justice

Page Twelve, website outline

The problem with justice in my existence, is that I can rarely ever have any, either legal or moral. I can never have justice against the mentally disturbed landlady who illegally evicted me, or against the Department of Mental Health that sat back and let my life be destroyed (thereby taking very good care of my mental health), or against the underhanded, undercover, illegal protection that Matthew Lacoy told me I was in. Many people have told me I can’t sue the feds, and I believe them. I could sue the DMH, if I had the money. I don’t. And they knew that when they sat back and let my life be obliterated.

                                                                        

When everything you define as your life is illegally and immorally destroyed by other people, you want some justice. You want some of these people to be held accountable for their reprehensible conduct. At least I do. Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d just walk away and say that’s the way it is. There certainly are many people who would react that way, who seem to possess no sense of outrage at being illegally and immorally bulldozed by others. Who seem to have no fire in them in any realm of life. But I’m not a fireless person. I had fires for my interests while I still had my life, and fires inside for my deeply loved animals, and fires for horrible things happening all over the world: love fires and activist fires. If I’d been physically healthy, and if I’d met similar people, I might well have become an out-front, practicing activist for some issue or other. So I’m not at all the sort of person to have vicious things done to me by other people and by huge agencies, and not want some justice. But in the true world of living below the poverty line, you don’t get justice. People will perhaps shout: legal aid! Not here, not in Massachusetts. Legal aid will only represent low-income people for certain issues and in certain circumstances. Anything that doesn’t fit into their narrow scope will not be touched by them with a ten-foot pole, because they would not be paid for the work.

Before 2007, there were other issues. To name just two: No justice against the mother who took a house away from me; no justice against a woman who had two of my birds in foster care and refused to give them back, even when her boss and a lawyer told her she must. And on and on it goes.

What kinds of thoughts would a lifetime of people getting away with illegal and immoral actions against you engender in you? In me this repeated and repeated lousy treatment has left me with convictions that I’m worthless in the eyes of other people: they can do any damned thing they please to me, without ever having to be held accountable or make amends. And the certain knowledge that because I’m poor, I’m powerless. I have hired lawyers from time to time, for a few hundred dollars, to do very short-term letter-writing and phone-calling. But to launch a suit against someone is beyond my means. Poor equals powerless to get justice, to defend oneself against vicious crap. Worthless, powerless, disposable.

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read…    Braon…   Spite and malice

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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