My old dog passed away a few days ago. As if that wasn’t heart wrenching enough, my family was gathered around to say our goodbyes and I was staring out the window.
I inaudibly said, “Omg. I have to get him in the ground.” Of all the things I’ve had to do over the last 13 years of solo parenting, digging graves for our family pets has been the worst. My 13-year-old told me that she would do it, but she wanted to stop about five minutes in, and I understood. I mean, it’s not fun or easy.
The rain seemed appropriate for the occasion, and, as I stood there, staring down at the finished grave, I felt overwhelmingly fatigued. It wasn’t just the death of my best friend, but everything. I was crying and fighting the tears. I was wet from the rain, making my clothes feel heavy and weighted, and I didn’t know if I had what it took to make it as far as my porch. Looking up at the sky, rain and tears flooding my eyes, I whispered, “I’m so tired of digging.”
It feels as if I’ve been digging for years. I should have dirt under my fingernails to prove it. I went from being a stay at home mom to being unemployed and solo parenting literally overnight. I had to start all over and was fortunate because I had a roof over my head and access to transportation. I took a part-time job that eventually turned into a full-time job with on-the-job training. A back injury prevented me from continuing after five years there.
I went to interview after interview. Either I was overqualified or underqualified with no degree. I cashed in my retirement so my kids and I could survive. Luckily, my tax refund hit and that pulled us through that long nine-month stretch when I couldn’t find work that would support us. I was determined to not get stuck in “the system.” I also went back to college and finally, at the age of 42, graduated with a B.S. in Human Services.
I dug my way up from volunteer to staff at my present job. I was in the car with my family when the call came with the job offer. We all answered “Yes!” I couldn’t stop crying because we all knew what was at stake. I still remember the feeling of relief. The struggle still continues, although I’m very fortunate, but there’s always too much month at the end of my paydays. I have clawed my way out of some really precarious situations over the past 13 years, and I’ll be damned if I won’t scream until I lose my voice to keep someone else from having the same kind of struggle.
I remember fighting with my mom when she would send me to Berry’s Market with the food stamps back in the day. I can remember the absolute embarrassment that I thought would be my death from standing at the register, counting those stamps and ripping them out of the book. It’s because of those memories that I showed my kids grace as often as I could when it came to our SNAP benefits. I understood wanting to disappear when someone from your school was there. Ugh. The shame that comes with poverty is still the same, and that is even more reason for me to want to organize and rattle the windows.
I think about the way I was determined to not end up in poverty like my mom. Hell, she was determined that I wouldn’t, too. I remember watching her work two jobs most of my life. My dream was to go to college and not have to work a job that required just enough energy so that I could leave and go straight to the other one. I didn’t want that life. It didn’t fit with my middle class picket fence and golden retriever daydream. And now that I’m middle aged and still don’t have savings, I’m mad as hell some days.
I’m just like most people I know. I’m working hard and still don’t have the life that I dreamed of. I still have to hustle when something comes up, you know, like a new tire. But I’m done taking the blame. I’m tired of hearing about pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps because our hands are dirty and stiff from digging and clawing our way to the boot shop.
The systems need to change. We need to have the support of a government that will work to help build a solid foundation so we, the working poor, can begin to build the lives of our dreams. Who’s ready to fight?
Bring your own shovel.
Onward,
Amy Jo
