Foreign Shame

I would see them every morning at five o’clock, when I traveled first to Río Piedras on my way to work in Caguas. They were young, they were old, most of them appeared healthy—a few had canes or crutches, a few appeared ill. There was nothing particularly special or unusual about them.

The plaza del pueblo in Río Piedras was quite lovely, especially at that hour, with the sun just coming up. There were large mahogany trees, which have a tantalizing scent when they flower in May and June. There were always stray dogs and cats, banana kwits, and the Greater Caribbean Grackle, which in mating season has a call identical to the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. So I would sit, wait for the second bus to arrive, and observe the crowd.

There would be about fifty or a hundred, especially later, around six or seven, when the doors to the Social Security Administration offices would open; an employee would slip out and hand out the numbers of those who would be seen.

It was puzzling, but I was in no mood in those days to give it much thought; I had a job to get to, and an aging parent to attend to.

Well, now I know—I was witnessing the biggest case of Social Security fraud in the United States.

How big? Well, there were 75 people arrested yesterday—all of them perfectly capable of trotting into the processing area, and all of them—if The New Day is to be trusted—acting like star actors. Here’s ABC News:

Rodriguez said agents took videos of people that belied their claimed ailments. She said one who claimed back problems was a gym owner who posted a picture of himself on Facebook lifting a girl above his head.

Well, of course he had a back problem! Lifting girls above your head would give anybody a back problem! Anyone can see that!

Well, among the 75 people arrested were two shrinks (not, I’m happy to clarify, my own) and a fisiatra or a physiatrist (the island is full them, though I never met one in the States—the physiatrist is basically a rehab doctor…). Then there was also the ex-employee of the Social Security Administration, who very helpfully guided the abled to those doctors who could disable them. And then—hey, great customer service here—“facilitated” the process of getting that pesky paperwork attended to.

How well did they do?

Según la investigación, el principal gestor del fraude fue un exempleado del Seguro Social, identificado como Samuel Torres Crespo, quien recibió alrededor de $3.4 millones al gestionar solicitudes de seguro de incapacidad basadas en supuesta información falsa.

Yup, that’s The New Day reporting that Samuel Torres Crespo, an ex-employee of Social Security, got 3.4 million bucks for helping in the disabling process. His cut? 25% of the amount received. And the doctors? They took from $150 to $500 for their part in the scheme.

Well, it was good while it lasted. Some families were raking in $5000 monthly—that $60,000 annual salary buys a lot of bling-bling.

And the overall total? Upwards of 35 million dollars.

Nor is this over—the sub director of the federal district attorney states that this is the first of many.

In fact, disability seems to be winning in the race against ability, at least on the island. Caribbean Business, in an article tellingly titled “Disability Island”, reports that “Social Security data reveals that about four times as many working-age Puerto Rico residents receive disability income than those on the U.S. mainland.” We have 1 million working people on an island of 3.7 million. We also have over 200,000 disabled people not working—for a rate of 17.7% of disabled workers (some of the 200,000 disabled presumably being older or younger than working age). In the States, the rate is 10.3%.

Not all of these are frauds, of course, but the situation was so alarming that the Social Security Administration decided to move its review center from the island to Baltimore. Oh, and they’ve opened a special office to investigate fraud on the island. And of the top ten zip codes for SSA fraud? Nine of them are in Puerto Rico.

Well, I would see them, wonder about them, and then get on the bus, trot up the stairs and—quite frequently—help Leida up the stairs. She was tall and thin, and the first time I saw her, I couldn’t believe she could walk. Nor was it, truly, a walk—it was a lurching, swinging prelude to a fall. She may have had braces, those many years ago; she has never not had a walker. She arrived each morning in a special car: not having the use of her feet, she had to do everything with her hands. My “job,” when we coincided those mornings, was to open the trunk, get out the walker, and watch in never-diminished terror as Leida grabbed the railing of the six steps up to the lobby and hauled herself swaying up the stairs.

She was unfailingly cheerful; she had been dealt a rotten hand in life, and in the only remark that in a decade of knowing her she had ever made about her condition, she confided that a video shown at a meeting of disabled kids had made her cry. It made her remember her childhood, with its many hospitalizations and surgeries.

She had the nobility that a few people acquire through suffering. She knew very well that a supervisor’s annoyed look or an intemperate email didn’t deserve a place in her day, and she didn’t let them in, much less insert them into other people’s day. As much as she had struggled, she would have scorned to complain. And while the very substantial ladies of Human Resources took the elevator to the second floor, Leida took the stairs.

I consider myself Puerto Rican, though by adoption; I’m proud to be Puerto Rican, and the Puerto Ricans who work work harder than many other people in many other places. But in my classes at Wal-Mart, there was a sure theme that would revive any sputtering class: el mantengo.

It’s the philosophy of the kept, the entitled, the petty cheats who play the system, don’t work, and receive every benefit—from a free apartment to (almost) free electricity to free food to free…you get the picture. And the rest of us? Pendej…. (a very vulgar word that—wonderfully—actually means a hair on the human vulva. Meaning—somebody else is having all the fun, and you’re just standing around watching…)

No, I didn’t complete that pendej—though every Puerto Rican will know it. As they will the term that I can complete….

Vergüenza ajena.