Poverty: My Story

There’s a plethora of news articles discussing poverty as it relates to society as a whole. There are Government studies, prejudices, and surveys. There are misconceptions, stereotypes, classes to educate those in the throes, assistance programs that help (or don’t), and people fighting every day to overcome the odds.

Let me be very clear at this point: I am not a statistic.

My Social Media brand states quite simply, “I’m a Christian. Writer. Mom. Single. Daughter. Friend. Worker. Chef. Believer.” I’m also a baseball nut, coffee drinker, Disney lover, cat owner. I’m sympathetic, empathetic and at times extremely temperamental. At no point have I ever been a statistic.

I am a person. My home is where I live and where I raise a family. We are not charts on a piece of paper or a spread-sheet column.

The very first thing you should understand about me is that I am blessed. I believe in God, I have felt His hand upon my daily moments and I know without Him I would be lost. I am poor by the world’s standards, but definitely not by His.

Trying to live up to the world’s idea of how my life should be is utterly exhausting. Working long hours while running a household can be overwhelming. And so rewarding.

I am deeply bothered by the stigma that my life brings to me and my daughter. I’m often overwhelmed at the inconsideration pushed upon us for lack of funds. I’ve prayed and thought long and hard about writing this post. There are some things that private. And then there are times when my voice may be the only voice someone hears. For others who can’t speak for themselves.

Poverty is not One Size Fits All or even Most. Poverty is deeply personal, intimate, and unique to each person. Not each family. Each. Person.

This is my story.

This is by no means a complaint against the world. Nor is it a cry for help. It’s not meant to take away any other person’s individuality or be thrown to the masses. This is simply My Story. Or at least the parts of it I can share.

I can’t say I was born into poverty. I think maybe I was, myself and my brothers. But we didn’t know different. Dad worked hard for income, Mom worked hard at keeping a home. At some point in my youth, both worked. We all came together for dinner around the table. We went to school, did our homework and worked our chores. We played games. We talked. We went to Church. We were a family. When my brothers were each old enough, they found part-time jobs to supplement their own pocket cash. I babysat the kids across the street. We didn’t know what poverty was.

We had a clean house. Home cooked meals. We didn’t know we were poor. We knew we didn’t always have as much as the kids down the block. But we always had more than we needed. And we were okay with that.

When I was 13, my dad passed away. Mom chose to move us closer to her sister, also a widow. Thus we transplanted from Michigan to California.  My mom has always been an extremely strong, hard worker. If we were in Laura Ingalls’ days, she’d be known as a Pioneer Woman. When there’s a problem, she finds a solution. Even though the word “No” is often a part of our vocabulary, the word “Can’t” rarely is. Her home is immaculate. Her yard is landscaped. She’s always found a way to take care of what needs taking care of. I am very proud of my mom, and just as proud that my daughter inherited that same “Can-Do” spirit. We are not poor people. We are just people in poor circumstances.

We live in the largest county in America. Currently, our unemployment rate averages between 12 and 14%. That means one in seven people who used to work or can work, is not working. That doesn’t take into consideration the dependents that person is responsible for: a spouse, child, or other dependent. I don’t like the game people play with these numbers.

I’m blessed to have a job. I work 35 hours a week. It’s not much, but it’s honest work. It feels good to have a job I can go to. A place where I can contribute back to society and be a part of the outside world. I enjoy paying bills. I do! I like the feeling of writing out checks and buying my own groceries and putting gas in the car. I don’t like knowing that the payments I make aren’t always enough. I don’t like the calls I get each day asking me for money I don’t have.

But I like that each week, the calls are fewer. I like that each payday, I can afford to put just a little more money toward paying off the smallest debt. And maybe next payday, a little more. It’s not easy and there are often times when I’m unable to do anything more than the minimum payments… and sometimes not even that. It’s embarrassing. And that’s a stigma I face a lot. The stigma that being in poverty carries an attitude of apathy.

I want to be self-sufficient. I’m not there yet. I don’t know that I ever will be. But I’m learning a lot on this journey. I’m learning every day. How to cook differently. How to juggle a budget where the outgo always exceeds the income. How to get by for less than what society tells me I need. And how to ask for help when I really need it.

I’m blessed with a wonderful support system. I have family and friends and church and community. I’m not alone. I have people. My people. People who come alongside me to lighten the load however they can. A grandpa who constantly teaches Dot maintenance and farming. My mom who shares cooking secrets. My boss consistently trains me to be better at my job, and gives me opportunities to grow and not be just the stagnant front-desk person. I have people who see me through my struggles. And, yes. I have struggles. Who doesn’t? But I don’t struggle with life. There are worse things than not paying off debt in a timely manner.

For my family, Poverty is a matter of perspective.

My yard is still 90% dirt. That’s not because we’re poor. That’s because I live in the desert. That’s because I don’t know gardening. But I’m learning. Some day, my yard will be completely landscaped. For now, we’re taking it one square foot at a time.

I still treat Dot to the occasional pizza or Starbucks. We need that treat once in a while. When I was growing up, Mom had this saying on a bookmark:

“If, of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves
alone to thee are left,
Sell one & from the dole,
Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul”
– Muslihuddin Sadi,
13th Century Persian Poet

I remember asking her what that meant. She smiled as she told me, it’s another way of saying “Man cannot live by bread alone.” There must be more to life than physical needs. We must also take care of our spirit, our soul, our emotions.

Imagine my delight when in the first Spring of my somewhat fixer-upper home I discovered Hyacinth growing in my front yard.

Grape Hyacinth grows in the desert.

