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'Twas the Night Before 2010 Christmas in America
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
Not a creature had true healthcare, except the richest in station.
The wealthy were planning, all smug and all flush,
For the days of their future, and their settings most plush.
Other children of poor folks were weary of hearing the fights.
Dec 24, 2010
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
Not a creature had true healthcare, except the richest in station.
The wealthy were planning, all smug and all flush,
For the days of their future, and their settings most plush.
Other children of poor folks were weary of hearing the fights.
No sugar plum fairies in poor neighborhoods tonight,
Dad in his sweatshirt, and I in my cap,
Had just checked the bank balance and prepared for a nap.
When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
We wondered aloud if our efforts would matter.
I jumped from the bed to see what the noise was,
And I silently prayed Christmas hopes would not shatter.
But nothing I asked would change the dim truth,
Not even the fresh snow, on the weather-worn roof.
No healthcare, no income, no hope to save the house,
No lay-away Santa, no holiday open house.
But what would to my wondering eyes now appear,
To change the reality or to lessen my fears,
Was it a gathering of other folks fighting for peace,
And a score of neighbors adding wishes for relief?
More powerful than billionaires they came,
And they knew, we all were the rich's fodder, just a rich Christmas brew.
"Now, Obama. Now, Congress! Now, Wall Street and now bankers!
"it's always the profits for which you all hanker."
But a dream it was, nothing but a progressive's bone,
I rode to the top of the housetop alone,
And wondered if I ought fall instead of seeking a loan.
With the sleigh full of toys, is St. Nick just a joke?
Meant for rich kids and parents with credit card notes.
And then, in a twinkling, I hoped to hear something,
I drew my head around and heard nothing new,
My prayers went unanswered and my hopelessness grew.
I begged at the food bank, I groveled at the thrift shop,
I even was selected for a free turkey and some Stove Top.
How I wanted to turn back the clock to September,
And find money and presents for the kids to remember.
What about the heroes, the 9/11 workers,
Surely the Senate won't leave them out cold,
But the truth is that many have forgotten them, I'm told.
No peace-groupies gather to help their plight,
It's easier to argue for those far away,
Than to stand up and fight for your neighbors today.
But I am SiCKO, I said, to Santa and friends,
I am SiCKO and most think I'd be better off dead.
No one laughed, instead they thought me crazy and stupid,
I wondered in silence if I could just slip away -
But the demands and the options were holding me tight,
It's Christmas and no time for weakness tonight.
I shook, when I laughed just to add to the moment.
But I was frightened and feverish and out of new comments.
There is no dreaming of a Santa-led sleigh,
Not in many a damaged American's Christmas day.
No one has money or no one will give,
Many are selfish and judging if others might live.
So ride away Santa, go on down the street,
Find the CEOs and their children where the entitled people meet.
For now I'll keep working and praying and demanding the right,
To see a doctor when sick and to rest at night.
If a few of the self-righteous would come down to earth,
And stop pretending to believe in a distant Savior's birth,
Perhaps we might exclaim as we huddled together,
We can never claim Christmas on the backs of the poor,
Nor can we hope for some Santa to knock on our door.
Fight onward, brave souls, fight onward today.
Christmas won't matter much if we give our power away.
"Happy Christmas to all rich folk, and to all a good-night."
