- Sara Bareilles played softly through the surround-sound speakers of my husband’s 2003 Mercedes Kompressor as I sat idling at a light. I’d never been to this church before, but I could see it from where I was, across from an old park, abandoned in the chilly September air. The clouds hung low as I pulled the sleek, pewter machine into the lot. But I wasn’t going to pray or attend services. I was picking up food stamps.
One thing I have noticed in my time in the United States is that, while everyone talks about racism, the bigger, unspoken problem is classism (which includes levels of racism, considering the amount of poor African-Americans) When I moved to Ohio, the first thing I noticed was that front-of-house people were nicer than in Canada. Then a few weeks later I realized that as soon as I was finished with my purchase, or it was made clear that I was not immediately purchasing something, there was a distinct change in attitude. I was no longer useful to them, so I didn't warrant any niceties. In my experience, the vast majority of people who are nice to you in America (or at the very least, my sample size of 1 in northeastern Ohio and Northern New York), are looking for something from you. In a way, this, and the classism, I mentioned are the bleeding-out of the "American Dream" of the 1950s and 60s. If someone isn't successful, it is their fault, and if someone falls on hard times, they must have done something wrong or something to deserve it, because in the Land of the Free, if you just work hard enough, you will succeed. I will work harder, says Boxer. That alone isn't enough to create the poisonous situation that this article describes, however, where as JakobVirgil so eloquently points out, even the poor hate the poor. The reason (as far as I can tell), comes from the disconnect that people have between their own situation and the situation of others. "I'm in a really hard situation with extenuating circumstances" says the woman shopping at the 24hr Save-a-Lot after her 15-hour janitorial shift, "But at least I'm working on making my life better. Not like that shaggy doofus in the bleach-stained shirt behind me. Gentle Jesus, have a little self respect and work harder, why don't you?" "I'm in a really hard situation with extenuating circumstances" says the man shopping at the 24hr Save-a-Lot on the way in to his overnight Order Picker shift at the warehouse, "But at least I'm working on making my life better. Not like this grubby lady in front of me. Who does she think she is with those gold earrings? maybe you should save your welfare check instead of spending it on bullshit like jewelry." That's the sort of shit I see happening everywhere. That cognitive disconnect is all over. I'm as guilty as anyone else (though I'm trying to fix it now after years of unconscious prejudice). - Sample size of 1.
Nick Reding pointed out in Methland that amphetamine is a uniquely American drug in that one can abuse it "virtuously." American culture holds sacred the idea that hard work is the key to prosperity. therefore, a drug that allows you to work harder can't possibly be that bad, right? Piketty spends some time on this in Capital in the 21st Century by pointing out that American culture skews towards the wealthy because Americans associate wealth with achievement... when in fact it's largely hereditary. He also skims over some of the programs and approaches made by the wealthy to associate wealth with virtue in England, France and the United States. Social engineering at its finest.
except for the other guy. he's a slacking piece of shit. Why doesn't he pull his weight anyways!?
My mom suffers from that sort of cognitive dissonance and it's hard to prevent myself from calling her out on it in a negative manner. So many people do it, including myself but I'm aware of if and trying to get better at this issue. The biggest thing is, why does it matter to you what a complete stranger is doing or wearing? It doesn't effect you so save the stress of being annoyed by others for no good reason. Ugh.
In America no one likes the poor including ironically the poor.
Oh, boo. When you apply for a mortgage you have to prove how much you make via pay stubs, why in a situation where you are attempting to get aid due to a lack of income would you expect not to be able to also evidence that? How traumatizing for you, miss.I had to send them my three most recent check stubs to prove I was making as little as I said I was.
When I read the part where she describes the process of filling out forms etc, I didn't feel like she was complaining so much, did you?In just two months, we’d gone from making a combined $120,000 a year to making just $25,000 and leeching out funds to a mortgage we couldn’t afford. Our savings dwindled, then disappeared
-2007/2008 was a scary time. This sort of situation was very common and it's scary to think that it could happen again. My guess is that for her to go and fill out those forms was traumatizing. It would be for me and likely anyone else that goes from having a household income of 120k to 20k and have children to provide for. That's extremely scary stuff.
I absolutely didn't. She was pointing out how difficult the system is to get into, which is a valid point to consider when people are panicking about their children's well-being. At almost the exact time the market crashed, my family discovered that my father had embezzled about a hundred thousand dollars from his place of work to fuel his crack addiction. Guess how shell shocked we were when my family of four was very suddenly a family of three (divorce, I didn't get my dad into prison until a year or two later), gone from a two story bungalow on four acres of land with dogs, cats, and all manner of animals, to an ultra small apartment in a nearby town? This stuff is traumatizing by itself, it doesn't need help. It certainly doesn't require the condescension that some people are giving it.
