8/ CHRONICLESnPERSPECTIVEnCITIZENS OF THE WELFARE STATEnby Thomas FlemingnLike most Americans of my generation, my experiencenof poverty has been self-inflicted. “Twenty years ofnschooling and they put you on the day shift.” Dylan’s littlenfantasy of “Maggie’s Farm’ takes on grim reality when thenscholar-gypsy turns to waiting tables or substitute teaching,nbeing in general what my parents were unkind enough toncall a “bum.”nDuring these little episodes below the poverty line, Innever worried. The lowest I ever sank was to work as anflunky in a “retirement hotel,” where the class differencesnnnbetween the flunkies were graphically illustrated everynFriday. We were working mostly for room and board, but fornovertime we were paid something like minimum wage. Thenstudents and ex-students would cash their checks, do theirnlaundry, buy shaving cream, and go out and party on whatnremained. The street-wise boys knew better. Their life hadnalways been more or less dismal, but once a week they hadnjust enough money to do things that ought to land them innjail. By Saturday, they were trying to borrow money.nBesides, I shared the conviction—the birthright of everynmiddle-class American — that anyone can make a decentnliving if only he is willing to do the work. I have seennnothing, read nothing in the past 20 years to alter thatn