Being poor
As a child, I didn't
know I was poor. There was always food in my mouth, clothes for me to go to
school and play in, hot bath water, the tv was on, and I had toys. My mom was,
as I recall at that time, happy and in love with her husband and 3 small
children. I had loving grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and
cousins. We had family get-togethers, presents at birthdays and Christmas, and
always had fun outdoors.
As a teen, I knew very
well that we were in the lower bushel of the basket. Spring Vacation wasn't
something we planned to spend away on a sunny beach or taking family group
pictures with the Grand Canyon in the background. I wasn't able to get the same
expensive perms as the other girls at school. Name brand clothing was something
I thought only super rich people could afford, which meant I thought nearly
everyone at my pathetic school was super rich. While other kids talked about
the latest movies at the theater, I couldn't fit into their conversations because
I wasn't able to afford to see them. The latest albums weren't in my budget,
either, so my tapes were usually mixed tapes I made off the local radio
station's "Top 9 at 9" list that I strategically recorded while
hiding under the covers in the room I shared with my little brother. And
usually I had to ask someone else to make me a tape of their favorite songs so
they'd give it to me so I'd have a tape to use in the first place. I was too
proud to just ask for a blank tape because they'd ask me why I couldn't get
them myself. And when I was recording those songs, I had to make sure I got
only the songs and not the commercials so I wouldn't use up the entire tape.
Sharing a bedroom with your little brother when you're a teenage girl isn't
exactly conducive to a "cool" lifestyle, but neither is having to do
so because the only other bedroom in your house belongs to your mom, step-dad,
and baby sister. Also, my "bedroom," wasn't even really a room at
all, but more of an enclosed back porch with no heat, air conditioning, or
closet. But it was enough to fit 2 twin beds, a dresser, a shelf, and my
brother's toys. Oh, and my bedroom door was a sliding glass door that I covered
with a sheet for privacy. Try asking even your closest friends for a
sleepover... No really, ask them. Let me know how that turns out.
The rest of the
"house" was tiny, lending itself only to a small living room,
dining room, kitchen, and bath/utility room where pretty much every water pipe
ended up. Like I said, 2 small bedrooms with only 1 being a bedroom. Most of my
mother’s clothes were left in garbage bags that lined the walls of her room,
and only her nicest things and personal possessions were in her actual closet.
Her bedroom and living room where the only ones that had carpet, the dining,
kitchen, and bathroom all had dingy linoleum. My room had some cheap, thin
outdoor carpeting that didn’t give our feet much cushion from the nails in the
boards underneath it. My bedroom walls were comprised of a thin layer of
drywall with either very little, or no insulation at all.
I don’t remember much
about our furniture, but then again, there’s a lot about that tiny, old, pea
soup-colored shack that I’d just assume forget.
I remember not having a
shower, only a tub, and sometimes having to share bath water with other members
of the family because we didn’t have enough hot water for us all to bathe in
one day/night. So we had to be quick as not to leave the next person with cold
water in the tub we just bathed in. We typically had to share towels as well
because it cost too much to wash that many clothes and use more water. And
since this room was the only bathroom in the house, it wasn’t uncommon for us
to have to use the toilet while one of us was taking a bath. (Usually my poor
mom who probably just needed some peace for a few minutes, sacrificing her
moment so we could pee.) But this also meant us not having peace either since
she’d have to be in there doing laundry.
The room just off the
bath/utility was the “garage,” though it never housed any cars. It was more
like a shed, but had a door that led into the bathroom. It had a window and it
always scared me to look out there. It was filled with “junk” my step-dad
brought home from the salvage yard where he worked. Old tools, rusty metal things
here and there, old tires, car parts, garbage bags filled with aluminum cans,
and more junk. There was 1 lightbulb that lit up in the center of the room,
which only made it creepier. I still have nightmares about that place.
We had, to my recollection,
only 1 or 2 heat vents in the house and no central air conditioning. During the
winter months, we shivered under the covers as the kerosene heater blazed
throughout the night, centered between the dining room and living room. (This
was the center-most part of the house, so this made it “fair” to everyone. Keep
in mind, this meant having to keep the bathroom door closed so the heat would
remain in the living and bedrooms, so if you got up in the morning to pee or
take a bath, you were basically walking into a freezer.) And because of my
sliding glass bedroom door, my brother and I were always left very cold and
he’d usually end up sleeping with my mom, sis, and step-dad in their bed.
