census and sensibility

Normally, I write a little when I feel the urge or hear a few good songs. Now was one of those times. G came out just now, and she announced that we needed to do our census, which
came in the mail.
She began reading out loud.
"We need your help to count everyone in the United States," she narrated. "Jesus. It's like Sesame Street for America."

G continued perusing the large envelope, not unlike a college acceptance letter.
"I'm going to underestimate our household so we get more money for our neighborhood," she announced. Probably good, since Umberto's could use the extra cash so they don't get seized for a day, again.

"Hey," she began, after a while reading what seemed like a lengthy document. "Do you remember that song, 'These Are the People in Our Neighborhood?' "
"Who's that by," I asked. "REM?"
"No, they sang that song, 'Stand In the Place Where You Live.' You can't just suggest that every well-known song is sung by REM."

I take a long look at this census document. It says a lot of shit on the front. Scary things, like "YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW" and allegations that if you use this type of thing for your own private use (cut out all those fantasies of conducting your OWN decennial census, suckas), you will owe Uncle Sam $300.

YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW. This, like other large-print or shiny things, definitely catches my eye. G has commented on my print awareness before. I'm the type of person that reads billboards and signs out loud while on road trips/neighborhood walks, just to do it. Just because I can. I say it out loud, as it that makes it real. YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW.
"You can't just make that funny. You can't yell things into funny," commented G.
"But it is funny," I returned. "It's like when people typed in all caps on AOL in 5th grade."
G sighs. "All I know...if I got high one night, that would really be the end of it."

It also says U.S. Census 2010 on the front. I express my confusion that I haven't filled out one of these before.
"I've never been thrown in jail. Do you think it's just a mixup?"
"What? Are you kidding? Aren't you a Social Studies teacher?"
"What? I haven't!"
"The census. It's done every 10 years. HELLO. I'm debating adding you as a household adult on this thing now."

So, April 1. As G pointed out, that's gonna be a big day. Are we all going to have to stand up? Wear a number? Identify the real Slim Shady? That's apparently the day the Census Results are coming out. What a month, that April. Taxes. Census. It's like, National Government Month. I start wondering aloud what numbers we're going to be, when I notice the return address on the envelope and the apparent home of the United States Census Bureau (and some other stuff). Want to know where it is? Essex, MD.

"Do you think people in Essex are counted first?" I wonder aloud.
"Why?"
"Because that's where the Census Bureau is."

G's face basically turns white. It has apparently been her dream to be like, lucky number 13 in the 2010 US Census. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

"That is an atrocity. I mean, think of some trash town in Louisiana," G begins, as an attempt to explain exactly how much of a disgrace it is to her that Essex is purportedly counted first. Let us all just keep in mind that, for all I know (which really isn't much, considering I "forgot" we conduct the census every 10 years), they could count that stuff alphabetically.

"Kentwood," I throw out. Home of Britney Spears. Incidentally and maybe tragically, also home of most of Louisiana's clean bottled water.
"We have a Kentwood too! It's right next to Essex! Trash town!" Grace confirms. "Well I can tell you what. If they're counting Essex first, then this mobile home stipulation really applies."

Five minutes later, as she's filling out the household information:
"I'm going to say that you're 'non-Hispanic.'"
"That would be accurate."
"But, I don't know, you have all that...Spanish stuff in your background."

G unfolds the huge thing somewhat like a driver unfolding a road map. It is my tendency to shy away from complicated things like that, so when I see it begin to morph into a Twister board, I get up to get some water. G lets out a second sigh and a sound communicating disbelief.
"That's it. Wait, that was it? What a letdown. Is there a followup census? They didn't even ask my income!"

We decide to investigate on the census website after I pose the age-old question: When was the first US Census? and after G decides she will die if she doesn't find out why the form ended so abruptly. And finally, the dreaded question number 3, which doesn't really even need to be answered since G is in the process of signing and sealing that baby as we speak: What happens to you if you don't mail that shit in?

Answer to Question 1: 1790.

According to The U.S. Census Bureau:

The official U.S. Census is described in Article I, Section 2 of the Constitution of the United States. It calls for an actual enumeration of the people every ten years, to be used for apportionment of seats in the House of Representatives among the states. The first official Census was conducted in 1790 under Thomas Jefferson, who was the Secretary of State. That census, taken by U.S. marshals on horseback, counted 3.9 million inhabitants. Since that time, the decennial Census has been conducted every ten years, generally on April 1 in years ending in a zero.

Translation: We fill out this form every ten years (that's a decennial census, folks) so that the US government can, according to the Associated Press, divvy up legislative lines, apportion House seats, and throw around federal aid. $400 billion worth.

Answer to Question 2: 1 in 6 households gets "the long form." G wanted the long form. Typical.

If you get the long form, it's pretty much like an Excel File Christmas. You get to answer questions in two major categories: Population and Housing. There are many exciting questions, not unlike a government survey rollercoaster, such as "What language do you speak at home?" and "Are your grandparents your caretakers?" and "Do you use or operate heavy farm equipment?"

Isn't that magical? It's apparently part of G's 2010 Barbie Dream House. I'm pretty sure she's online now trying to figure out how to cancel our original form and get "the long form." Proof that while bigger may not always be better, longer most definitely is.

Answer to Question 3: A U.S. Census worker personally knocks on your door. This is especially scary to immigrants, according to a Denver local newspaper, since they're afraid of giving their information to the government as it is. Don't know what happens after that. I'm sure it involves the C.I.A. or the F.B.I. or the I.R.S. or the A.T.F. or the WTF.

In celebration of the census, some of my favorite songs with numbers in them will be coming out soon.