Poverty Lingers On and On

Today I am celebrating my 32nd birthday. I look 22. I have been asked to produce proof of age for purchasing alcohol as recently as a few months ago. Lucky me. However, I feel 52. No one can tell my background by looking. Not-so-lucky me. Mostly, I bear invisible signs of being broken down. I have had back surgery, heel spurs, arthritis, major depression, anxiety, and endocrine problems. An untreated ear infection during my youth has left me with impaired hearing. Poor nutrition has led to more visible signs of a broken body--bouts with obesity and broken strands of poorly nourished hair. Then there are the prescriptions I need for my peace of mind: an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety.

1980

My 4th grade class voted in a mock election. I voted for Ronald Reagan. In the real election, my parents voted for him as well. At the time, my father worked full time as a maintenance man, and my mother worked part time as a substitute K-12 teacher. By 1981, my father was laid off from his job. Once his unemployment benefits ran out, we survived on my mother’s work. As the unemployment rate climbed and competition for jobs rose, my mother was called less and less frequently to teach. My parents were not too worried at first. They were confident that the new president would change the economic tide with his trickle down strategies. As time passed, and our economic situation became more ominous, my mother called the welfare office to see if our family could receive assistance. The answer was no. Government policy was that welfare only be given to single parents. In fact, what aid had been available was being cut under Reagan’s economic plan.

Slowly, our family began to curtail spending on things like clothing, heat, water, and finally food. I got my first job in 4th grade. I was nine years old when I became a Des Moines Register newspaper carrier for half of the town of Denver, Iowa. The paper delivery business had been okay in the summer, but as the air grew steadily colder I began what would become my lifelong fear of winter. I’d bundle up in several layers of sweaters, put on heavy boots, and pull on a parka. Each day, I walked about two miles to deliver all of the papers. The exertion from lugging pounds of newspaper taxed my lungs as I struggled to breathe bitterly cold air. The warm, exhaled moisture in my breath made my scarf damp, which in turn, led it to freeze. My mittens never kept my fingers from freezing, and my multiple layers of socks did not save my toes.

When it was extra cold, my eyelashes froze together. Sometimes, I would need to pull my eyelashes apart just to be able to see. Whenever this happened, I became scared. A Des Moines Register paper carrier had recently been kidnapped. I felt safe believing I could fight off any attacker if I could just see him. It was not easy to maintain this bravado being a young girl walking alone in the dark before sunrise. However, I was keenly aware that my contribution to our family’s income was critical.

1981

My younger brother and I got off the school bus at the end of the day on December 18th to find a police officer. He put us in the back seat of his car and told us he was taking us to the hospital without explaining why. During the 12-mile drive, I remember clearly being convinced that my parents and my preschool siblings must have died in an awful car crash. I squeezed my brother’s hand and whispered that I would take care of him. Inside, I was petrified.

Fortunately, I had been wrong. My entire family was alive. They just were not going home together. Child welfare workers were responding to reports that my siblings and I were being “neglected.” When they arrived, the temperature in our house was 38º, except in one room where we all lived around a wood burning stove. The water pipes had frozen at some point. They found our food supply consisted only of canned vegetables taken from our garden that previous summer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bad Parents, we need to talk to your daughter privately. The officer outside will bring you to the lobby area.”

My parents were not recognizable, because they behaved like obedient children. I was unaccustomed to seeing my parents taking orders. The bearded man told me to take the seat my mother had vacated. He settled across from me with a clipboard. The female police officer sat in a corner of the room.

“Did you eat breakfast today?” he asked quickly.

What a weird question, I thought. I was getting warm in my winter clothes, but my feet were wet and cold. I curled my toes tightly together as I considered his question. But past experience told me that I should answer yes. Grandma and grandpa would also ask this question whenever I went to stay with them. Mama and dad told me to always answer affirmatively.

“Yes, I had cereal, and eggs, and bacon,” I lied.

“Does your family have a refrigerator?”

“It stopped working. We keep things outside to keep them cool.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“I have a mattress in the basement. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Your parents left your sister and brothers alone at home. They can’t do that. I want you to tell me honestly about how they take care of you.”

I did not like this man with a complete mane of hair around his face. He scared me, and I resented how he talked about my mama and dad.

