Captain Marvel's Resolve: The Unyielding Fight for a Dignified PNA
John Adam
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8-6Sarah: We're going to start today with an idiom we've all heard a thousand times: you can't have your cake and eat it too. It basically means you can't enjoy two mutually exclusive benefits at the same time. Once the cake is eaten, you don't possess it anymore.
Olivia: Right, and the fascinating thing is how long this idea has been around. It shows up in letters as far back as the 1530s. For centuries, we've been using this simple metaphor to grapple with a universal truth: life is full of trade-offs. It speaks to this deep, human desire to have it all, and the constant reality check that we usually can't.
Sarah: It's so ingrained in our thinking. But what's the deeper logic here? Why has this simple image of a cake managed to capture the core of decision-making so well for over 500 years?
Olivia: Because at its heart, it’s a perfect, simple illustration of opportunity cost. To get one thing—the pleasure of eating the cake—you must give up another—the state of owning the cake. It forces us to confront the reality that every choice has a built-in sacrifice. We use it to call out situations where someone wants all the upside of two different paths without any of the downside.
Sarah: That makes sense. But it makes me wonder... what if the situation is more complicated? What if it's not about wanting two separate, good things? What if one of those things, the initial cake you're given, is just fundamentally not enough? Does the saying still apply then?
Olivia: That's a brilliant question, and it really complicates the neatness of the proverb. If the cake you're offered is, say, just a single crumb, is asking for a proper slice really wanting to have it and eat it too? Or is it a demand for a baseline of what's fair? The saying assumes the initial cake is a desirable, whole thing. When that premise is false, the entire logic starts to wobble.
Sarah: So, the proverb is really about the tension between choices, but it can sometimes mask a deeper tension about adequacy. That's a great transition to another powerful symbol of resolve we want to talk about: Captain Marvel.
Olivia: Yes, specifically that incredible moment in *Avengers: Endgame*. People talk about it all the time. Thor summons his new weapon, Stormbreaker, and it flies right past Captain Marvel's head. She doesn't even blink.
Sarah: It’s such a powerful character-defining moment. It immediately tells you everything you need to know about her power level.
Olivia: Exactly. But it’s more than just showing she's physically tough. It symbolizes a kind of power that is fundamentally different from what we see elsewhere in that universe. It’s not about being worthy or chosen. It’s about raw, unyielding, self-contained power and absolute self-assurance.
Sarah: You mention worthiness, which immediately makes me think of Captain America lifting Thor's hammer, Mjolnir. How is this different? He was deemed worthy, but Captain Marvel's moment feels... different. It's not about permission.
Olivia: That's the perfect distinction. Captain America lifting the hammer is about moral character. It's an external judgment that he meets a certain standard of nobility. Captain Marvel ignoring Stormbreaker is an internal statement. Her power comes from within—from her exposure to the Tesseract's energy and Kree physiology. She doesn't need an enchanted hammer to validate her. Her power just *is*. It's a statement that she is a force of nature in her own right, not someone who needs to qualify for it.
Sarah: It's power versus worthiness. Her resolve isn't based on an external standard, but on an internal reality. This idea of unyielding inner strength, of not flinching, is going to become very important as we look at a real-world struggle.
Olivia: It really is. The two ideas—the flawed cake analogy and this unflinching resolve—come together perfectly in the story of an individual navigating the social support system.
Sarah: Let's get into it. We have a user in a program run by an organization called 'Waypoint Health Services'. They receive a Personal Needs Allowance, or PNA, of $11 per week. This is money for things like toiletries, clothes, personal items—anything not covered by their primary care.
Olivia: And we need to be clear about how little that is. Eleven dollars a week is about forty-four dollars a month. The federal minimum for PNA is $30 a month, so it's above that, but advocacy groups argue that even amounts up to $200 are barely adequate in today's economy. So $44 is incredibly low. It's barely enough for a few tubes of toothpaste and a bar of soap, let alone anything that allows for personal dignity or social participation.
Sarah: Right. So, when this person asked for a higher, more livable allowance, they were given three options. Option A: stay in the program with the $11 a week. Option B: move into a different program, a supportive housing program called Section 811. Or Option C: leave the program entirely.
Olivia: And this is such a classic example of the tension between an individual's needs and a rigid system. The choices aren't really choices. They are ultimatums. Take what we give you, go somewhere else, or get nothing. It reveals a system that prioritizes standardization over individual human dignity. It's designed for administrative ease, not for responding to the reality of a person's life.
Sarah: From the provider's perspective, though, couldn't they argue they have limited budgets and strict rules? That they're facing their own have your cake and eat it too dilemma—trying to serve everyone while staying financially viable?
