America: From a Fallen Child Star to the Head of the University of the West

Chapter 113 Principles

As the afternoon sun in Bakersfield began to set, Sean and his group left the main street and headed towards a community center on the west side of town.

The off-white paint on the building's exterior has mostly peeled off, revealing the gray cement underneath.

A handwritten sign stood at the entrance, written in black marker: "Bakersfield Community Assistance Center Food Bank, Employment Counseling, Health Insurance Registration, Open Thursday through Saturday."

Vincent opened the door first; they had arranged to meet with Martha Keller, the person in charge here.

Upon opening the door, the community support center's contents were laid out before you. The interior of the center was slightly more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Several folding tables were arranged in a long strip, piled high with neatly categorized canned goods and pasta.

This reminded Sean of the issue of community mutual aid centers in Pennsylvania drawing salaries without working, and he wondered if the same thing was happening here.

At that moment, a white woman in her sixties stood behind the table, packing bags of food into cardboard boxes.

She looked up and wiped her hands with her apron. "Are you Mr. Sean Penn? I'm Martha Keller, the caretaker here."

Sean extended his hand: "Thank you for agreeing to see us, Ms. Keller."

Martha's handshake was very light.

The number above her head is 30, which is neither high nor low.

"You've been in town for over an hour? The scenery around here is quite nice." She seemed to be subtly expressing her complaint.

Perhaps Sean and the others should have come sooner.

"Yes, we met some friends—you might have heard their names? Their names are Earl and Dan—"

"Oh, Dan!" Martha said, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Dan is a church volunteer who comes twice a week to help me distribute food."

"Yes, Mr. Dan is a nice guy," Sean said.

Martha nodded, not denying it. She turned and walked to the coffee machine, pressing the switch: "We only have instant coffee, do you mind?"

"I don't mind," Sean said.

Rachel found a seat and took her notebook out of her bag. Vincent stood a little further away, leaning against the wall.

Martha placed four cups of instant coffee on the table and sat down. She picked up the cup but didn't drink it immediately.

"What do you want to know, Mr. Pan?" Martha said. "I've worked here for eleven years. The question you're asking may have been asked before. But none of those people have ever come back."

Sean didn't avoid her gaze. "Ms. Keller, I won't tell you this time is different." That's a politician's line. I just want to hear what changes you've seen in these eleven years.

"Do you see that street over there?" Martha paused for a moment. "Fifteen years ago, there were two supermarkets on that street. One was a chain, and the other was local. Now they're both gone. The chain supermarket moved to the new district in the north of town, and the local one closed down."

"Think about it: without supermarkets, how would the elderly buy groceries? They can't walk, taking the bus requires two transfers, and a taxi ride costs forty yuan round trip. So they wait for our food bank every Thursday. Whatever we give them, that's what they eat."

Rachel asked, "Ms. Keller, what about the health insurance coverage for these elderly people you're talking about?"

"Healthcare?" Martha gasped. "They have Medicare, and their paychecks are withheld for life. And then what? They have to wait three months to see a specialist, and eight hours to get to the ER. My husband had a knee replacement three years ago, and the hospital said the surgery was a fourteen-month wait. He couldn't wait that long, so we had to go to a clinic on the Mexican border, which cost us four thousand dollars in cash."

After a wry smile, she looked at Rachel and asked, "Miss, do you have health insurance?"

"Yes," Rachel said, glancing at Sean.

“You’re lucky,” Martha said. “There are a lot of people here who don’t. Small business owners, construction workers doing odd jobs, seasonal farm laborers. It’s not that they don’t work, it’s that no employers buy them insurance. And California’s Medicare application form is thirty-seven pages long, all legal jargon. But frankly, when faced with those legal terms, we all feel like English is our second language.”

"Do you think elected officials like Senator Crane know about these things?" Sean asked, narrowing his eyes.

Martha put down her coffee cup.

"So what if he knows? There's a 200-mile highway between knowing and doing. Washington's so far away, he can't hear what's going on here."

Then she looked at Sean.

"More than Mr. Crane, I'd like to know: Mr. Pan, you're neither a Republican nor a Democrat. Then what are you? Do you think you can hear us here?"

“I heard you,” Sean replied. “But hearing itself isn’t difficult. Hearing only requires ears. What’s difficult is not turning your face away after hearing.”

Martha looked at him, her favorability rating unchanged at [30].

The wind chimes by the door rang. A woman in a plaid shirt walked in, holding a little boy's hand. She saw Martha sitting with the stranger, but hesitated for a moment.

Martha stood up: "Elena, today's food package is in the back, I'll go get it."

Elena nodded without asking any further questions and led the child to sit on the plastic chair on the other side.

Sean then turned to Rachel and lowered his voice: "Rachel, did you notice what she just said?"

Rachel nodded: "Language barrier in health insurance applications? That's definitely a potential angle."