Summers were just as brutal as the 1 window a/c unit blasted only when it was
absolutely necessary, with a box fan circulating as best it could.
Our kitchen was about
the size of a closet, but it was enough for my mom to prepare our meals, do the
dishes by hand because we had no dishwasher, and look outside to see us playing
in the backyard.
Looking back, I’m not
sure where my mother found her sanctuary there, if she did. Her bedroom, as I
said, was extremely small, and was shared with my baby sister, whose crib was
nestled in the corner. A full-sized bed, a dresser, and small closet was about
all one could fit in that room, so space and privacy wasn’t something I believe
ever existed to my poor mother in those years.
The things we did have
in the little shack weren’t the nicest things, but we did our best to take care
of them. Because we had to. We didn’t have the luxury of just going out and
buying something new if what we had broke or got too old. In fact, if something
had to be purchased, it became a big stress point for the whole house. If my
step-dad couldn’t find it at the scrap yard or if someone wasn’t tossing it on
the curb, we went without for a while.
Most of the necessities,
especially our clothes and shoes, were purchased by relatives, usually my
great-grandmother, or others at birthdays and Christmas. When I turned 15, I
was able to finally buy my own things after getting my own paychecks from
working at a nearby Rally’s fast food drive-thru restaurant. I wasn’t able to
work much because laws and school prohibited it, but I made enough to start
supplying myself with the things I both needed and wanted as a teen girl. I
remember buying my first pair of Levi jeans all by myself, and thinking how
amazing it felt to finally have something I wanted without having to wait to
ask my family or wait until my birthday. And after that, the shoes I wanted.
And after that, I began seeing movies in the theater with my friends. And after
that, I began going to high school football games and spending my own money on
food and renting VHS tapes at the movie store. Suddenly I was fitting in with
other kids and was understanding what everyone was talking about and realizing
what I had been missing. I remember buying makeup and fixing my hair the way
other girls did and thinking I’d finally be accepted into more social circles.
Maybe now, those super rich kids would stop making fun of me. Maybe now I’d
have the life I really wanted.
It was around those
early teen years that my parents decided it was time to either move, or keep
their land and just bull-doze the shack and build a house. But building a new
house proved to cost too much. So instead, they opted to purchase a modular
home and have it placed over the remains of what once was our old shack. Even
though my step-dad had pretty much ruined the natural beauty of the 1.5 acre
lot with his “collection of crap” as now call it, the modular home they chose
was actually quite nice and brought a completely new and reasonably attractive
look to our yard. It took some time, but once it was completed, I wasn’t too
ashamed to have friends over anymore. It was new, we all had our own rooms, it
was very spacious inside, and for the first time in my life, I had real
sleep-overs. Since I was 5, I had been sharing a room with my brother…and now I
had my very own room! I could decorate, I could hang my clothes in a walk-in
closet, and I could take a shower in my own bathroom! When you walk in the
front door, you entered a “front living area,” and straight ahead was the
dining room with sliding glass doors that led out the back. To the right of the
dining room was a nice, open kitchen with tons of cabinet space, an island, and
a dishwasher! To the right of that was a nook where my mom could sit and write
letters, and just beyond that, an entire room dedicated just to the washer and
dryer! To the right of the front living area was a beautiful and spacious
master bedroom with a master bathroom to die for! A walk-in shower, 2 sinks in
separate areas, and in the corner was the biggest bathtub with jets I had ever
seen! To the left of the dining room was a den area with a fireplace, and to
the right of that were the other 3 bedrooms just for us kids! Mine was the
biggest with biggest closet, of course…and I definitely wanted that room
because it overlooked the driveway and road. (I like to face the sunrise, so
this worked out perfectly for me.)
I remember us kids
running around constantly for the first few days, just running through the
house like we were in a mall. It felt so big to us. And we were so happy. It
was truly one of the best moments I remember during those times. We didn’t have
to move away from our neighbors and best friends down the street, and we
finally had a nice place to live…with heat and air conditioning!
But the joy didn’t last
long. Riding on a bus in the country isn’t always easy when you’re poor.
