01 Feb The Shadow of Poverty
The trauma of poverty is real and resonates long after there is money in the account, food in the fridge, clothes on your back, shelter over your head, cars in the garage, and decades have passed.
The clothes in the dryer were smeared in one or more places by the cherry red ChapStick which I forgot in my jean pocket. The heap of clothes, which smelled like laundry detergent, cherry ChapStick, and curry (the natural smell of our home) were immediately dropped to the floor as opposed to the awaiting laundry basket. Much like the clothes, I collapsed on our cold, garage floor and placed my face in my hands. I had no tears. I was too worn out to even cry. I was 17 years-old and already felt beat up by life.
At 15 years of age, determined to purchase my fashion from some place other than Montgomery Wards, where Umme worked, I began to devise a plan to earn some money. After receiving a high school issued work permit, I applied, and was hired at a key duplicating and engraving kiosk at the same mall where Umme worked. It was conveniently located inside of the Wards so Umme could keep a close eye on me, and at the furthest point from the main mall so I wouldn’t be disturbed by friends hanging out.
Umme and I drove together every Saturday and Sunday, her in prayer and me in teenage silence, watching the homeless seek shelter at bus-stops, under trees, or at the landmark tee-pee motel, an ancient reminder of Route 66 and all the promises of a bygone era. Once at the mall, there was no people watching expect for the customers who shopped primarily at Wards and parked their cars in the parking lot outside of the large glass doors where I stood every weekend throughout high school. I made $3.75 an hour.
In the beginning, I would bring my homework, which there was plenty – being in AP classes, but foot traffic, intermittent questions about the cost of engraving a bracelet, money clip, or business card holder, and the intercom system prevented me from retaining anything. I stopped schlepping homework to and from work. Instead, I calculated costs of each paycheck: How much money I needed to buy a pair of Levi’s? How much would it cost for my own phone line and the monthly expenses? How much money will I need to hang out with friends for lunch and a movie? Is there a new Andre Agassi shirt at Journey’s?
It was understood that Puppa would not be assisting in any purchases and Umme was doing the best she could for my brothers and I. My parents had separate accounts since arriving in the United States. Puppa provided a “roof over our heads” and paid for the utilities while Umme took care of the rest of our needs – entirely on her minimum wage earnings. Anything extra, I was on my own.
High school is not the time or peer group where one wants to stand out, where one can appreciate the uniqueness of her journey, or where one wants to be different. Not being able to afford things most of my friends were getting was different; I did what I could to assimilate.
My norm was being a full-time honors student, writing for our newspaper, playing tennis, working on the weekends, and saving up so I too could shop at Miller’s Outpost. While most of my peers were enjoying their quintessential, high school experience, I was tallying accounts in my head and keeping a ledger of my needs versus my wants.
The smell of denim greeted me as I walked into our local Miller’s Outpost store, a few blocks from our home, but inaccessible to me until I had the funds to purchase my 501 button-fly jeans.
The peppy, gum-smacking, perm-treated, young girl came bouncing into my peripheral, “Hiiii! How can I help you?”
“I’m good,” I replied. “I know what I’m looking for.”
“Yes, I knew what I was looking for but I wanted to sit with the feeling that I had somehow arrived.”
Yes, I knew what I was looking for but I wanted to sit with the feeling that I had somehow arrived. I’m buying clothes from stores where I want, with money that I’ve earned, and gosh darn it – I’m going to soak this in!
The denim jeans grazed against my fingertips: smooth, rough, worn, dark indigo, faded, whitewash, black, white, with buttons, zippers, or snaps, racks upon racks of denim. As far as the eye could see an ocean of blue. I picked out my jeans in my size and proceeded to the check out. I thanked the girl with the cheesiest smile she had probably ever seen, proud that I had purchased my first article of clothing.
These same jeans were now streaked with cherry red ChapStick, dried into the seams, encrusted into the denim, and damaged beyond repair. I took them out of the dryer, used my nails to coax the stain out, which reminded me of Lady Macbeth and the paper that was due later that week, “Out, damned spot!” That entire load of laundry – every piece of garment purchased by me – was ruined and all because I made a mistake. Lesson learned – the hard way.
This past Sunday, as my family slept upstairs, I enjoyed the tranquility of a beautiful sunrise, a cup of hot tea, meditation, and an opportunity to start a load of lights. As I lifted the white denim jeans out of the washer, the same jeans which one of my sons complimented me on, “Mom, you can pull off white jeans!”, a dark blue stain glared back at me from the back left pocket. My fingers gingerly pulled out the indigo colored, “free drink” coupon from a temple casino night fundraiser where I wore them last.
“The shame of poverty cast its shadow over me once again.”
Stain of Poverty
Instantly, I was that same teenager, heaped on the floor of her garage knowing she had ruined a pair of jeans she worked so hard to purchase. Tears came to my eyes and my throat tightened up. The shame of poverty cast its shadow over me once again. But, I’m no longer poor I thought. I can go to Old Navy today, as soon as it opens up, and purchase another pair of white jeans, if they’re on sale of course (I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with paying full price.) I breathed through my anxiety, fear of being poor once again, took a stain stick remover to the spot, placed it back in the wash with Oxiclean and bleach, and hoped for results.
The entire time the washing machine was purging the stain, I was purging my shame. After many years of living a comfortable life, one moment – a single point in time – made me feel the weight of a lifetime of uneasiness, despair, and never having enough therefore never being enough, which is a story I’ve been telling myself and holds no power over me now.
The stain is less discernable; a marking which you have to look at very hard to notice. I kept the jeans, deciding not to purchase new ones. They are a reminder that even though I no longer live in poverty, much like the stain there is a tinge of emotional marking left on my human psyche that I am still healing.
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