Greed rewrote the rules. Now even the well runs dry.

Let's talk about the well. The one we were told belonged to all of us. It was never perfect, but it was there. If you were thirsty, if you were tired, if you were trying to raise kids or survive a rough patch, you could go to it. Public schools. Transit systems. Clinics. Food aid. Libraries. Things that weren’t supposed to be profitable. They were supposed to be protective. They were supposed to remind us that we live in a society, not a theme park. And now, too many of those wells are dry. Or worse, poisoned.

Not by accident. Not overnight. But methodically. Deliberately.

This is how it works. First, you defund it. You strip it down. You starve the teachers and nurses and bus drivers. You let the buildings rot and the programs shrink. Then you wait. You let frustration build. You let the public believe the system is broken. And just when people have had enough, you show up with a solution. A private one. Something shinier. Something that doesn’t ask for taxes, just your dignity.

They call it reform. But it’s not. It’s a hostile takeover.

Privatization is the gentrification of public life. It’s evicting the community so someone wealthier can move in and repaint the door. It’s turning the corner laundromat into a wine bar. The neighborhood school into a branded charter with a waitlist. It’s the hospital closing down labor and delivery to build an urgent care with spa lighting and a $200 copay. And people are told this is progress.

They’re told to be grateful.

They’re told this is what innovation looks like.

But when you privatize the well, you don’t just change the water source. You change who gets to drink.

And slowly, people forget. They forget that the well used to be public. That the water used to be free. That it used to be expected. And when someone comes along and tries to rebuild it, tries to offer care without a billing code or education without a brand, they’re treated like a scammer. Like they’re too idealistic. Too naive.

That’s how effective the poisoning is. It rewrites the story in people’s minds. It convinces them they never deserved the water in the first place.

This is where we are now.

Greed is not quiet anymore. It used to wear suits and use soft language. Now it’s loud. It’s proud. It’s billionaires posting from private jets while people ration their insulin in gas station parking lots. It’s lawmakers auctioning off pieces of the public for a campaign donation and a country club tee time.

It’s not theoretical. It’s not abstract. It is your kid’s school nurse being there only two days a week. It is the grocery store not accepting WIC anymore. It is the city bus line you used to take to work now running once every 90 minutes if it runs at all.

And every time you ask what happened, someone shrugs and says, "Well, that’s just how it is now."

But that is a lie. And more importantly, it is a design.

We are not powerless. We are just parched.

And no one is coming to save the well. The ones who poisoned it have moved on to the next town, the next crisis, the next extractive scheme. They will not fix what they broke. That job belongs to us. To the ones who still remember what it tasted like when water meant life and not leverage.

So, what do we do now?

We tell the truth. We name what happened. We teach the next generation how to build wells again. Not for profit. Not for prestige. But for survival. For dignity. For each other.

Because this country is not out of resources. It is out of conscience. And we cannot afford to confuse the two.

 

Tasha Monroe

Founder, Simply Edyn & Co.

Editor, The Commons Dispatch

 

This piece is part of The Commons Dispatch.

Twice a month, we sit with the hard stuff that require reflection, resistance, and viewing the world as it actually is. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest. From Simply Edyn & Co., for whoever’s still listening.

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