Everyone knows where you live, sees the outside of your home, sees the beat-up
cars in the gravel driveway, and also sees the “collection of crap” that
remains. Everyone knows you’re not suddenly “super rich.” In fact, they know it
so much that they feel you need to be reminded. Even though I knew it wasn’t a
big 2-story brick home with white shutters and a wrap-around porch with a 2-car
garage and paved driveway, I still felt proud to live there. But that pride
went away the moment one of the older kids on my bus said, “So now you live in
a trailer?”
A trailer. It was as
embarrassing to a teenager as living in the projects. It was the country
equivalent to living in subsidized housing in the city. And now, rather than
feeling proud of my new home with my nice, new walls and carpet and dishwasher
and bedroom, I was again, reduced to being called “trailer trash.”
But I quickly rebounded
when my very close friends agreed to sleepovers at my new house and we had some
pretty awesome times there. I began dating and wasn’t ashamed of where I lived.
I knew it wasn’t going to grace the covers of any Home & Gardens magazine,
but we took care of it and my mom began planting some beautiful flowers, trees,
and bushes that made for some pretty great landscaping. And even though the
walls were paper thin and the gap under the doors was big enough to squeeze a
loaf of bread through, it felt like home to me. It felt like the first home I
had since we moved from our apartment when I was 8 and into that rickety old
shack we had just torn down. And it remained my home until my step-dad kicked
me out when I was 16. From there, I would bounce from friends’ and relatives’
homes until I was finally able to take care of myself at 22. Now, 25 years
later, it is still home to my mother, where she lives alone, keeping up her
garden, watching her grandchildren run around those same floors, and finally
having the peace she so desperately needed.
25 years…seems like a
long time, doesn’t it? You’d think after 25 years, I would have forgotten what
it was like to be poor. I would have forgotten that I ever watched as my mother
refused to eat dinner so she could make sure us kids had enough to eat. You’d
think I wouldn’t have noticed when she washed the dishes using only cold water
because either the water heater was broken, or maybe she just didn’t want to
make the electric bill go up. You’d think I wasn’t paying attention when I’d
see my great-grandmother reaching into her wallet to hand my mom a stack of
cash to hide in her dresser to pay the bills my step-dad wasn’t able to pay.
You’d think maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t listening to her cry in her room at
night because she was scared the water guy was coming to turn it off the next
day. You would think a kid like me wouldn’t pay attention to the amount of
times she’d wash her shoes in the washing machine with baking soda to remove
the grass stains so she could wear them to the store and not be ashamed. Or the
times she stayed up half the night watching old re-runs of shows she grew up
watching just so she could find something to laugh about. Or the time she tried
studying for her G.E.D. so she could feel smart enough to get a job to help
make ends meet. Or the jar of change she’d dump out, looking for quarters to
give us for lunch money. You’d think after 25 years I wouldn’t know what that’s
like.
But you’d be so wrong.
25 years later, I’m a
poor mom. I have a 10 year old beautiful daughter, I work full-time for, what I
thought was, a big and wonderful corporation, I have a decent car, I rent a 3
bedroom house with a garage in an ok neighborhood 1 mile from her school, I have
a cat, I pay my own bills, we have food in the cabinets and refrigerator…Yet, I
can’t help but wonder if in 25 years she will see that things just aren’t the
way a little kid sees them.
To my daughter, she sees
that she has toys, video games, I make dinner every night, she has clothes to
wear, hot water to bathe, blankets to keep her warm, the tv turns on, we have a
decent car, and she has a cat.
But what she doesn’t
know is that I’m on the edge of being homeless. I don’t have outstanding credit
card debt, I don’t waste my money on things we don’t need, and I don’t go on
any trips or vacations or eat out. I don’t purchase expensive clothes, I don’t
buy jewelry. In fact, I don’t buy anything other than exactly what we NEED. But
the cost of living versus what I make, has gotten completely absurd and to a
point where I honestly don’t know what I am going to do anymore. I’m alone and
living paycheck to paycheck, which has become impossible to do.
