There’s a story I like to tell about a woman I’ve named Priscilla.
Now, Priscilla has a stressful life. She’s the only parent of two girls. She works full-time at an above minimum wage job but never has more than enough money. She can typically handle one small emergency at a time, and wishes she had a dollar for every time she had to tell her kids to “wait until payday.”
One day, one of Priscilla’s kid’s shoes broke at school and she was given a pair from the clothes closet. Man, her kid was mad when she got home. She was embarrassed because everyone in her class knew that she had to get a pair of shoes from the clothes closet, but she was furious because she knew she’d have to wear those shoes to school the next day because her mom didn’t have the money to run right out to the store to buy a new pair.
Her daughter had no problem sharing her frustration. In fact, she picked up a shoe and threw it across the room while she screamed, “I hate that we have to be so poor!”
Now, if you are focusing on the fact that the child screamed and threw her shoe, I want you to read that first paragraph again with your heart and not your head. There have been few things in this lifetime that have caused as much stress for me as back to school shopping. Even when I qualified for the state clothing voucher it was a struggle because $200 for one teenager’s clothes and shoes really isn’t that much. I used to Google “how many outfits should a “x” year old have for school” just so I would have an idea of what to prioritize.
Back to School
Saturday was shoe shopping day. I had been putting it off because that’s the most expensive part of it all. I had made myself a promise when we moved that I would put money aside to make sure my kids could have fun shopping for clothes this year. No one knew about the promise (until now haha), but I was determined. I had searched for stores with sales because that’s a must. I decided that two pairs would be bought this year, which is something I’ve never been able to do. I wanted each to have a pair of sneakers and a pair of casual.
At first, they didn’t believe me. I mean, they kept looking at me funny and asking if I was joking. The store had emptied out and there we were, stacks of boxes around us, and two employees kept circling and asking if we needed any help. My oldest said that she thought we were being watched so we wouldn’t steal anything. After being asked for the third time, I said kinda loudly that I felt as if we were being profiled and stared at them as they went slinking away.
I was dealing with the thoughts that come from someone spending money who usually doesn’t have money and driving home when I heard shopping bags rattling and whispers coming from the backseat. I heard one of the kids say to the other one, “I can’t believe I have two pairs of shoes for school. I have never had two pairs of shoes for school before!” The other child responds, “I know, right? AND new clothes. In the same day! I mean, we didn’t have to wait for her next payday!”
The Whispers
“AND we went to eat at an Italian restaurant! Shoes, clothes, and a fancy supper! I don’t feel like we’re poor anymore for the first time in my life!”
“Oh. My. God! We’re not poor anymore!”
I couldn’t do anything but drive. I couldn’t look at them in the mirror. I couldn’t chime in. And then the youngest says, “Hey, mama?” I met her gaze in the mirror. “I know it might sound like I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not. I want you to know that. It just feels so different to not feel poor, ya know?” I managed to smile at her, but I still couldn’t do anything but drive because I wasn’t sure if my heart was swelling or shattering at that moment.
Here’s my point: All of those mean and hurtful things that are said to people in poverty are pretty useless, in my opinion, because they already feel as if they’re failing somehow all the time. They know what it’s like to have someone always looking at them and judging them, even strangers in stores. And, even though we like to pretend that our kids don’t know, well…they do, despite our best attempt, and that part’s the hardest.
Maybe my next post will be about how my mom wanted to name me Priscilla …
Onward,
Amy Jo
