On my way to pick up my Mom and step-Dad yesterday for our early vote outing, I passed a house not far from my own. A few feet away from the house was a bright yellow sign with black lettering: “AUCTION”. Only blocks away, another house sported the same sign in its front lawn. Further still, two more houses. And on and on went the pattern until I got to my Mom’s front door. Every morning, I try to stay informed by listening to morning radio shows. Advertisements spout deals on foreclosed houses. “Call on this date if you make X amount of dollars for homes in your salary bracket…”. Very few of these commercials give phone numbers to help families keep their homes.

I have not been long in my own home. I envision being there for a while, give or take the windfall of money I expect to make in my lifetime, then I’m blowing this middle-class poverty stand to elitism and prescription drug abuse. Of course, I kid. When has having money been considered elite, Lindsay Lohan? Britney Spears? Get it while it’s hot, that’s what I say. And pass the Vicodin. Where was I? Yes. …not long in home, blah, blah… OK. So, I would like to think I’m not going to be sleeping on the sidewalk in a cardboard box someday. Of course, all signs in today’s economy point in this direction. But I don’t like to play with money. And I will work fifteen jobs, risk losing touch with my family, just to make ends meet. My point is I can’t imagine being flat broke. My psyche won’t let me. At the same time, I’m sure these people with auction signs in their front lawns thought the way I do.

I am all for buying a home if you can afford it, or if the person selling it willingly desires to get rid of it. But to buy a house being auctioned is like robbing from someone on a technicality. Robbing their hopes, their dreams, their lives. Media outlets have recently reported more and more suicides among the middle class. The biggest reason for suicides have been money reasons or home loss. One person said they didn’t understand why their spouse killed themselves because, in the end, it was just a house. Just a house?! I could see, say, just an XBox. Just a Wii. Just a pair of pants. But a home? Someplace you can call your own, lay your head, be yourself? That piece of property - bogus in true ownership because, let’s face it, the banks own it - is something no one can say they wish they didn’t have. Along with the car, it is the American dream. Your one carve out in this hell-in-a-hand basket-world we call Earth that can truly be passed down to generations of your offspring. Just a house? Granted, the value of the life taken is far more valuable than the house. I understand where that spouse is coming from in saying “it’s only a house”. But I also understand the one who ate the bullet.

These are more than dire times we live in. These are survivalist times. These are The Road times. And dare I say it? I’d recently spoken to an office mate about the lengths a human being could or would go when faced with dire circumstances. She believes the moral compass would prevail. I believe a man could kill you for a crumb of bread if it would feed his family or just himself. I put nothing past anyone in survivalist situations.

As I stood at the ballot box to cast my vote, I prayed with everything in me that all the talk, the promises, the campaigning, the advertisements and the overall bull only politics can bring would sincerely have an affect on the world and change it for the better. I believe I may only be fooling myself. No matter the ultimate victor, I want the flood of awareness to be so strong and overpowering, they can’t help but recognize just how screwed we are.