I am very poor, and I live in a red state. I make eight bucks an hour and work thirty hours a week. Half my income goes to rent; I'm barely eating. I have very limited access to health care and at my age, need it desperately. Besides my physical health problems, I suffer from several mental illnesses. I can't get professional help for those either. I have no car and have great difficulty with transportation. Recently my glasses were destroyed, but I can't replace them.
You might be surprised to learn that I grew up in a wealthy family. I went to prestigious universities for college and graduate school, where I excelled. I was valedictorian of my grad school class and later wrote a chapter for a textbook on giftedness. I've worked with children of all ages and especially enjoyed my work with teens. I also enjoyed doing group work with women. I've worked with gifted kids and drug-addicted teens; young sex offenders and inner-city gang kids. I think I'm a pretty good counselor.
I'm not alone in my poverty. I am one of 45 million Americans who live below the poverty line, and we are suffering every day. I believe that most Americans don't really understand what it's like to be poor in America today, particularly under Republican policies. Even if you were poor in your past, the experience of poverty today is very different. I know because I'm living it. I can see the particular shape of it because I know how the other half truly lives. I'm able to describe it because my excellent education prepared me to do so. I can research poverty easily because of the glorious internet. And you can read my words because of Daily Kos.
I fell through the cracks due to a combination of my own stubbornness, mental health issues, and sheer bad luck, but mostly, pissing off my parents so much that they cut me off. I'm sure everyone struggling to survive has a similar sad tale. When I write about being poor, among the reactions are two I want to address first off: that I want pity, and that I am envious.
Of course I'm envious! I am totally jealous of people who have access to health care and thusly will not die before meeting their grandchildren. I am also jealous of people who have interesting, fulfilling jobs where they are able to use the full strengths of their talents to benefit their community. I do not envy the rich in general though. I don't want fancy clothes or a sports car or any of that stuff. I don't want the psychic debt or the character flaws that seem to so often come along with being fabulously wealthy.
Please, please do not feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the fifteen million children who live below the poverty line. I don't want or need your pity. I'm fucking resourceful! I dumpster dive, I wear used clothing, I barter with friends, I ride my bicycle, I steal books off the internet, I have two cast-off partially broken netbooks! I have a small circle of friends who will never let me be homeless or hungry. And I have reasons for being in South Carolina, but someday I can leave this state and live in a blue state where the legislators are sane. I have hope for the future. Too many poor people don't.
I'm not writing about poverty so people will feel sorry for me; I don't matter that much. I'm writing about poverty to give a voice to the poor, to help people understand what the real experience of poverty is like for the people they see everyday. People complain about the surliness of minimum-wage workers; well, to me that's completely understandable. It's more remarkable that most low-wage workers continue to smile, continue to go the extra mile for their customers and bosses, continue to just quietly deal with their shitty, shitty lives.
I'm going to continue researching poverty, experiencing poverty (pretty sure; I don't play the lottery,) and writing about poverty, because the words need to be said, the experience needs to be conveyed, and the voices of the poor must be heard.