Damn dude. I'm sorry you went through all of that, that's a heart wrenching tale. It can be difficult to recognize that ones parents are actually fallible human beings prone to make mistakes and be... well, human. But you had no chance but to get smacked in the face with your fathers shortcomings. That must have been extremely difficult to cope with and likely still is. I hope that your father is able to make amends with his addiction, his past behaviors and with you and your family. My hats off to your mother, who undoubtedly had far too much responsibility piled on her in the wake of your fathers actions. Man o man, I cannot imagine having to bear such a thing. Do you mind me asking how old you were when all this went down? Did you feel the need to go work and help support your mother? Thanks for sharing, it's one thing to see statistics, numbers etc about poverty but it's a whole other thing to hear the personal stories behind it. All my best to you and your family.
Thanks, To answer your questions: I was between the ages of 8 and 14 when all of this happened. Yes, I worked as soon as I could to try and take stress away from my mother. At one point when we were up for eviction, three months behind rent, I called on a friend to help us, and she paid all three months' rent because she admired myself and my mother. That person was my Business & Accounting teacher, who has also become a close friend in the years since. This is not the whole story, but this is much of the story: --- My father and I no longer have a relationship. We have the same name, but he was extremely manipulative, and often used that ability to get me to be malicious towards my mother (he at one point persuaded me to steal her wedding rings after the split, which he immediately pawned for drug money). Eventually after living with him for a while, because I was young and stupid and didn't realize he was evil, we came home to changed locks. After I snapped out of whatever brainwashing shit happened, I was filled with nothing but rage. I put him in prison after he left me with grandparents and broke his parole to escape to Florida, and made the mistake of calling me. I used a reverse phone lookup and Google Earth to tell me where he was, and two weeks later, he was extradited to Illinois. It's one of the things I'm most proud of in life. I was 8 when it started, by the time I put my dad in prison, it was the summer of my 8th grade year, I think, so I would have been 13 or 14. All of those years blend together in my head. I spent those years in between being tossed around, manipulated. About halfway through is when I started to realize what was going on, and I started reading books on facial expressions and manipulation, and trained myself to see lies, for the singular reason that I wanted to know if my dad was lying to me. Despite this, and despite washing dishes with paraphernalia on them at my dad's house, I was young and I wanted to believe I could fix everything and get my family back together. My parents were always violent, there was constant fighting. My dad would beat down doors, my mom would lock herself in her room to cry, and my young sister and I were left to our own devices. I had to finish dinner more than once: I didn't know how to read a measuring cup, so macaroni was always runny. The split came when my dad was fired for embezzlement the first time, he somehow got off with only rehab. My dad had made my mother stay at home, she wasn't allowed to have a job or friends, so when she had to take over in the later years, she didn't have a lot of work experience outside of a factory (she had me when she was 20, dad's 8 years older). So she went back to that factory that she'd worked at on and off whenever we needed money. Despite all of that, I was determined to live with my dad. He had convinced me that everything was my mom's fault. Even though I was 8-12 years old during these years, I still feel guilty about it. When my dad was fired and went to rehab, my mom finally kicked him out. She became a fierce woman, unlike anyone I've ever seen. But she couldn't afford to keep the big house and the animals or to sustain the lifestyle we'd had, so when we moved to a shitty little apartment in a neighboring town, I resented her. I would later meet people in that town and in that school that I owe my life to, so I'm a lot happier that it happened then. But, I resented her at the time. So I would run away, and yell and scream at her, telling her she was shit and that I wanted to live with my dad. Eventually, I got what I wanted, but only because I wore her down. Living with my dad should have opened my eyes. We went from basement to basement of houses in East St. Louis and Granite City (I'm from a small town in Southern Illinois). There were drugs, prostitutes, and very bad things going on. But, he bought me video games, big TVs, and I didn't have to go to school. Eventually his AA sponsor let him rent a house in Belleville, a really nice place. We moved in, and it went to shit pretty quickly. One night, a prostitute came downstairs. She had the same name as my mom, and she told me she'd try to fill her shoes. It took every ounce of restraint my ten year old self had to not beat her to death with the Xbox controller, I was playing Mass Effect at the time. A lot of other stuff happened too, I literally wrote a