Shame by a thousand looks: The microaggressions of poverty
https://www.salon.com/2019/04/06/shame-by-a-thousand-looks-the-microaggressions-of-poverty/Shame by a thousand looks: The microaggressions of poverty
Even well meaning, liberal-minded people will betray the slightest mien of disgust when I talk about my childhood
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“Food stamps,” my brother said. His voice as definitive as a door closing.
I fanned the bills out in my hand. The words “FOOD COUPON” were etched in inky capital letters on each one. As I studied the bills, my brother looked down at me—the faint shadow of a mustache beginning to sprout on his upper lip—when I caught his eye, his nose scrunched, his eyes tightened, and his neck recoiled. He eyed the bills, then me. Sweat developed on my forehead; my skin prickled. I wanted to hide. His actions were barely perceptible; his face held this look for only a moment before it vanished. There was a sound from the kitchen. Our mother was up from her chemo nap, rested enough to make us dinner before she’d have to lie down again. My brother snatched the bills, shoved them in the jewelry box, and slammed the lid.
A few days later, I saw the look again. I was at the supermarket with my mother and three brothers. Our cart was more empty than usual. A fact we didn’t discuss as we trekked down each aisle, our mother demanding in a tired voice that we put back boxes of name brand cereal or two liter bottles of soda. At the checkout, I was considering the few items my mother had allowed into our cart, when she produced the FOOD COUPONS from her purse. The cashier spotted the food stamps, and for the briefest moment—we’re talking two seconds max—the middle-aged woman eyed the bills, then my mother, then my three squawking brothers, and as her eyes landed me, her face contorted: nostrils upturned, eyes narrowed, an imperceptible sigh escaped her lips. Then it was gone. She took the bills, bagged the groceries, and we went home.
Over the next two years my mother battled the tumors in her stomach, my father fought unemployment, and we all suffered the flash-bulb looks of disdain as people around us read the signals of our poverty. Looks I endured all the way through college as the wake of my childhood poverty lapped each present moment—looks I still get today when people find out I was raised in a poor household in rural Vermont.
Even well meaning, liberal-minded people will betray the slightest mien of disgust when I tell them my brothers and I used to scrape the black layer off burnt toast, because there wasn’t enough bread to waste in our house.
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A powerful essay. I'll comment further after I've gathered my thoughts. Bookmarked.
My parents were divorced before I was a year old due in large part to my dad being bipolar. His behavior was always unstable during their 2 1/2 year marriage but it got worse when she was pregnant with me. Around when I was 6 months old it had gotten so bad she left him because she was concerned for my safety. Needless to say he wasn't very reliable about paying child support. We were on welfare twice when I was growing up. Once for 14 months when I was a baby and the second time for 10 months when I was around 16. Things were never financially stable for us. I lived in constant fear that people would find out our situation. It wasn't fun to see my mom publicly humiliated by another shopper after she pulled out her food stamp booklet. I hate that woman to this day for making my mother cry. The only saving grace was that the cashier was nice.
We were judged even more harshly by certain family members. They thought we were white trash and an embarrassment. My mom wasn't lazy. She worked her ass off for minimum wage in jobs that she really wasn't physically capable of doing. One job in particular she suffered severe verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of her boss(another person I hate) due in part to the interference of certain judgmental family members. I'm convinced that the decades of stress caused the the early onset of her numerous health problems and shortened her life. She died in 2009 at 57 years old, broken both in body and spirit. RIP Mom.
My only consolation is that she isn't suffering anymore.