“Okay, you said you had bacon and eggs this morning. How did your mama cook these for you?”

“We have a hot plate. It’s like a mini stove.”

“Hmm, well, your house does not have any electricity, so how did the food get hot?”
I could only glare in response. At that point, a man wearing a white-coat opened the door. He was obviously a doctor. “I can examine her now,” he told the hairy man.

He held my hands in his, carefully looking at my fingertips for signs of frostbite. He then asked me to remove my boots and socks. I did so unhappily, because I was concerned about my toes never warming up.

1982

I did not like living in the city. Waterloo, Iowa sounds small. It is, but for a rural state, it is the big city. My parents moved there, into government housing and in exchange, the State returned my brothers and sister and me. Eventually, when my parents divorced, the courts calculated my father could afford to pay $75 a month in child support. My father never missed making his child support payments. I delivered my morning newspapers on a new route. It was the city, so it seemed scarier. Now when my eyelashes froze together, I would panic and feel like screaming. Still I told no one of that old fear of being kidnapped. We needed the money.

It was time to go shopping for school clothes. I lowered my head, so my chin touched my chest. Hugging the storefront window as I walked toward the entrance of the second hand clothing store, I allowed my mother to serve as a barrier so that I would not be seen.

“I hate coming here. Someone will see me, and they will tell everyone in school,” I hissed to my mother. “This is going to be my first year in middle school, and I don’t want it to be ruined.”

“Anyone who sees you here must need to shop here as well,” she reasoned.

“But that won’t stop them from driving by and seeing us here.” I slipped into the door, relieved to be off the street. Although I did not want to shop in a secondhand store, the excitement of potentially finding fashionable clothing became the focus of my attention. I left my mother in the shelves dedicated to outfitting young boys, and headed for the girl’s clothing. At the circular racks of clothing, I pulled apart two shirts to allow a full view of an eye-catching red shirt. There was a large stain on the lower right side of this otherwise stylish shirt. In disappointment, I moved onto the next few items. Critiquing each shirt, I passed over most of the selections. There were two shirts and a dress that looked like they would fit in with what my classmates were wearing. In particular, there was a long-sleeved, pastel yellow t-shirt with rainbow colors on the sleeves, like a baseball jersey. This was a rare find, because shirts like these were considered quite popular.

At the changing room, I found that the shirts stretched tightly around my chest. Frustration built as I realized these items did not fit. Revisiting the clothing racks, I spent over an hour looking for other decent clothes. My mom and I left after spending $4 for a skirt and two shirts for me, and a few dollars for my brothers’ clothing.

The next day, I adorned myself with a pale green shirt with small flowers. I put on my new skirt, an ivory fabric with large yellow flowers. I was excited about having new clothes, and I had just gotten new white tennis shoes to top off the outfit. My clothing may not have been name brand, but I felt more confidence from my feminine look. To up the ante, I added sky blue eye shadow and plum blush to my face. It was 1982.

In Mr. Lincoln’s classroom, I spent every afternoon learning social studies and English.

“You look nice today, Deborah” said Mr. Lincoln. I felt a rush of pride. The fact that this nice teacher had noticed my appearance made me feel attractive.

During our lunchtime recess, several girls who were considered popular approached me. For a second, I was exhilarated; obviously, they were coming to include me in their clique, because I had new clothes.

“Where did you get that outfit?” Dawn sneered. “It is so ugly, and it does not match.” She was wearing expensive jeans with a pink polo shirt. Her light blonde hair was feathered back from her face. Like Farrah Fawcett.

Dana chimed in to say, “You need to tell your mom to buy you a bra, because you are totally drooping.”

Finally, another member of the group pointed to my shoes. I don’t remember who she was, because I could not lift my eyes to their faces. She declared, “Those came from a secondhand store.”

“They did not. My mom bought them at JC Penney’s,” I protested.
“You liar. I think my mom donated them last week,” she responded.

Dawn, the undisputed leader of this girl group, concluded their sentiments by saying, “You always smell bad. It sucks that my locker is right next to yours. I doubt you will ever have a boyfriend.”

