I have an event coming up this week and I’ve been asked for a bio. I remember the first time I was asked to write a bio for a past organization’s website. It was an awkward ask for me because I had never been told that my lived experience was anything worth talking about.
Forty-two was the age I was when someone told me in a way that made me believe that my lived experience was worth something. I’ve said that 42 was the age when I first became comfortable with sharing my experiences but I think that statement should be tweaked because it was then that I was around people who talked about all the things (poverty, trauma) with empathy. Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by people who convinced me that I mattered and that I had a tool that most of them didn’t have – the truth about poverty – that gave me a power that no one could take away.
Once the fear subsided, I grew more comfortable sharing my story, but I still, even during that Congressional testimony that went viral, fight my nerves. My voice shakes. My hands shake. My knees shake if I’m standing. It’s not easy, knowing how most of the country views poor people, to put your vulnerabilities in front of the world. You have the people who support you, the ones who feel sorry for you, and the ones who tell you how stupid and lazy you are/what you did to deserve to be poor. There are ones who seek to understand and ones who pity you; ones who offer you money and ones who offer thoughts and prayers.
It was even worse when it came to being Amy Jo, the face of poverty, and Amy, single mom of two young ones who didn’t want the world to know they were poor. One time, three years ago, I asked my oldest if she was going with me to a forum I was participating in locally. She always loved going with me because she loves people and being in the car. But this night when I asked her if she was going, she said no. I asked why not. “You always go with me,” I said. And what she said next … well … she said, “Yeah, but for the first time in my life not all the kids at my school know that we’re poor and I like it like that.”
I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I changed the way I did things from that point.
I’m talking about this now because I have been given a huge opportunity this week in New York City. Research on economies brought my Congressional video to a producer who reached out to me. I did some soul searching and decided that we only travel this road once and this was perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime chance, so I agreed to do it. And now I’m terrified, which is ridiculous because I know myself well enough to know that I won’t allow anyone to compromise my dignity, but I have already had to have an awkward conversation about flying and some of the logistics emailed to me because this is not what I’m used to.
It’s funny how The Universe places opportunities for growth in front of you that make you uncomfortable from jump, and this one has me pretty uncomfortable.
Hopefully this will be a chance to change minds and to broaden people’s understanding of how the system’s design is broken and why it’s harder than hell to get out of the safety net once you’re in it. And why so many people speak harshly of the poor because they know they’re only one or two paychecks away from being the poor.
Maybe someone will watch and I’ll say something so damn compelling that West Virginia will get the attention it deserves for being the birthplace of so many movements for justice. Maybe the world will understand that we don’t quit here because it’s not in our DNA. Maybe they’ll see this as an opportunity to build an infrastructure of care (paid leave, childcare, and CTC/EITC permanent expansions) because you can’t climb a ladder if it’s standing on shaky ground.
I hope it’s worth it. I hope these moments of discomfort allow me to bring a truth and genuineness to what it’s like out here for the poor and working class from a point of power and strength. I hope the people who watch understand that we don’t want the government to give us handouts but hands up so we can do life by ourselves.
I hope someone out there smiles and realizes that she’s just like me. And I hope it gives her hope.
Onward,
Amy Jo
