socio-economic class (Page 13)

“Why doesn’t she just get a job?” “I’ve seen her at Whole Foods, she can obviously afford to buy her food.” “All she does is hang out with her kids and play, she’s not even trying to make money.”
These are thoughts I’ve had about other women receiving financial assistance from the government. Since I have judged harshly people receiving food stamps, I know for sure some people will judge me harshly. The truth is, I am in a position to receive food stamps because of the decisions I made up until this point. I made a lot of mistakes over the years.
Being on food stamps lends itself to keeping secrets. I own a business. If I talk about being so poor I need to be on food stamps, I risk a negative impact on my business. That grantwinners.net hasn’t provided me with the income to be financially comfortable means potential new clients will doubt I’m worth hiring. A consultant who is struggling to make ends meet—no matter how unfair or wrong this is—is perceived by most as lower quality, less valuable, less worthy.
So, it’s a risk to tell you I’m not making enough money through grantwinners.net to pay my bills. There are many reasons for that, but the most significant is limited flexibility and time. My priority has been keeping my children’s lives as stable as possible (being with them), so I haven’t made the time to nurture professional relationships, or, to follow up on the many requests for more information I’ve received over the last few years. The end result is I haven’t had enough work.
The struggle to be a freelance consultant aside, I think it’s accurate to say I have never made enough money to live on. Since college (class of ’91), I lived on credit cards, balance transfers, cash advances, several big bailouts from my parents, sporadic freelance income, and my former husband’s regular income. The shame I have felt about using government assistance is because, as I said, it’s my mistakes and poor judgment that brought me here. I need assistance because I screwed around and up for 20+ years. I’m not suggesting I was only irresponsible, but, regarding financial decisions I was foolish and clueless.
I have felt deep shame about declaring bankruptcy and receiving food stamps. Despite this, I’m investigating even more assistance options now, as I learned two relatively major clients are reorganizing and won’t need my help anymore. It’s a scary place. Knowing the nasty thoughts I had about people I knew peripherally being on assistance combined with a deep knowledge that “I did this to myself” has made it humiliating to talk about my real financial situation in any public venue.
However, as the woman who asked the final questions during my food stamps application review said (as I apologetically promised this would be temporary), “This is what it’s here for.”
Pretending I’m not as poor as I am is doing no one any good. It’s been making me feel dishonest and inauthentic. Shame is a feeling I refuse to live with.
As of January 2012, my daughters and I live in a safe, clean apartment in a great Portland location. My former husband and his partner/girlfriend live in the West End, only 5 minutes away (rather than a nearly 2 hour commute to be sure he stayed involved in our daughters’ lives). My billable work is not bringing in what I need it to, but, I have no debt and am living with a new awareness of the costs of living. The real costs of living. My girls and I have a new and sturdy foundation. I’m learning how to find significant cost savings (a friend who knows the social services systems has been a life saver) and to realize that a “big balance” in my bank account one day doesn’t mean anything because the numbers show I’m still not bringing in enough to pay all the bills. (This is despite my former husband being more than generous in his support of his daughters and their mother.)
When I went to the market last week and didn’t have to pay a penny for the food I purchased, I suddenly realized I want to not feel shame anymore. Using my EBT card (food stamps) makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery. It feels like this is a real chance I have to start over. Clear the slate and start fresh. Barring dental emergencies or my car breaking down (we’ll cope with the broken air conditioning this summer) in the very near future, we are starting to build our lives into a financially stable one. I can envision, for the first time in my life, the day when I will have savings. I plan to never take on debt again; it doesn’t work for me.
In writing this post, I know I’m discussing something people frequently find too personal for public discussions (money). But, I know I’m not the only one who has felt ashamed of being “cared for” by the government when it’s my own screw-ups, for the most part, that got me here. I’m almost to the point already, since last week at the market, that my shame is turning into gratitude. The fear that economic insecurity brings can be brutally overwhelming and paralyzing. But, gratitude for new beginnings and beautiful present moments is also a powerful force against the darkness of fear.
I will make good financial decisions today. Instead of “putting aside my pride” and applying for scholarships or more government assistance, I will recognize my real need and apply for those cost reductions and credits and money from a position of emotional strength. I will continue feeling grateful for the support I am receiving. I will not live in shame.
Talking about this with other people is how I will stop feeling ashamed and stay active in changing our lives, so, if you have any questions for me, please feel free to comment here or email me at heather at serenebabe dot net.