I didn’t bother to respond, because of the lump in my throat. I spent the rest of the day staring at the ground, not sustaining enough energy to keep my head lifted. On the way home from school, Dawn and her friend Dana followed behind me.
“You’re a loser, and we are going to kick your butt.” Despite my fear, I told them to leave me alone. Another girl was walking down the grass on the other side of the road. She called out, “Is everything all right?” She hastily crossed the street, and stood beside me. I recognized her as the girl who belonged to a strange religion. She was required to wear a dress or a skirt every day, and she could not cut her hair.

Dawn and Dana whispered about both of us, making snide evaluations in audible undertones. Nonetheless, they walked away, leaving me with my savior.

1983

We moved out of government housing. We moved to a new school district. Again. It was 8th grade. We were evicted quickly for inability to pay rent. The night of the eviction, my mother took my siblings and myself to an all night diner. By the morning, the manager, or maybe the waitress, had called the police. They escorted our little weary family to the homeless shelter. The sun was coming up. but I was ready for sleep.

So, we moved again. To the African-American side of town. A few days after moving in, a light-skinned girl approached me as I hung our family’s laundry on the backyard clothesline.

“Hi, my name is Gayle. My next door neighbor Brenda told me you just moved into the neighborhood. Where did you live before?”

Somewhat guardedly, I responded, “I lived in public housing on the West side, over by the high school.” I skipped telling her about the 3-month stay in a rental house. Rather than looking at her, I continued to keep my gaze on the clothespins.

“I know someone who lived over there. Those are nice places…how come you moved to the East side?” Gayle was continuing the conversation, a surprising development. I was unaccustomed to having truthfulness about my background met with acceptance.

“My mom did not like the monthly inspections of our apartment. The managers yelled at her for storing pots and pans in the oven. She wanted to get our own place, before they found a reason to kick us out.”

“Well, are you going to be done with the laundry soon? I want to introduce you to my friend. How come you have to do the clothes washing anyway? By the way, your house has bats.”

Before I went to talk with Gayle and meet her friend, I examined my appearance in the panel of mirrors across our living room wall. A wave of anxiety passed over me as I realized my potential new friend had seen me in red polyester shorts with a see-through blue cotton shirt. My hair had been uncombed, and old eyeliner blackened the area under my eyes. I quickly changed into a denim mini skirt, and a polo shirt. I made sure I put the collar of the shirt up, because I wanted to show that I had fashion sense. Running a comb through my hair, and using tissue to rub away the eye makeup, I felt I looked presentably. Gayle and a heavyset black girl sat on the concrete steps leading to Gayle’s front porch. I took in her glistening Geri curl hair style.

“She has no ass, and she ain’t gonna have much luck getting a man,” the unfamiliar darker skinned girl told Gayle immediately. She made no effort to keep her comment from my ears. Turning directly forward, I swallowed, and blinked away tears. These girls would be no different than the girls who taunted me at the last school. I used my hands to cover my backside, ashamed of my flat bottom.

“But ya know, she got good legs, and big boobs,” she continued. I stopped short, and with shakiness in my words, said, “Why don’t you like me?”

“Aww, girl. I can’t say yet about liking you. I’m just telling’ what I see. I got a few boys in mind for you. A couple of cousins.” We were thirteen years old. A few months later, she went with me to get birth control pills from the free clinic. We were being responsible, but the nurses lectured us. They didn’t understand that we could not risk getting pregnant. It could make us stay poor.

1985

Gayle went away for the summer last year and left me to work. Not this year, though. I was going to go with her to Luther College for the summer, taking classes, meeting other kids like me, and maybe making friends. I was accepted to Upward Bound, a government program that assists low-income high school students with attending college by providing college prep experiences. This program was going to save my life. I met friends, began to crack the armor surrounding me. Old notes I read from my file say, “She is really coming out of her shell.”

The Upward Bound summer was supposed to last for six weeks. My family desperately needed money, and the middle weeks of July offered the promise of jobs working in the cornfields. For two to three weeks each summer, people earn minimum wage helping to create hybrid corn. With the opportunity to earn money, I left Upward Bound for two weeks, regretting intensely my need to leave. With my field work money, I bought my family its first car in four years—a 10-year old bright yellow, but very rusty, station wagon. It was an investment that would allow for more employment.