book about all of this last year (and more recent stuff). But, eventually, the locks changed. He'd been embezzling again. In the long car ride home, it finally snapped in my head that my dad was a piece of shit. I heard him blame his AA sponsor, saying "YOU should have seen the signs!" He refused to take responsibility for his actions. I'm ashamed that it took me losing my material possessions to get me to snap out of it. I should have cared more about my mother, but I didn't. I was a little kid, and I grew up in that moment. I became nothing but pure rage. It was at this point when I realized that I had been used against my mother. I was 10 or 11 (I'm trying hard to get ages right, but as I said, all of these years blend together), but I felt ancient. I felt... I can't describe how I felt. I was full of rage, but I wasn't angry. I was cold. I wanted him to suffer for what he'd done, and I knew that to do that, I'd have to wait, and do it right. I hated him, immediately and completely. I wanted to kill him, but I thought that he deserved worse. I was ashamed for everything I'd done, and I was determined to make him pay for it. I was born with my mother's stubbornness and determination, and my father's ability to lie and manipulate. I put them to use. After a few weeks of living with him in my grandpa's trailer, he finally took me to a school, one I hated even more than the others I'd been to. When I got home, he'd just left. He'd gotten on a motorcycle and vanished. No one would tell me where he went, but I was a smart kid. I knew he had to be running from cops, and that meant breaking the parole he was still under from his first embezzlement run-in. So I started to pay attention to things. My grandpa would check the weather in Florida, but wouldn't explain why. My dad got weak, and started to call the phone. I would write down all of those numbers. His mistake was in thinking that I was still under his spell, like my mother had been for the many years she lived with him. But I wasn't. I was watching. And when those numbers stayed the same for a few weeks straight, I fed them into a reverse-phone-number lookup, and found they were to a hotel in Daytona Beach. This matched his story, he'd told me he was working for rent at a motel. I was actually shocked that he'd said something truthful. A few weeks went by as I considered. I moved back in with my mom, and things were very tense. I hadn't told her anything, because I didn't think she'd love me anymore after what I'd done. I was convinced that I was alone in it, but I still wanted to make him suffer. I dug through my mom's desk and found the phone number of the Detective that was investigating his embezzlement in Belleville, and I called him up. We spoke for a while, and I gave him the exact address of the hotel, along with it's name and phone number. Two weeks later, he was extradited. A little while later, sentenced to five years in prison. No one had told him what I'd done, and that was fine with me. It meant I got to torture him in my own way. My dad's big thing was writing letters, long ones. He'd write to me, and I'd ignore him. I responded once or twice to letters I found ridiculous (in one, he said all sin was equal, and in another I responded purely to call him a coward for running). I owe it to my dad that I became such a talented writer (which is probably not evidenced in this post), I learned to write for emotional effect in that time. I was in 8th grade at this point, no one else knew what was going on. I got tired of getting letters, so I made sure he couldn't send them to my home address (I lived with my mom). So he'd send them through my great-grandmother. I stopped his ability to send letters to her. Eventually, I had cut him off from anyone who wouldn't pick up the phone or come and visit him. I made sure he felt alone. Fathers day rolled around, it was the summer between my 8th grade and freshman year. He wrote a letter to the editor, "From a father." The letter infuriated everyone around me, including his own family. Within it, he played the classic game: to take responsibility, and in the same breath, pass it to everyone else. He made himself out to be a discouraged man, to be a victim, to make people feel sorry for him. No one fell for it, but I saw an opportunity to put an end to everything. I wrote a letter for next week's paper. Within it, I shared my stories. I was young, and I was just learning to write, but it is the second finest collection of words I've ever put to paper. I could be embarassed about grammar or flow or little errors, but I'm not. It was strong. I told the story which was fresh in my mind, much as I have here. I documented everything that happened, and how I responded. I made it visual, I made it relatable, and I chose my words as carefully as I could. I ended the letter by directly responding to my father's. "From a son." was the title, and this is the last paragraph: "People make their own decisions, dark powers do not make them for you. If you are one of those fathers out there in a situation like that of the one above, take responsibility for yourself. Be a man, and acknowledge what you've done, my father is a coward, he will be for the rest of his life. Do not cry and regret what you've done, there is nothing you can do about it now, own up to it, and do what you can to reverse it.
