One Man's Reflections

Part I

I sit a picture of patience in the unremarkable lobby of a towering hotel, a lone sentinel perched on San Diego's skyline. A summons to an industry gathering focusing on healthcare reform brought me here. Given our closeness to Mexico, the healthcare conversation will inevitably swerve toward the contentious issue of illegal immigration. As panelists, we'll chew over a series of questions orchestrated by a moderator. I, too, will contribute, navigating the intellectual currents as the conversation ebbs and flows.

Despite its prime location on the rim of Mission Bay, the hotel is an anachronism, an architectural fossil aching for rejuvenation. It contrasts the surrounding low-rise condos and a smattering of contemporary and time-worn apartments. The area brims with faux-Mexican restaurants, smoke shops hawking pipes, and tattoo parlors swirling with the heady scent of marijuana. It's a veritable mecca for surfers, who tout their Californian roots with gusto. However, none of us are genuinely native here. Instead, we are all part of a ceaseless ebb and flow of migration and immigration.

I am a product of such a movement. A Greek-American, Ohio-born, and Greece-raised till the age of 18. I am comfortable in both identities, whatever that might signify. San Diego became my home in 1990 when I arrived as a young man of twenty-three, penniless except for a single dollar. My only securities were my ancestors' dreams and a university degree from The Ohio State University, burning like a beacon of arrogance in my pocket.

Despite the daunting odds, I was resolute about my future success. My grandfather, George, had similarly left Greece in the 1930s, as evidenced by the Ellis Island manifest that holds pride of place in my father's house. He, too, arrived penniless but with a heart swollen with hope for a prosperous life for his family across the Atlantic. Hope, indeed, is the fulcrum on which countries pivot, and it was hope that propelled George into a life of labor on the railroads and eventually allowed him to open a restaurant in Columbus, Ohio.

After a few years of beachside living, a familiar ritual for fresh transplants, I migrated to the suburbs. Here, hulking gas-guzzling American cars were a common sight, and suburban moms typically dedicated their lives to raising children, finding solace in skinny lattes at the local Starbucks and bemoaning neighborly squabbles. Their aspirations are a harmonious blend of perfect and perfectly happy children. The men, a cluster of slightly disgruntled, overweight, and pasty individuals, cloaked their discontent with nonchalant fist bumps and Friday night plans. Their go-to attire? Tommy Bahama shirts, khaki shorts, and brown loafers or slippers sans socks - a quintessential suburban male uniform.

Living amidst Denali owners and Tea Party devotees was a jarring transition from my beachfront days. Unlike the beach, there's no clamoring to establish native Californian status here. Instead, it's a melting pot of people from across the country and the world, including Ohio, my birth state, and even Michigan, our erstwhile rival. The ubiquity of Scarlet and Grey flags fluttering on game days - the colors of Ohio State University - still catches me off guard. The alluring Southern California weather comes with a sun tax, a small price for a place under the golden sun.

This neighborhood is upper-middle-class, with a balance of affluent families and those just scraping by. Yet, no one seems to be resorting to Ramen noodles for dinner. Income, like many things, regresses towards the mean, which in this neighborhood is decidedly upper-middle-class. My upbringing, under the stewardship of a relatively poor humanities professor in socialist-inclined Greece, often makes me ponder my place in this community. Given my personal ideologies - shaped by my childhood and education - I sometimes question my continued presence here. The answer lies in the exceptional schools for my son and my ability to create a close-knit circle of friends in this seemingly alien landscape. 

We are all imperfect beings and harbor our share of hypocrisy.

Part II

Healthcare reform remains one of the most riveting policy debates in the United States. The dichotomy between viewing healthcare as a right or a privilege is a frequent point of contention. Most modern, industrialized nations have resolved this issue, favoring the perspective of healthcare as a right. When the healthcare reform debate caught fire in the U.S., my neighbors were understandably concerned about the tax hike required to fund such a reform. In addition, they opposed the notion of others receiving benefits they would have to finance. Especially why should those crossing the border be entitled to healthcare?

The more extreme right-leaning faction - the Tea Party devotees - vilified President Obama, the architect of the proposed health-care-for-all scheme, as if he had committed a grave offense. They would gladly torch images of Karl Marx if they recognized him. Moreover, they recoiled at the mention of "socialism," equating it with a post-apocalyptic landscape ravaged by the Ebola virus. It seemed lost to them that they already lived in a socialist country.

Some argue against government regulation of health insurance and deem reform unnecessary. They conveniently overlook the role of existing national health insurance programs like the Veterans Administration, Tricare, Medicare, and Medicaid. As we grapple with potential social reforms, we must not neglect the irony of the popular "socialist" schemes we support with our taxes. Roughly 40% of the U.S. population is guaranteed healthcare through a government-financed system. Ponder over that as you savor your latte and reflect on your good fortune.

The divide can be explained through Deborah Stone's discourse on the solidarity and actuarial fairness principles in her article "The Struggle for the Soul of Health Insurance." The solidarity principle, a nod to distributive justice, asserts that everyone is susceptible to calamity; hence, for the health and welfare of society, all members must contribute according to their means. On the other hand, the actuarial fairness principle advocates for premiums based on individual behavior or demographics.

Insurance is about pooling resources to mitigate massive loss for an individual, whether related to health or property. Yet, when applied to national health reform, this principle contradicts the deeply ingrained American value of self-determination. This ideological disparity comes to the fore when Americans pass judgment on changes necessitated by health reform. Their opposition suggests a belief that self-resilience is the only recourse against a genetic predisposition to chronic disease or unforeseen accidents, both somehow construed as personal failures.

Lastly, it's high time this hotel lobby underwent a facelift.