An Urgent Message From Our Co-Founder
Dear Common Dreams reader, It’s been nearly 30 years since I co-founded Common Dreams with my late wife, Lina Newhouser. We had the radical notion that journalism should serve the public good, not corporate profits. It was clear to us from the outset what it would take to build such a project. No paid advertisements. No corporate sponsors. No millionaire publisher telling us what to think or do. Many people said we wouldn't last a year, but we proved those doubters wrong. Together with a tremendous team of journalists and dedicated staff, we built an independent media outlet free from the constraints of profits and corporate control. Our mission has always been simple: To inform. To inspire. To ignite change for the common good. Building Common Dreams was not easy. Our survival was never guaranteed. When you take on the most powerful forces—Wall Street greed, fossil fuel industry destruction, Big Tech lobbyists, and uber-rich oligarchs who have spent billions upon billions rigging the economy and democracy in their favor—the only bulwark you have is supporters who believe in your work. But here’s the urgent message from me today. It's never been this bad out there. And it's never been this hard to keep us going. At the very moment Common Dreams is most needed, the threats we face are intensifying. We need your support now more than ever. We don't accept corporate advertising and never will. We don't have a paywall because we don't think people should be blocked from critical news based on their ability to pay. Everything we do is funded by the donations of readers like you. When everyone does the little they can afford, we are strong. But if that support retreats or dries up, so do we. Will you donate now to make sure Common Dreams not only survives but thrives? —Craig Brown, Co-founder |
Our work is licensed under Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0). Feel free to republish and share widely.
Donna Smith
Donna Smith is the former executive director of Progressive Democrats of America and currently a Medicare for All campaign surrogate for Sen. Bernie Sanders.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
Not a creature had true healthcare, except the richest in station.
The wealthy were planning, all smug and all flush,
For the days of their future, and their settings most plush.
Other children of poor folks were weary of hearing the fights.
No sugar plum fairies in poor neighborhoods tonight,
Dad in his sweatshirt, and I in my cap,
Had just checked the bank balance and prepared for a nap.
When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
We wondered aloud if our efforts would matter.
I jumped from the bed to see what the noise was,
And I silently prayed Christmas hopes would not shatter.
But nothing I asked would change the dim truth,
Not even the fresh snow, on the weather-worn roof.
No healthcare, no income, no hope to save the house,
No lay-away Santa, no holiday open house.
But what would to my wondering eyes now appear,
To change the reality or to lessen my fears,
Was it a gathering of other folks fighting for peace,
And a score of neighbors adding wishes for relief?
More powerful than billionaires they came,
And they knew, we all were the rich's fodder, just a rich Christmas brew.
"Now, Obama. Now, Congress! Now, Wall Street and now bankers!
"it's always the profits for which you all hanker."
But a dream it was, nothing but a progressive's bone,
I rode to the top of the housetop alone,
And wondered if I ought fall instead of seeking a loan.
With the sleigh full of toys, is St. Nick just a joke?
Meant for rich kids and parents with credit card notes.
And then, in a twinkling, I hoped to hear something,
I drew my head around and heard nothing new,
My prayers went unanswered and my hopelessness grew.
I begged at the food bank, I groveled at the thrift shop,
I even was selected for a free turkey and some Stove Top.
How I wanted to turn back the clock to September,
And find money and presents for the kids to remember.
What about the heroes, the 9/11 workers,
Surely the Senate won't leave them out cold,
But the truth is that many have forgotten them, I'm told.
No peace-groupies gather to help their plight,
It's easier to argue for those far away,
Than to stand up and fight for your neighbors today.
But I am SiCKO, I said, to Santa and friends,
I am SiCKO and most think I'd be better off dead.
No one laughed, instead they thought me crazy and stupid,
I wondered in silence if I could just slip away -
But the demands and the options were holding me tight,
It's Christmas and no time for weakness tonight.
I shook, when I laughed just to add to the moment.
But I was frightened and feverish and out of new comments.
There is no dreaming of a Santa-led sleigh,
Not in many a damaged American's Christmas day.
No one has money or no one will give,
Many are selfish and judging if others might live.
So ride away Santa, go on down the street,
Find the CEOs and their children where the entitled people meet.
For now I'll keep working and praying and demanding the right,
To see a doctor when sick and to rest at night.
If a few of the self-righteous would come down to earth,
And stop pretending to believe in a distant Savior's birth,
Perhaps we might exclaim as we huddled together,
We can never claim Christmas on the backs of the poor,
Nor can we hope for some Santa to knock on our door.