When I agreed to rent
this house, I did so with the intention it would be a “family” home. I didn’t
know if that would ever pan out, so I needed to be conscientious of the fact
that I would have to be able to afford the rent and bills on my own. I needed a
solid house in a decent neighborhood close to her school, with a yard for her
to play and be safe. This house has a privacy-fenced in backyard where we used
to have a swingset. I wanted to turn the backyard into an oasis of plants, a
firepit, a hammock, and games. I wanted the back porch to be an area like my great-grandmother’s
where everyone would come and I’d entertain our friends and my daughter’s
friends. There’s a park down the road and I figured it would be a place we’d
ride our bikes to on the weekends to play baseball, swing, and maybe picnic.
The owners of the house are religious and have 5 kids of their own, so this
house was filled with family love before I began those dreams myself. At the
time, I was working full-time at a cigar lounge, where although my hourly wages
wouldn’t alone pay for it, my tips made up the difference. And with the help of
friends, little by little, I acquired household items and was able to start
making a life for us here. It has become “home” to she and I and we love it.
But I’ve never felt like this was a real home, mostly because we’re in Florida
and because I know rentals are only temporary. Nevertheless, it’s been a safe
haven and it’s kept us off the streets. All my daughter knows is that she has a
lovely little home where she feels protected and loved and is surrounded by her
stuffed animals and we make some pretty amazing meals here.
What she doesn’t see… is
that when we are at a gas station or restaurant, I grab handfuls of napkins and
plastic utensils and stuff them into my purse. The napkins I use in my bathroom
as toilet paper so I spare the regular toilet paper for her bathroom, which
saves me money on buying more. The plastic utensils I use when she’s with her
dad so I don’t have to use water or dish soap.
She doesn’t see me make
one pot of coffee to use for the entire week. She doesn’t see me using baking
soda instead of toothpaste. She doesn’t see me having to break into her piggy
banks to pray for a couple of dollar bills or quarters to use as gas money. She
doesn’t see me hanging the wet clothes over the backs of the dining room chairs
and couch because the dryer has been broken since last summer. She doesn’t see
me skipping breakfast and dinner when she isn’t here so I can be sure the food
lasts for the next time she is here. She doesn’t notice I’ve lost 15 pounds in
the last couple of months because I can’t afford to eat. She doesn’t see that I
haven’t been to the doctor in over 8 months because I can’t afford to miss work
for doctor visits I can’t afford, even though I have amazing insurance and the
co-pay is only $20. She doesn’t know that there are days when I can’t get out
of bed because I’m in so much pain that I can barely move, so I miss work and
now I’m at risk for being fired for missing so many days. She doesn’t know that
I buy the cheapest shampoo and soaps. She doesn’t know why I only shop at the
cheapest grocery store. She doesn’t know that I re-use the same plastic Solo
cup every day for weeks at a time so save on dish soap and using the hot water.
She doesn’t know that I had to use the cash people gave me for her Girl Scout
cookie sales to pay the electric bill and now I don’t have that money to give
the troop leader. She doesn’t know that I had to take out cash advances to pay
the rent. She doesn’t know that many of my recent clothes have been free from
the thrift shop where I volunteer. She doesn’t know that I only have 2 pairs of
jeans that fit and the shoes I wear to work hurt my feet. She doesn’t know that
I’ve sometimes had to use sand I dug up from the side of the yard to use as cat
litter and that I’ve had to sometimes feed him my own food because I couldn’t
afford litter or food for him. She doesn’t know that I’ve had to wash her
blankets because the cat puked on them from eating the human food I had to give
him. She doesn’t know that I have to lie to all my friends when they ask if I
can meet them for a movie, lunch, dinner, drinks, or any social function
because I can’t afford to go or use the gas to get there. She doesn’t know that
license was temporarily suspended because of my medical condition and that I
risked everything to drive her to her dance competition in Orlando one weekend.
She doesn’t know how badly my lip was bleeding from biting it because I was so
terrified I’d get pulled over, get into an accident, or get a flat tire on that
drive to and from her competition. She doesn’t know that I went to jail for
drinking and driving last year and that I have a serious problem with alcohol. She
doesn’t know that when I have to leave her at home alone for 2 hours for my
“doctor appointment” every Saturday morning, that it is really court-ordered
counseling that costs me $150 a month. She doesn’t know that when she isn’t
here, I am alone every single night wondering how I’m going to afford to keep
my car, my car insurance, and my license, all because I had too much to drink
while taking my seizure medication that night. She doesn’t see or hear me
crying in my bedroom. She doesn’t see me in pain every time she wants to go see
the latest movie and I can’t afford to take her. She doesn’t see me making up
excuses in my head as to why we can’t go out to dinner once in a while, or just
stop for an ice cream cone. She doesn’t hear me pecking away at the laptop
every night Googling ways to make extra money when you have none to start with.
