On Being Poor

There is a difference, I have always believed, between struggling paycheck to paycheck, and being poor. Truly poor; worried about meals poor, Le Miz poor. Luckily, (or Blessedly depending on your mindset) I have never been in this category. Oh, we are skating perilously close to the edge these days but we still have a place to live, and thanks to the American taxpayers we still have food to eat. Once we were technically homeless for about a day, after an accepted job offer turned sour and we were road tripping back from New York City to Lexington, KY, without a thought of what we were going to do once we got back. The sunsets in Pennsylvania are truly breathtaking, and we discovered a cute little town called Fairmont, West Virginia where we bought a tire and ate breakfast. Imagine that wierd town that Ewan McGregor visited in "Big Fish" except with shoes and more teenagers working at the Seveneleven.

In my twenties, my peers and I would compare prices of outfits and relish in whoever had found the better deal.

"Cute top!"
"Thanks, Goodwill for five bucks."
"No way, that's awesome!"

We claimed Bohemian status and flaunted our 'artsy' abilities to develope our own personal style with nothing more than some second hand clothes and a big heap of imagination.

These days things are different. During the time that I have been in school and had children, I have made use of some of the programs for which I have become eligible. It started out with occasional visits to the local food bank and has since progressed to WIC and a generous food stamp grocery card. I personally feel very little shame at making use of these programs. They are in place for a reason, and my household has two very active reasons, ages one and three. And God-willing, this is a temporary season.

But upon entering this season, I have noticed a very distinct and markedly different manner of treatment towards me by those who have first hand knowledge of our state. I'll be standing in line at the grocery store, watching the cashier smiling and bantering with the person in front of me. Nothing major, just the weather or the price of peas, or whatever. Then I step forward, pay for the shampoo and hand lotion the normal way. They greet me with a smile and start to ring up my items. When I start to ring up the Juicy Juice apple juice, Cheerios, milk and eggs, I lean forward and say "These are going to be on WIC," And that's when it happens. The reactional shift has ranged from a glazed over, nearly hostile gaze without another word until the end of the transaction, to challenges on what items I have chosen. "You can't get this brand," one woman said of the jar of peanut butter I had chosen.

"Oh," I said "I've gotten it before. Have they changed it?" I said trying my best to sound sincere and apologetic.

"I'm not trying to make trouble," she said still sounding rather challenging, "I'm just telling you what I know,"
Turns out she was wrong. I did have the right brand. But I simpered and apologized none-the-less. For some reason I don't like being challenged, even when I'm right. But that's an issue for another blog.

Another time, after I missed an appointment for WIC (they are every six months and totally out of our routine!), I asked the lady if they ever gave reminder calls or sent out cards or anything like that. You know, like the doctor's offices do. She replied by snapping "We have over a thousand women that come through this office! Do you think we have the time for that?"

The next time I missed an appointment, I recieved a card in the mail after the fact saying "You missed your appointment. If you do not reschedule within 10 days you will be removed from the program!" So of course I wondered, if they can send me a mean note when I miss the appointment, why can't they send me a nice note to remind me of the appointment? Hm. The message seems to be that I am poor and don't deserve the edicts of social niceties. I don't deserve to be looked in the eye or spoken to with respect. When visiting the food stamp office, the case workers rush through their words, avoid eye contact and walk three or four steps ahead when walking down the hall to their office, at such a pace that forces me to nearly trot to keep up.

The last letter we received regarding our children's medical coverage had a short disclaimer that said something along the lines of "If you have any questions in this matter, contact the office within ten days of this post," Oddly enough the post date was already ten days past the day we recieved the letter.

Being poor has opened my eyes to several aspects of our society, not the least of which is that the system is BROKEN. I hear people talk about pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Get a job, any job. When Judge Pirro is faced with a defendant claiming that no one will hire them, she reaces under he desk and thumps down a giant tome of a three ring binder with the word "JOBS" emblazoned accross the front. To which the audience applauds loudly. Surely, this ner-do-well just isn't trying hard enough.

But the truth is this. Even if one is willing to take any job, below ones abilities and education, they won't hire you. You are over qualified. One is told, we can't hire you, it would cost us too much. Work places just won't hire those with years of experience or specialized knowledge, because they would much rather wait for the next applicant who is willing to take much more for much less. The bootstraps are systematically being snipped.

So what can be done? Well, lots of things. One of which is when we see someone using a food stamp card, don't judge. If you see someone wearing an old t-shirt and five dollar sunglasses, don't judge. If you see someone filling out a WIC voucher ahead of you in line at the grocery, don't roll your eyes, sigh loudly and move your cart to a different lane. Everyone deserves a modicum of dignity regardless of their place in life, because we are human beings and we all have to live on this tiny ball of a planet together and somehow figure out how to get along.

And that's really it.