To Governor Scott Walker Bydylan Garity Poem by Sharron Meaker

To Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin - Until you pushed through your anti-union bill attacking the public employees of your state, I had never heard my 88 year old grandmother call somebody a douchebag. She has lived in Wisconsin since 1927. She says when you're that old your life starts speeding by not in years, but in decades. This does not mean she no longer pays attention. At her weekly rummy night, one of her friends revealed that she'd voted for you because he looked so handsome on the television screen. My grandmother stopped the game, folded her cards quietly and started to tell a story about her family. See, her husband was a firefighter - a union man. When he came home from work, he had ash on his cheeks thicker than your television makeup. They raised two sons and four daughters. She knows people don't really do that anymore, but she is a Catholic woman and the only thing Catholic women believe in more than God is family. My grandmother is the only person I know who prays for me. Every morning, she takes 15 minutes to fold her hands for all of us. When she dies, I imagine God will no longer hear my name. I have never been religious, but some mornings I wake up feeling blessed and I know she must have risen earlier. These days, my grandmother spends all 15 minutes praying for my Aunt Kathy. Kathy is a single mother; a social worker who splits her time between three middle schools in Madison. Her job is to find help for the kids whose families are too poor. The kids who are careful to never lose a single notebook because there are no extras waiting for them at home. Governor Walker, you and your supporters have focused your attacks on teachers, claiming they make too much money considering they only work part-time. When you passed your bill, Kathy was told her job is no longer necessary, as if guardrails are unnecessary. Governor, you have two sons of your own in high school. They are a pair of shiny suits and a closet full of hand-me-downs, but tell me would you send them off to war wearing thrift store armor? If you're so desperate to attack our teachers and our children, why don't you do it more directly? Train your sons to spit on the trays of kids who eat school lunches. Give your campaign speeches from a bulldozer, stand outside Kathy's home and shake the nickels from her pockets. You are the kind of man who loves to pray in public. Who thinks of the crucifixion not as a sacrifice, but as history's most successful publicity stunt. My grandmother does not need strangers to tell her she is holy. When you signed your bill, she started waking up early. She has added a new prayer for all of your state's children. So when your sons come downstairs tomorrow morning feeling blessed, know that it has nothing to do with you.