I shouldn’t be this poor. Not that I am entitled to anything more than what I have, but I could have done better for myself. My life has been a series of choices, mostly bad, that have me sitting here on my mom’s old computer, hoping to find my voice among the millions.
I am part of the 99%, but I am not sure that taking from people who have made it into the 1% is really a solution. I won’t lie, I would like to be up there, not worrying about things like rent or how my momma’s going to live when she can’t work anymore. I am more fortunate than a good deal of the third world, which I try often to remind myself that I do having running water and flush toilets. I don’t have to pick between eating or heating my home. I am extremely grateful to have been born here in America – even if the milk and honey are served out disproportionately.
I grew up, lower middle class I guess. My dad worked in textiles and my mom babysat children in the neighborhood, to have what she called “her money.” I had what I would call a typically dysfunctional childhood – complete with domestic violence, molestations and being told every day I was not worth a half-penny. I guess you would say I was the kind of kid who was told by her momma that if she hadn’t lost her virginity to that jerk, and knew about birth control, I wouldn’t be around. I didn’t live without any joy, I suppose because I just thought all families had horrible secrets behind the shiny brass knockers.
I won’t say that hasn’t affected me, but now, at 43, I want better for myself. So, the quest begins….