Fight onward, brave souls, fight onward today.
Christmas won't matter much if we give our power away.
"Happy Christmas to all rich folk, and to all a good-night."
Donna Smith
Donna Smith is the former executive director of Progressive Democrats of America and currently a Medicare for All campaign surrogate for Sen. Bernie Sanders.
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the nation,
Not a creature had true healthcare, except the richest in station.
The wealthy were planning, all smug and all flush,
For the days of their future, and their settings most plush.
Other children of poor folks were weary of hearing the fights.
No sugar plum fairies in poor neighborhoods tonight,
Dad in his sweatshirt, and I in my cap,
Had just checked the bank balance and prepared for a nap.
When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
We wondered aloud if our efforts would matter.
I jumped from the bed to see what the noise was,
And I silently prayed Christmas hopes would not shatter.
But nothing I asked would change the dim truth,
Not even the fresh snow, on the weather-worn roof.
No healthcare, no income, no hope to save the house,
No lay-away Santa, no holiday open house.
But what would to my wondering eyes now appear,
To change the reality or to lessen my fears,
Was it a gathering of other folks fighting for peace,
And a score of neighbors adding wishes for relief?
More powerful than billionaires they came,
And they knew, we all were the rich's fodder, just a rich Christmas brew.
"Now, Obama. Now, Congress! Now, Wall Street and now bankers!
"it's always the profits for which you all hanker."
But a dream it was, nothing but a progressive's bone,
I rode to the top of the housetop alone,
And wondered if I ought fall instead of seeking a loan.
With the sleigh full of toys, is St. Nick just a joke?
Meant for rich kids and parents with credit card notes.
And then, in a twinkling, I hoped to hear something,
I drew my head around and heard nothing new,
My prayers went unanswered and my hopelessness grew.
I begged at the food bank, I groveled at the thrift shop,
I even was selected for a free turkey and some Stove Top.
How I wanted to turn back the clock to September,
And find money and presents for the kids to remember.
What about the heroes, the 9/11 workers,
Surely the Senate won't leave them out cold,
But the truth is that many have forgotten them, I'm told.
No peace-groupies gather to help their plight,
It's easier to argue for those far away,
Than to stand up and fight for your neighbors today.
But I am SiCKO, I said, to Santa and friends,
I am SiCKO and most think I'd be better off dead.
No one laughed, instead they thought me crazy and stupid,
I wondered in silence if I could just slip away -
But the demands and the options were holding me tight,
It's Christmas and no time for weakness tonight.
I shook, when I laughed just to add to the moment.
But I was frightened and feverish and out of new comments.
There is no dreaming of a Santa-led sleigh,
Not in many a damaged American's Christmas day.
No one has money or no one will give,
Many are selfish and judging if others might live.
So ride away Santa, go on down the street,
Find the CEOs and their children where the entitled people meet.
For now I'll keep working and praying and demanding the right,
To see a doctor when sick and to rest at night.
If a few of the self-righteous would come down to earth,
And stop pretending to believe in a distant Savior's birth,
Perhaps we might exclaim as we huddled together,
We can never claim Christmas on the backs of the poor,
Nor can we hope for some Santa to knock on our door.
Fight onward, brave souls, fight onward today.
Christmas won't matter much if we give our power away.
"Happy Christmas to all rich folk, and to all a good-night."
We've had enough. The 1% own and operate the corporate media. They are doing everything they can to defend the status quo, squash dissent and protect the wealthy and the powerful. The Common Dreams media model is different. We cover the news that matters to the 99%. Our mission? To inform. To inspire. To ignite change for the common good. How? Nonprofit. Independent. Reader-supported. Free to read. Free to republish. Free to share. With no advertising. No paywalls. No selling of your data. Thousands of small donations fund our newsroom and allow us to continue publishing. Can you chip in? We can't do it without you. Thank you.
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