The vast majority of Republican supporters do indeed have low levels of education.

"Mr. Carter," Sean looked at Vincent, "if we added a clause to our policy proposal to streamline the administrative process for applying for Medicare and benefits—would that be technically feasible?"

Vincent thought for a few seconds: "It's feasible, but it involves both federal and state jurisdiction. I remember the main framework for Medicare subsidies comes from the Affordable Care Act, and each state has its own enforcement agency. Simplified forms, multilingual support, community assistance—well, these can be promoted through state legislation."

"Then write it down," Sean said with a smile.

Martha returned carrying a paper bag and handed it to the woman named Elena. Elena thanked her quietly and left with her child.

Just then, Vincent, who had been answering Sean's questions, suddenly spoke up: "Ms. Keller, if you had the chance to make a request directly to the person who made the policy, what would you ask?"

Martha looked at the tall man who had been silent all along.

“I want them to fill out this form themselves,” Martha said. “Not their assistants, not their interns. The senator himself, the governor himself. Let them sit in this room, using our computers, with our internet that drops every five minutes, and fill out those damn forms.”

"After they finish filling it out, they might understand a lot of things."

During the drive back to Pasadena, Rachel kept organizing her notes.

Vincent drove slower than he had come. The twilight outside the window painted California's Central Valley a blend of deep purple and orange.

Sean sat in the back seat, neither looking at his phone nor speaking.

He is now thinking about how to make use of what he has seen and heard today.

“Ms. Keller’s point about the forms is important, isn’t it?” Rachel broke the silence first. “We can make a series of short videos. We’ll call it Thirty-Seven Pages.” Have ordinary people read the terms and conditions on those health insurance forms and record their reactions. Then edit them into a three-minute short film, or even shorter.”

"Ray," Sean looked at her through the car window, "do you think this series of videos was expensive?"

"Not much," Rachel answered instinctively. "All you need is a camera and a few volunteers. A community center can be the filming location. What, starting to worry about the money?"

"No," Sean chuckled twice, then asked, "Then who needs to appear on camera?"

"Everyone," Rachel said.

"That's such a philosophical statement, Rachel. You truly are a top reporter!" Sean nodded emphatically. "Go for it! I'll have Matthew assist you!"

"Do you need to tell me?" Rachel added another line to her notebook.

At this moment, Vincent, who had been silent for several minutes, spoke up.

"Pan".

Sean looked at the front seat: "What's wrong, Mr. Carter?"

"I've been thinking about the question Ms. Keller raised," Vincent sighed. "She asked, 'What happened after she said all that?'"

"Could it be another politician coming with a recording device and then disappearing?"

"I've represented many people like this before: workers owed wages after their factories closed, entrepreneurs whose homes were wrongly auctioned off by banks, and veterans whose applications for disability benefits were repeatedly rejected. I told them, 'The law will help you.' Then I would help them with their lawsuits, or I would have informants help them with their lawsuits. Some won, some lost."

Sean didn't speak, waiting for him to continue.

“Those who won received compensation, but the factory still closed, and the jobs were still lost. Those who lost received nothing, just a few hundred pages of court records.” Vincent’s voice was calm. “I’ve been doing public interest litigation in New Jersey for fifteen years. Fifteen years later, those problems are still there. New workers are owed wages, new families are losing their homes, and new veterans are waiting for hospital beds.”

"For a time, I thought that as long as we were professional enough and persistent enough, the law could change those structural injustices."

But the law is an afterthought. It cannot provide workers with alternatives before factories close, nor can it create new job opportunities before communities decline.

He looked at Sean through the rearview mirror.

"Pan, I wonder, when you finally have power, will you remember Bakersfield? Will you remember Ms. Keller's thirty-seven-page form, Earl's insomnia, and will you stand up for justice for the man whose sister was shot?"

Sean glanced back at Vincent's eyes in the rearview mirror.

Will he?

“Mr. Carter,” Sean took a deep breath, “I can’t guarantee I’ll never change. Power changes people, Washington changes people. I haven’t read much history, but I know how many of the most idealistic reformers ended up becoming the very thing they opposed.”

"But I can promise you one thing. If one day I start to forget, you will remind me. You, Rachel, Matthew, Liam, Mr. Kelly. If you are still by my side then. If you are not, then I am no longer worthy of your presence."

"We can change the world."

"Oh my god, I really said it," Sean thought to himself. "And it's so...so romantic..."

Vincent did not respond immediately.

“Mr. Carter,” Rachel said, “when you first joined the team, Mr. Kelly said you were the most principled lawyer he had ever met.”

Did he actually say that?

Sean had barely shown a hint of hesitation when Rachel glared at him fiercely.

Vincent, who was still driving, didn't notice this and simply nodded: "Yes, that's me."

I don't deny it!

"You still are," Rachel's voice sounded a little low, "but we all have higher principles to follow now."

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