“Poverty is the lack of basic human needs, such as clean water, nutrition, health care, education, clothing and shelter, because of the inability to afford them. Relative poverty is the condition of having fewer resources or less income than others within a society or country, or compared to worldwide averages.”
I never knew I was poor. Young and naïve living a life of normalcy. Everyone I know and everything I know is an illumination of injustice, but in the eyes of the unknown its life with love, life with family, its life lived. A life without poverty is a life of luxury without necessity. A life without poverty is a life of luxury without necessity. Now, reflecting back it was so clear but always unknown until THEY told me.
They told me I was poor through the stained ripped rags brought to our doors in garbage bags donated from the local schools lost and found. The rags which were loved and worn proudly, aqua blue with a dark number 3 sporting a name not my own… Bobby. It was a shirt I wore, with thankful pride.
They told me I was poor through the schools attended— “headstart”, the symbolism of at risk kids in the projects of cities, those students they wanted to get ahead and teach to read at the age of 3. The product of a school that fed the meals not provided at home, that fed me the meals not afforded, signs hung in windows and doors green go, and red stop. Who will board the bus today? Just to enjoy the free daycare that delivered me to pre-preschool by a driver name Barbie.
They told me I was poor through the treats I bought from the store with the coupons provided for the mothers and fathers whose incomes just weren’t enough. The exchange rate for a little something of artificial toxicity many remain to live off.
They told me I was poor through the school supplies lacked, the manipulation of conversation and trades to write something in class or the generosity of the teachers or subsidies. Yet, we always came up with enough.
They told me I was poor through the free lunch I swapped and traded like East India in order to have a taste of that sweet thing they called cold…lunch, the forbidden fruit of my kind.
They told me I was poor by shopping at goodwill and that store that sold all groceries for cheap because all of it was expired. Like spices mixed wrong concocting an errored recipe boiling over and bubbling in our bellies. The store, painting the image of rainbow as a welcome and coloring us with a little warmth in our tummy. We were still thankful.
They told me I was poor through the law suit of money used to provide warmth and food, money stolen to provide for the family through a land source owned and shared, through abuse…and all the things forgotten and lost among the debt of the phone calls we were so used to not answering and the phone calls we made fake names up to like “hello this is sherry from capital one, may I speak to your”… click. Or— “no, they don’t live here”. —and the phone calls it was so natural to ignore. The phone calls perpetuated by credit cards unpaid… accumulating interest day after day until bankrupt. The ring ring… that we picked up and clicked off… the ring ring… of hi this is. CLICK. The ring ring of she or he is not home. The ring ring of silence. The ring ring of… you will not be received. The ring ring of no money here… the ring ring of my kids are hungry. The ring ring of too many so much… you UNPLUG.
They told me I was poor through the time spent with biology, coming from a lineage of color is enough, the time allowed for library excursions, free books, time spent with anything free, the time allowed because jobs were compromised on behalf of poor business choices, that compromised lives, love, and security.
They told me I was poor through the fake peanut butter, hamburger helper, corn beef hash, hot dogs, left over’s from schools and churches, through juicy juice and concentrated grape stuff, through kool aid and frozen pizza and poor man’s hot dish where you mixed anything you had in your house to try and make it taste good and last a week of leftovers and the consumption of many meals of toast digested on the stomach of acid and water. Through rice, rice, and more rice.
They told me I was poor when I came to school and had to do everything on my own. Through a class simulation and not being able to pay for my extracurricular without scholarship, Through my household income and material goods lacked, Through my background and status… through financial aid and grants, lack of resources like a Mercedes and Lexus and a Mac or a dell. Through scrounging for textbooks and borrowing them too. By 3 jobs worked with full time classes to even glimpse to make it… ahead.
They told me I was poor through the lack of books in my house, by the sheets used as curtains, through driving 45 minutes to see the dentist if we could find a car, and never having health insurance.
And I never knew I was poor because I was LOVED.
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In light of the Occupy movements I have felt very disheartened. I have little hope in change because I feel regardless if the 99% come together in the end the middle class will gain and agin forget about the working poor and impoverished that surround them. Or else the government founds a way to appease the most powerful with a voice. It has happened so many times in history (Bacon Rebellion, Ban of Marijuana, the Government Bail Outs). Many of the poor that are affected most greatly by this disparity of 1% cannot afford the liberty to take work off to protest. Their survival depends upon their job, and let alone the idea of working their way out of their state comes at many compromises and costs. Among this I have thought of many things as this intelligent woman has brought up in light of the Occupy media at her college:http://occupywhitesupremacy.tumblr.com/. I would suggest you take a look. Thank you for taking the time to hear me out. Bless you.
