Posted by Anonymous on 2015/07/23 under Uncategorized I’m a young man who isn’t really anything extraordinary. At first glace, most people tend to make awful assumptions: That I grew up in some affluent, rich family of business leaders and community leaders who were prominent, intelligent and sexy. The irony of it is, I am not prominent and I wouldn’t exactly call myself a sexy guy, and I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m particularly intelligent, not more than anyone else. You see, the reality is that I grew up a bastard, never knowing my father and my mother growing rapidly mentally ill from the stress of single-motherhood and poverty. Poverty was all I knew growing up, and now that I am an independent adult out on his own, I still only know poverty. Yet, it’s an acceptable poverty, because I’m young and going to school and seeking a better life.Though, I never really understood why people held so much disdain for my mother and neighbors growing up, they were just like all the rich parents I met from friends at school, they just didn’t have as nice of things and received assistance from the government. It was baffling really, because most of the rich kids and their parents, not knowing my clothes were from good will or handed down to me by an empathetic parents of friends, would talk about how the poor deserved less than what they had, and how they were sucking America dry. This particular family whose child I was friends with said very hateful things about my neighbors and mother as they drank their fancy wine, as they cut their thick steaks on their fine china before driving their 2012 Corvette to get desert. We were making life hard for these poor people? I felt ashamed that my lunch at school was free, that the food in my fridge was bought with Food Stamps, that the guy cleaning my teeth was getting paid for through Medicaid. I was alive at the expense of “hard working” Americans, whose grandparents worked so hard to bankrupt several other businesses so they could give their children the newest and most expensive luxuries. Terrible people like my mother and I were making life so hard for these poor people that I became deeply depressed, so much that I still feel the echoes of that shame and sadness six years later. “I work for my money, and these people have the audacity to want to EAT?!!?! Despicable, they should get jobs” If it wasn’t for being so kind to the other children at school, I never would have met more well-off children. I learned to talk like them, and I kept my mouth shut unless I was directly spoken to. Poverty disciplined me far better than the stern hand of the father I never met. It was my curiosity that lead me to explore the world, to seek knowledge, and to learn valuable lessons that impressed so many, who would guide me. One family I met was so very sympathetic towards my disposition, and helped in many, many ways beyond simply feeding me. I hated accepting their help, I hated that they were kind to me, but it would have been rude to display this hate especially in the face of generosity. Truly, this family helped me realize that I shouldn’t hate my mother for being sick and I shouldn’t hate myself for needing help. I was but an innocent child, I never chose to be born into the environment that I was. My mother never chose to be raped. There weren’t any choices involved in our disposition, and hypothetically speaking if my mother had made a mistake or two along the way why should she suffer for life for it? Why should her child suffer for her mistakes? Poverty is more than just a condition, it’s a shackle. A shackle I’m so close to breaking but I fear I hurt myself in the process. Every turn I am met with an obstacle to climb, and the weight of poverty holds me down. I work three times as hard as many children I graduated with, and yet, I’m just barely keeping up. To some, a broken down car means being late to work and a phone call to their parents for help. To some, holidays are time to relax. So some, a tuition increase is a belly ache for their parents. To some, an ear infection is a simple treat. I wish I had as nice of attire for job interviews, but I can’t afford it. I wish I had my parents to help my apply for a loan, but I have better credit then my mom. And oh, those poor, poor entrepreneurs have less money for material objects, but that’s an acceptable cost considering those in poverty are less than human. The poor are nothing more than dogs, begging at your feet for what little scraps you might throw them.
“It’s their fault they’re poor, if they tried as hard as me, they’d have jobs and wouldn’t be poor”
“This woman is hopeless, and she’s a schizophrenic, I can’t hire her for my business, she’d scare away customers”
“Why would I hire some poor kid from the ghetto? He probably does drugs and won’t be a very good worker”
For me, a broken car means less money to be made, and the head ache of figuring out how I’m going to fix it.
For me, holidays are dreadful, less work means less money, and money buys my food.
To me, a tuition increase means more debt, if I even qualified for anything other than Federal aid.
To me, it scares me to death because I’m not sure when it will go away.
Careful now, because we might just bare our teeth one day.