Working my way through Broke, USA: From Pawnshops to Poverty, Inc. – How the Working Poor Became Big Business, I thought of my post recently “white trash and rednecks.” In particular, I thought of the exchange between Christ.tine and I that headed in an unfortunate direction. The idea that people from different background speak different languages interests me. I am always eager to identify key areas of misunderstanding.
In my post (or in the comments), I mentioned a new friend suggesting I “go to a pawn shop.” I described how this left me confused and quiet. Going to a pawn shop is something I’ve never considered. Pretty much my only experience with them is in movies when addicts are desperate for drug money. Similarly, when tenants in the duplex I (used to) own paid with money orders, I always thought that was strange. Why pay a fee to get a money order when the landlord would accept cash? “Broke, USA” shed a lot of light on worlds unfamiliar to me.
One thing I noticed, in addition to an education in the payday loan business, is how the author frequently used the outrageous profits made by the businesses as evidence of their shady character. I thought about how I understood that as a shortcut referring to the progressive/liberal thought that exorbitant profiles equals likely fraud at some level. But I also thought about a few people I know who hear “massive profits” and only think “they’re successful.”
What I wonder is if someone whose background is white collar/professional hears about the massive profits and knows, from experience, how many back room deals that dive far into the grey areas of legality, that those profits probably hurt people along the way. And I also wonder if someone whose experience is blue collar/working class has a view of life that says, “work hard, get rewarded” instead of defaulting to the assumption of cheating; applauding the major income makers because they must be doing something right.
I would love it if anyone who is reading this who has opinions would chime in. Unfortunately but understandably, Chris didn’t want to continue our conversation (after I shut it down, told her to “leave”) because she didn’t think we would get anywhere positive with it (my words). When discussing outrageous profits made by businesses, what is the first thought that comes to you?

Looking at the pint of Ben & Jerry’s, the Doritos, and the thinly sliced prosciutto, I felt suddenly self conscious. I had taken out my EBT card to pay for groceries. When I considered what I was buying (the my-daughters-are-going-to-be-with-their-father-for-a-few-days supplies) it all seemed so unhealthy that I thought, “how can I justify using government benefits to do my self-medicating with this salt and sugar and fat?” And then I actually said, “Aw, no, I’ll just pay for this. I’d feel weird using this [waving the EBT card] for all this junk… ha ha ha…”
I’m new to using foodstamps. The topics about which I know nothing are seemingly endless when it comes to getting assistance from the government. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so entirely clueless. What has surprised me in all of this, among many things, is how deep my shame is as I participate in the system. Instead of feeling proud that I am doing everything I need to for my children, I feel guilty and spoiled and greedy.
Walking around the grocery store a couple weeks ago I felt like I’d taken off backpacks filled with wet sand. I literally felt lighter. I walked through the store slowly and considered every section. I compared prices. I took time to recall what I had in the pantry and the freezer. I thought about what I could make and freeze or what would be useful to have on hand to use later. At first I thought I was feeling so light because I tend to shop very, very quickly with two young children and their needs filling up most of my time. I looked into my cart at the fresh produce and canned tomatoes and a few bags of whole wheat flour, and I realized it wasn’t that I was child-free. It was knowing I was going to use my newly acquired “food stamps” benefits to purchase the great bulk of this food. What an enormous relief! I was giddy. I could buy food! I could just BUY FOOD. It didn’t have to be depressing or stressful. I could look beyond the two deep discount sale sections that I tend to stick to and I could just buy food. I felt free.
With that realization came a sudden flood of shame. What kind of person goes grocery shopping and has someone else pay for the food? I was disgusting. Greedy. Lazy. Irresponsible. Surely I wasn’t someone who really *needed* this kind of help, right? Surely it was the woman who escaped domestic violence who has maybe a high school education who has three children under 4 and has untreated depression? She’s the one who really needs help who (as a general stereotype) I would never in a million years consider lazy or irresponsible for getting the help she needed to start over. Me? My former husband is much more generous with child and spousal support than the law requires. I make good money in my business when I am working. I go to Starbucks almost every day. [Here I have deleted a long explanation of why this is a necessary expense in my life.] How easily I slide into justifying and explaining and excusing my choices. For months I’ve toyed with writing about applying for and using assistance but I found myself lacking the courage. The moment I mention I’m using food stamps I feel an urgent need to explain my situation.
Asking for help is humiliating for me. It’s so easy for me to find other people responsible and smart and brave when they ask for help. When it’s me, it’s harder for me to see it that way. Asking for assistance from the government, from “social services,” is a level of humiliating I have rarely ever felt. So much of the shame I feel comes from inside me. I’m stunned as I consider each individual person who is going through something similar to this;  how each person has their own “issues” and their own sense of pride and self-sufficiency to tackle. That stereotype woman (domestic violence, little education, etc.) could very easily have just as much or more of an aversion to asking for help as I do.
The shame doesn’t only come from inside me, though. There is a deathly blanket of shame that covers the whole process of “assistance.” The way I’ve been talked to as I try to negotiate the system has brought me to tears more than once. So many of the people (the workers who process the paperwork) are just flat out mean. I understand it’s a broken system. I knew that before I was in it. I just had no idea how far-reaching the fractures and breaks extend.
When I take out my EBT card at the market, I’m so uncomfortable I’m usually compelled to make some sort of loud statement pointing out that I’m using food stamps. (As I mentioned, if I’m uncomfortable, I tend to address the discomfort very, very directly.) Intellectually, I know I shouldn’t feel ashamed. Emotionally, I haven’t found a way to shake the feeling that I’m being a lazy, spoiled, irresponsible moocher by using this tremendous gift. Writing about it here might help me, I suppose. Of one thing I am sure: the fact that I can go to the grocery store and just buy food makes wrestling with shame and humiliation a very small price to pay.

