Once, it was not a valid question; or, at least not one in which most people were concerned about, unless you were born “out of wedlock” or an orphan shuttered in some institutional hideaway relegated to be humble and taught to forever be thankful for even being alive. Upon a time now gone, the name by which we were called, the reference to the parental lineage — “Oh, that’s Tom’s youngest” or “She’s Minerva’s middle-‘un” — was enough of an identifier, and we were satisfied with the parochial ways in which we saw ourselves.
Perhaps there were those unique circumstances — of a hushed past where secrets of a shamed love affair produced that “unwanted child” who was brought up by an eccentric aunt who neither cared about public opinion nor made judgments about the grown-up acts and misdeeds now forgotten long ago; but of the rest and the mediocre lot of us, we were just content to remain in quiet anonymity and not invite the ire of societal condemnations.
Now, of course, we do a swab-test, purchase a “kit” and decipher the mysterious genealogy of that twisted image we grasped on to from our school days when science was a muddle and instruction was something to survive — of that “DNA” conundrum that has pervaded the lexicon of our daily lives. And yet, we still rely upon human frailty — we trust in whatever test results are determined.
If it shows that we are more Irish than of Slavic descent, we abandon our belief in the latter and rush to the nearest pub to declare our ancestry; and if the little molecules within the cellular structure of our essence says that we are distantly related to Abraham Lincoln, why, we puff out our chests and say, “Imagine that!”
All the while, we pay homage without questioning the accuracy of some lab in some corner of the world that says that physical evidence is irrefutable; that statistical analysis cannot be doubted; and that the Age of Science cannot deter the memories handed down from forefathers who created myths and folklores that allowed for the imagination to soar. Of who we are has become a clinical analysis enslaved by what we are told.
For Federal employees and U.S. Postal workers who suffer from a medical condition such that the medical condition is beginning to impact, prevent or otherwise impede performing the essential elements of one’s Federal position or Postal Craft, Supervisory role or administrative, physical or cognitive-intensive labor, the concept of who we are is often intimately bundled deep within the psychological recesses of what we do. But that is a false paradigm.
If you are willing to sacrifice your health upon the altar of what you do, it reflects poorly upon who you are.
In the end, the benefit of a Federal Disability Retirement is not determined by the amount of annuity to be received, but by the priorities placed — your health, which indicates the essence of who you are, as opposed to a DNA analysis of what your cellular structure reveals, and least of all by what you do. Of who we are is determined more by the wise decisions we make than in the work of the world as determined by others.
Sincerely,
Robert R. McGill, Esquire
OPM Disability Retirement, Et Cetera… 