What is a father? Sometimes I really wish I knew." I didn't allow anyone to read this letter before I sent it in, so the first time anyone had heard of it, it was already in the paper. I saw my mother read it, and even though we'd grown close, it helped to settle things. But the most powerful reaction was that of my grandfather on my mother's side. He hadn't been involved in much of anything on my side, I'd never discussed anything with him. But, sitting at my kitchen table, I saw him read that letter and break down crying. It was at that moment that I knew I had to write for a living. I wanted to write for effect, to change things. I wanted to use my words to change the world, even though I had no idea what my beliefs even were at that point. I just knew that I had to write, and I've never stopped since. My mom says that I looked exhausted through those years, and I'm sure I did. Insomnia and I started a love affair that's still faithful to this day. I'm only 19 now, but it feels like a century since that happened, I refer to it as the "Schism." My mother and I are close, even though she was the last person I told that I was gay (I told the guy I'd fallen in love with before I told her, and I fully expected him to hate me, but he's still a good friend that I care about a lot). My mom and I stay up late sometimes and tell "war stories" of when we lived with my dad, and when we fought him, separate at the time. I feel old, and when I got depressed a few years ago about being in love (figuring out the gay thing at the same time), that made everything worse. I didn't trust anyone because of what my father did, I barely had friends, and I didn't believe that anyone could want to be my friend. I got suicidal (I wanted to do it, but I never attempted, for various reasons), but my best friend listened to me, a lot more than he should have had to (and he still listens to me, because I'm still a lunatic). I owe ironpotato, my best friend (and who's e-mail I ignored the other day because I was moody), my life. If it hadn't been for him, two teachers, another friend named Liz, a lot of people who said a lot of little things without knowing what I was going through, and a very... Unexpected person named John, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't change anything that's happened to me: I'm grateful for all of it. Because of my father's actions, I've become a much more determined individual. I'm less likely to be manipulated, and while I wish I could trust the people I love, it's probably worth not doing so. It's built me in a way that I don't think much of anything aside the death of a loved one would knock me down. I am the most stubborn person I know, and while sometimes I'm an asshole, and sometimes I belittle people, I really do want the best for others. My father's actions have given me the skills to make things happen. Because of everything, I found the best friends I've ever had, I fell in love, not quite fruitlessly: I discovered parts of myself I may otherwise wouldn't have. I developed the skills to write for emotional effect, and I developed a passion for reading and research. Now a days, I do a lot of research into LGBT youth, and youth suicide. Right now I'm working on a screenplay; I finished my first book last year. I had to build myself because my parents were preoccupied, but it happened in the hardest way, and sometimes that's for the best. ---
So, I've told that story here now. I've told it before many times, especially in High School. It's a shame you can't hear it in person, because I'm a good storyteller, otherwise there'd be very little reason for anyone to listen to me. I realize you only asked how old I was when this happened, but it happened over many years. I did feel the need to work and help my mother out. I got my first job at a small newspaper when I shamelessly padded my hours, then got a real job at a nearby place, and got my best friend his first job there so I had someone there. Right now it's between terms at University, and I'm in debt, no job, and I can't even afford to register for classes right now due to a fuckup over summer classes that I need to sort out. But, if there's anything my life has taught me so far, there is no situation that's impossible, and I've had two things I've said over and over again, they've become my personal mottos: "So it goes," and "I'll figure it out." -CashewGuy
Thank you for sharing your extraordinary experiences. I'm glad that you are okay with where you are now and that it inspired in you a love for writing. I hope you now realize that there is no place for shame in you regarding what went down. You were a kid and you were manipulated in to thinking your mom was the enemy. The shame is not yours to carry. Be well!
my respect to you man, best of luck in taking those experiences and carrying them as knowledge for your success.
When I read I thought, "Yes, and here you are now doing the same thing." I don't think I found the narrator to be very sympathetic. I am not trying to say in any way that she brought her problems upon herself or deserved them; not at all. I am saying that this is an article written by someone who temporarily experienced poverty that was completely out-of-the-norm with her day-to-day life and then, after a few years, was able to leave her temporary financial abode of "poverty" and then wrote about it (which is a reasonable thing for her to do). I would be more sympathetic if this was a story about people who cannot so easily escape poverty and how they deserve respect/lack of judgment/sympathy, highlighted and/or expanded by the author's own experiences, as opposed to what it is currently. I did feel she was complaining a bit much, as I also felt when she complained about the guy who gave her the Jesus card. On the other hand, a close friend very recently told me, essentially, that I am not a very sympathetic person, and my reaction was pretty much "Yeah, that's fair," so that's coming in through here too of course.That’s the funny thing about being poor. Everyone has an opinion on it, and everyone feels entitled to share.
