misery the market can bear before someone caves. If Congress can’t pass a budget annually, I’m not sure why we’ve entrusted them with money at all.
So, what are our options? In Flagstaff, a friend is organizing ways to help those who are about to lose SNAP benefits. My husband’s working through his honey-do list without visiting the hardware store—a fiscal conservative’s dream. I’m still teaching at the local university, trying to discuss current events from a place of inquiry instead of pure rage (with mixed results).
I keep showing up, even when it’s hard. Growing up in the 1980s also instilled in me a sense of duty—to my country, to my community, and, perhaps unfortunately, to the IRS. I’m fulfilling my duty by continuing to pay taxes. Locally, I give my all to my students, even though it’s tough at Chez Murison right now. Maybe it’s time I took my teaching to Washington, D.C.—to offer crash courses in compassion, civil discourse, and résumé writing for our elected officials. After all, I suspect many of them will be looking for new employment opportunities soon. I can always hope.