She doesn’t see me shying away from lunch invites from friends at work, telling
them, “Oh, I have to run to the bank or I have an appointment,” when in reality
I simply don’t have any food so I just drive down the street and park so no one
notices. She doesn’t know how badly I wanted to be present for my grandmother’s
funeral, but couldn’t because I couldn’t afford a ticket or the time off work. She
doesn’t know the only reason my hair is so long is because I can’t afford to
get it cut, so I just trim the ends myself sometimes. She doesn’t know the
reason I stopped going to the gym wasn’t because of my MS, but it was because I
couldn’t afford the membership any longer. She doesn’t know that the time I
tried to ask a friend of a friend to help me print and promote my paintings, he
asked me for sex as payment, so I turned him down, ruining my chances at having
someone I know give me a discount on printing my work to sell to try to make
extra money. She doesn’t realize the real reason I cut the crust off the bread
isn’t because I thought she’d like it better that way, but its really so I
could use the extra parts to make an apple dish that would last her a few
breakfasts. She doesn’t ask why we eat so much pasta or soup. She doesn’t
wonder why we don’t go anywhere on the weekends when everyone else is out
enjoying the beautiful weather. She doesn’t wonder why I use paper towels from
work as pads instead of buying tampons. She doesn’t know I hoard all the
expired food when the vendor comes each month to throw it out at work. She
doesn’t know I use company envelopes to mail in my fine and probation payments
every month. She doesn’t know I pushed the utility bills out another month so I
could buy her Christmas presents. She doesn’t know I still only sleep on one
side of the bed because it hurts too much to think of the other side as being
empty. She doesn’t know how much my heart aches to be loved by a man who loves
everything about me, gets me, understands my past, and who will want to be a
partner and supporter to me. She doesn’t realize how much I hate living here
and how I don’t fit in. She doesn’t know how much happier I’d be somewhere
else, with people I know and love and in an area where I can live in the
country and nature. She doesn’t know how much I miss hiking and camping and
exploring. She doesn’t know that I am too scared to do those things alone
because of the horrible creepy people out there in the world these days. She
doesn’t know that I have given up so many of my own dreams to ensure hers are
met. She doesn’t know that I’ve taken over 1 million pictures of her growing up
because I want to remember every moment with her. She doesn’t know that I can’t
afford to print them out so she’ll have those tangible memories as well. She
doesn’t know how scared I am of my illness and how I’m absolutely terrified
that I won’t live to see her grow old or remember who I am. She doesn’t know
that I only make just over 2 thousand dollars per month and that every single
penny goes to rent, car payment, car insurance, gas, electricity, water, phone,
internet, lawn care, groceries, and paying off my DUI. She doesn’t know that
her father, too, is an alcoholic who had a horrible DUI a few years ago and
that he refuses to seek treatment. She doesn’t know that she carries the gene
for alcoholism. She doesn’t know that she may struggle with depression or
anxiety like her parents. She doesn’t know that I am trying very hard to get
through each day and that it’s difficult at times. She doesn’t know that I am
doing everything I can to fight this and that I will be victorious. She doesn’t
know my father left when I was a baby and never returned. She doesn’t know I
was beaten by my step-father. She doesn’t know I was raped by a guy I dated.
She doesn’t know I was sexually, physically, and verbally abused by other men I
knew. She doesn’t know that I cry every single night from the guilt I carry
from my boyfriend’s suicide over 20 years ago and that she saw and spoke to his
ghost when she was little. She doesn’t know that I just need sanctuary. She
doesn’t know that I just need a break. She doesn’t know that I just need help.
She doesn’t know that I’m scared. She doesn’t know that I am poor.
One day, I know she will
know all of this. But I don’t ever want her to see any of it.
-Angie Hart