She opened the stairwell and was blasted with a cloud of smoke. Her sister was with her. I followed about 5 or 6 feet behind. When I got up to them, I grabbed them, and said, “come back here.” The first guy was already up and heading down the stairs. Before the door closed, the second guy turned his head slowly and said, “Oh, shit” and started getting up.
Fifteen years ago I was familiar with the aromas of lots of different kinds of drugs. This wasn’t pot, opium, or hash. It smelled like evergreen, I thought, or household cleaner. I’ve been saying it was crack, though I suppose it could’ve been meth. As I mentioned, I’m not up on the drugs these days.

A sign my daughter made and hung on our door: "This is a G rated home" (gun in a circle with a slash through it).
To say this has been a learning experience is one thing, and it has, for me and my 8-year-old, is one thing. Unfortunately, it has also been an awakening. Weeks ago I started with plans to “organize” the tenants in our apartment complex. I want to know who my neighbors are. The people I’ve talked to have, for the most part, seemed similarly interested. I had visions of a community garden, a newsletter, volunteers from each building communicating with each other to help keep the place clean and safe. I contacted Hour Exchange Portland to discuss the possibility this could be a time credits project for me and those involved, and they were interested.
What I am doing now is reminding myself that nothing has really changed. My older daughter plays outside with the neighborhood children after school. She still will. We love it here, and we mostly will continue loving it. But, we’re going to move. She doesn’t know that, and I won’t be discussing it with her until next spring when we begin getting ready to go.
There is a police officer I’ve become familiar with who works in our area. I saw him in the corner Starbucks a few days after he had been at our neighbor’s apartment. He had put our neighbor in the back of his car and my daughter saw him get “patted down.” I asked the officer if there was something I needed to worry about with that guy and he said no, he was getting a ride to the hospital. He patted him down because “nobody gets in back there unless I check ’em.”
Last night I saw the same cop at a different Starbucks and I started talking with him about the stairwell drug users. Earlier that evening, I posted a note on each of the doors of our building saying that I had no interest in getting into anyone else’s business but if it affected my children, things were different. I said if I found someone using in the stairwell or hallway or laundry room again, I wouldn’t hesitate calling the police. After a good and in-depth conversation with this cop, I made the decision last night that we will move. Examining all our options (he suggested forgetting the security deposit and moving immediately), I’ve decided I have to be pragmatic. If I were to pack up and go now it would cost too much, financially and emotionally. Mostly financially.
I told him how I hated that good people couldn’t stay. I told him that I wanted to help the place be a better place. He understood and agreed that knowing neighbors, invested tenants, people who care are all important. He even seemed to agree that in some cases ideas like mine were good. The fact was, though, he knows our apartment complex and our building in particular. He pointed out our landlord has known about the lockless (door knob-less) back door for months and hasn’t fixed it. “He hasn’t shown signs that he is doing anything about it [the drugs],” he said of the landlord. “It’s a transient population. There’s no one who has been there for 15 years, for example. Even if you have a bunch of good people in a building, you get a few who are bringing in really bad characters and it’s not a good thing.” Of my idea to get to know my neighbors, he said, “Most of them just really don’t care. It would be an uphill battle.”

Hearing efforts to improve the lives of our community would be an uphill battle normally would inspire me to do it. I’d kick that uphill’s ass. But, that’s just me. And as much as I feel like “they win” when I realized this, I have to think of my daughters. Of course I always think of my daughters, and the idea that they could learn living in less-than-lovely places was worthwhile was something I was glad to show them. But, as the officer pointed out,once drug users are high, they are unpredictable. He forced the image on me of my daughter coming up the stairs, running into two guys who were high, and them “pulling her into the laundry room.” It was probably at that moment, when he made me “see” and, worse, feel that imagined scene, that I decided we had to move.
Bad things could happen to my children anywhere. No matter where we live, my children will need to learn that going with a stranger (even one who claims to know me) is never okay. How to stay safe is something I need to teach them. In the six months we have lived there I have felt safe enough. I have enjoyed my daughter running around outside, and I will continue to let her do that. She won’t use the back door anymore, she’ll have her own key, and I’ll always be able to see her from my window. The world of high-crime areas—and the officer told me this particular complex is one—brings with it risks I won’t subject my children to. I’m sad about it, though. Sad because if people like me aren’t willing to stick around, the cycle will just continue. Sad because I was glad my children were going to see what it was like getting people to work together. My babies must be safer, though. We will move in the spring. We will find a place where the police don’t spend much time (the cop recommended a few places to me), where my daughters can come and go from the building with only the “regular” level of caution. We’ll be as safe as we can be.