Grape Hyacinth

We all need a time of refreshment. Being in poor circumstances no longer allows us the luxury of Disney passes or even a weekend getaway. My mom has another great wall hanging in her kitchen. It reads

Do What You Can
Where You Are
With What You Have.

And that’s why I still try to make time for Family Game Nights. Why we scrimp and save for our Girl Dates to Starbucks or McDonald’s. That’s why a 40-minute drive to Casey’s Cupcakes and the Mission Inn every few months isn’t indulgent ~ it’s necessary!

Because I refuse to let my daughter think she lives in poverty. Because she doesn’t. Because poverty is a temporary disposition that I refuse to settle into comfortably, and I will fight tooth and nail to make sure she doesn’t know what she’s missing.

I believe this poverty is temporary. I refuse to be a societal statistic.

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

You may also enjoy reading:
There’s Hope for Bedford Manor
“Be Not Afraid”. Yes, I’m talking to YOU.
How To Eat For Free And Have Fun Doing It (Or, How Printing Coupons Gave Me a Really Great Weekend!)
WinCo Wins: Lunch for a Dollar!
Dear God, I Owe You An Apology (Quit Helping Me!)
Winco Wins

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Am I One of “Those” People?

I have an online friend who suffers from Tourette Syndrome. She’s not shy about sharing her story, but I’m ashamed to admit I often wonder how I will react when the day comes that we meet in person.

I like to think I’m not judgmental or instinctive with my responses. I realize she can’t help the things she sometimes does. When we talk, I feel so much pain for the sorrows and challenges she sometimes endures. But when faced with the thought of being in that moment with her tics, can I be the kind of person she needs me to be? Can I not have that knee-jerk reaction I sometimes have when faced with the unknown, that instant instinct to shush someone else or turn away? Can I not just stand there, not knowing what to do? Can I reach beyond myself to be that compassionate, caring friend; the same as she’s been to me?

Kate is confident. Able. Capable. Accomplished. Her Tourette’s is just a small facet of the wonderful person she is. I don’t want that to define her any more than I want my poverty to define me. It’s just a moment, just a glimpse of the totality of this life.

She often fills her Facebook page with helpful links and wonderful insights. Tourette’s is mistakenly (or often intentionally, carelessly) used as the brunt of Hollywood jokes, a means of excusing bad behavior and foul language in a manner reminiscent of the Three Stooges’ foolery instead of open, honest dialogue.

The truth is, if it’s misunderstood and can get a laugh, that’s what people pay to see. It’s disgusting and disappointing. Society often ridicules what it does not understand, making it all the more difficult to understand it. If it weren’t for Kate, I still would have a minimal perception of her reality. Hers, and the millions more who suffer this syndrome.

Y’all know me and words. I love words. I love their definitions. I love the words behind the words. “Syndrome” simply means a group of symptoms indicative of a particular condition.

But that’s just it. It’s a syndrome. It’s not her. It’s not her life. I’m saddened with the reality that Tourette’s is often the only thing people notice about those who suffer. It’s not just a momentary tic but the overall stigma, the fear and mockery that go with it. To label anyone in totality with just one description is unfair and incomplete.

I’m just as much to blame as other ignorants; I haven’t tried to give much understanding to it before I met Kate. I’m not good at reaching out when I don’t understand something. I assume they don’t want me to learn more; they want me to leave them alone and act like it doesn’t exist. I don’t want to embarrass the other person, and I’m inadequately prepared to offer what they need.

Not Kate. She’s not afraid to say she has Tourette’s, not afraid to share how misperceptions, prejudices, and even bullying are parts of life she’s had to (but shouldn’t have to) deal with. This morning, her Facebook wall had this post:

Tourette Syndrome

Oh, how this reached me, reached into me. Is it my own discomfort that caused me to be one of those insensitive people? Have I unwittingly made fun of someone else, instead of showing them understanding and acceptance? How often have I walked away instead of choosing to stand firm? What kind of example am I setting if I choose to not promote understanding and acceptance, if I choose to not seek it out myself?

What I know about Kate: she makes ornaments. She sells handmade jewelry (I can’t wait to buy this pair of Christmas Earrings). She’s smart. She contributes more to society than a lot of people. She cares. I mean, she fundamentally cares about all of humanity. And through it all, I’ve never heard her complain.

Even though she has a right to. I asked her about this, and she simply said, “It’s hard to complain when there is always someone worse off. I think seeing others in front of me needing help makes me focus on their needs rather than my own…”

Her post made me face my own demons and insensitive behaviors. Whether it’s someone struggling with Tourette’s, anger management, or just a bad day; how often do I think to myself, “There’s something wrong with them” and “Don’t get involved”.

I can be a selfish person. I don’t want to be. I have my beliefs and assumptions and have let them color how I see people. I like to think I’m sympathetic, but I have far to go. Certainly, I’m not a bully. But I see now I’m far less understanding than I could be. I hold no ill-will toward others, but neither do I step out often to help a stranger.

I want to write so much more about society’s misconceptions, but I’ll leave that up to Kate. I’m ashamed of my lack of support toward others. I’m choosing to make a strong effort to look beneath what I see. To get to know the person, not the behavior. No matter who you are: We all have struggles. Some are just more evident.

My motto should no longer be “Live and Let Live” but rather “Do Unto Others”. When I am hurt, confused, struggling, or misunderstood it means more to me than money to have someone come alongside and walk with me, to share my journeys. I want to be that for Kate, and all those I know.

Is it too soon to make a New Year’s Resolution?

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

For more information, read Kate’s latest Blog post: Is Tourette’s Cursed?

This post is also linked up with Shell at Things I Can’t Say for POUR YOUR HEART OUT

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