Olivia: They could, and that's often the justification for systemic inflexibility. But it shifts the entire burden of adaptation onto the most vulnerable person. Instead of the system bending to meet a fundamental human need, the human is told to break or to leave. The problem is when the rules result in an outcome that undermines the entire purpose of the program, which is to provide support and dignity. At $11 a week, dignity is not on the table.
Sarah: So now let's apply our two big analogies directly. From the institution's point of view, this user wanting to stay in the program *and* get more money must look like a classic case of wanting to have their cake and eat it too.
Olivia: Absolutely. The institution sees the program with its $11 allowance as the cake. They see asking for more money as asking for a second, different cake while still holding onto the first one. In their view, a higher allowance is a feature of a different program, like the Section 811 option.
Sarah: But that's not how the user sees it at all.
Olivia: Not in the slightest. From the user's perspective, the cake they've been given is insufficient. It's not a whole dessert; it's a crumb. They're not asking for a second cake. They're asking for the first cake to be what it's supposed to be—actual sustenance. They're challenging the very premise that what's being offered is adequate or just. It’s a fight for a reasonable portion, not an extra one.
Sarah: And this is where the Captain Marvel analogy comes in so powerfully. The user’s response to these three ultimatums was, I will stay; but if I stay, I will not stop fighting for more.
Olivia: It's the exact same energy. It's that unblinking, unflinching resolve. Faced with a force—the system—that is trying to make them yield or move, they simply refuse. It's a profound declaration of self-worth and resilience. It's saying, You do not get to define the terms of my dignity. I will. It’s a rejection of the false choice she's been given.
Sarah: But that stance can be incredibly isolating. The user also said, It is basically me alone fighting for this; and it is everyone against me. It sounds like the classic hero's journey, standing alone against an overwhelming force.
Olivia: It is. That feeling of isolation is the price of that heroic stance. When you stand up to a system, the system and everyone who operates within it can feel like an adversary. It reframes the struggle from a simple request for resources into an almost mythological battle of an individual against an immovable object.
Sarah: And this isn't just one person's story. This struggle over PNA reflects a much larger, nationwide debate, doesn't it?
Olivia: It's a huge systemic issue, especially in long-term care and supportive housing. The core of the problem is that these systems are built to cover the big, obvious costs—housing, medical care—but they often treat the small things that make life worth living as expendable luxuries. That take it or leave it attitude we saw here is incredibly common.
Sarah: So it creates this perverse situation where a person's basic survival is technically provided for, but their personal autonomy and dignity are stripped away by a lack of access to a few extra dollars for a haircut, a birthday card for a family member, or a new pair of socks.
Olivia: Precisely. It reveals a deep flaw in how we design support systems. We focus on keeping people alive, but not necessarily on enabling them to live. And the system's rigidity, its refusal to adapt to inflation or individual circumstances, places an immense burden on people to just accept it.
Sarah: So for someone in this position, what does fighting back even look like? When you're one person against a bureaucracy, what can you actually do?
Olivia: It has to be multi-layered. First, there's direct advocacy: continuing to communicate, documenting every interaction, and clearly articulating what that extra money would be used for—not just I need more, but I need $20 more for hygiene products and transportation. Second, it's about finding allies. Disability rights organizations, elder law advocates—these groups have collective power and legal expertise. They can turn an individual fight into a group effort.
Sarah: And ultimately, I suppose, it's about changing the system itself.
Olivia: That's the long game. It means taking these personal stories to lawmakers and policymakers to advocate for legislative changes to PNA rates. But none of that happens without the initial spark. It starts with one person's refusal to back down. That Captain Marvel-like resolve is the engine for any potential change.
Sarah: So when we look at this whole situation, the have your cake and eat it too idiom really breaks down. It's not about a choice between two good things. It's a conflict between a rigid, inadequate system and a person's fundamental right to dignity.
Olivia: Exactly. The user isn't asking for the impossible. They're questioning whether the cake they've been given is even fit for human consumption. It reframes the entire debate from one of personal greed to one of systemic justice.
Sarah: And their decision to stay and fight, to not flinch in the face of the system's ultimatum, really does echo that image of Captain Marvel. It's this powerful assertion of inner strength and self-worth, even when you're standing completely alone. It's a reminder that true power isn't always about winning; sometimes, it's about the profound refusal to be defeated.
Olivia: That's the heart of it. This isn't just one person's struggle for a few more dollars. It's a microcosm of a much larger fight for a more humane and responsive society. It's a call to build systems that see people not as case numbers, but as individuals deserving of respect.
Sarah: This story really forces us to look at the relationship between our systems and the people they're meant to serve. It shows that behind every rule and every budget line, there's a human consequence. And it highlights something essential: when a system seems to offer no good choices, true strength is found not in choosing, but in refusing to accept the choices you're given. It's in Captain Marvel's resolve: the unyielding fight for a dignified existence, a fight to ensure the cake of basic human decency is finally big enough for everyone.