These people are extremely annoying, belittling, and condescending. Throughout this same time period, my mom worked in a small local diner. I don't know how many people know this, but waitresses don't make minimum wage, they make about $3-4 an hour here in Illinois. We LIVED on tips. So when those people, excuse me, those pricks, leave those cards, it does nothing but take food out of our mouthes, and it made us bitter and sad. I didn't get the vibe that she complained too much. As someone who lived a situation of going from middle-class to dirt poor almost overnight during that time period, who's family is just barely crawling out of that hole (I've left for college, up to my eyeballs in debt and still not able to afford it, my mom has just managed to buy a house after working 12 hour days at a factory and going to school at the same time), I'd rather the story be out there at all. This was an interested read, I liked it.I did feel she was complaining a bit much, as I also felt when she complained about the guy who gave her the Jesus card. On the other hand, a close friend very recently told me, essentially, that I am not a very sympathetic person, and my reaction was pretty much "Yeah, that's fair," so that's coming in through here too of course.
I assume we're talking about the Jesus guys and not friends that say you're not sympathetic here. Yes, in Delaware and PA actually the minimum waitperson page is $2.73. Laws are usually in place so that if you don't earn actual minimum wage with tips, the employer must pay the difference, however I imagine that is a difficult thing to pursue (much like food stamps). I can understand that not being tipped makes a person bitter and sad as a result. Another phenomenon I've witnessed that arises out of a lack of tips from perceived groups of people can be a rise in generalizations and stereotypes made about those people (for example, "black people don't tip") which I think unfortunately leads to cycles of negative feedback and behavior. One should tip, and if one cannot, one should not eat out - that is the opinion I hear from my waitperson relatives and friends. I think the article is fairly well-written and could be a lot worse in terms of "woe is me." I agree. I'm glad to hear your family is doing more successfully although of course sounds like there is still a lot in front of you.
EVERYONE should be mandated to work in a service/tipping industry when they're young or they should have to forego the privilege of dining out. It's hard work and often for little to no pay. The $2-$3 an hour wage is pretty standard in the US. Without tips, you get screwed unless you are "in training" in which case restaurants pay minimum wage.
In psychological terms, I went through this in about 2000. My parents were boarding school educated, and I went to a private school for 3.5 years. The main reason why the transition is hard is because of the degree to which that education brainwashes you to think that you're a member of the proverbial ruling class.
Worth pointing out: The author claims she drove her Mercedes to pick up "food stamps" but she's talking about WIC. My wife has lots of moms on WIC. Yeah, you have to verify income but it's a lot less grim than she makes out, at least in the states I'm familiar with. Of course, Connecticut is not one of those states. I agree with TNG that there's a lot of trauma in shedding 100 large in salary and 150 large in house value, but I agree with you that "income verification" is not a large part of that trauma. I mean, FFS. You have to bring paystubs to get your natural gas turned on in Washington.
Perhaps. Could be that the car was paid off, reliable and didn't have as much resell value as you might think. It may have been foolish to sell a car in that condition and would be more advantageous to the family to keep it, not because of the brand but because of the practicality.
If the car isn't worth much, than why is it a big deal that the person is getting food stamps in it? And the car being paid off just means you keep more when you sell the thing, and an older car can be just as reliable so long as you don't go too cheap.
From the article: And even if we had wanted to do that, here’s what people don’t understand: The reality of poverty can spring quickly while the psychological effects take longer to surface. When you lose a job, your first thought isn’t, “Oh my God, I’m poor. I’d better sell all my nice stuff!” It’s “I need another job. Now.” When you’re scrambling, you hang on to the things that work, that bring you some comfort. That Mercedes was the one reliable, trustworthy thing in our lives.But it wasn’t a toy — it was paid off. My husband bought that car in full long before we met. Were we supposed to trade it in for a crappier car we’d have to make payments on? Only to have that less reliable car break down on us?
Perhaps i'm crazy, but can't you get a car for about 3-5K and not make payments on it? I have a car that runs... fairly well.... my friend has a car that is pretty nice, and wasn't much at all. No payments required. If I were scrambling for money, and wasn't able to find a job, my first thoughts would be "what can I get more money out of", and i'd probably sell the car and get the food stamps.
I have a car that runs... fairly well....
When you have two infants "fairly well" doesn't cut it when you have "reliably well" already in hand, with no car payments. As she mentions, there is certainly a psychological component to her decision, but I wouldn't discount the knowledge of knowing, "well at least our car won't break down."