Working Class People

My parents’ were not wealthy. They were not even middle-class. They were not poor, either. They were working class people: they were willing to work any kind of job if it meant they could put food on the table. They sacrificed luxuries to provide for us kids. They were ideal parents, always putting the needs of their children before any personal desires.

But the Eighties in Appalachia were a time of despair. No matter how hard my father worked he was only able to find temporary work. He bounced from trade to trade without ever being able to settle into one. Mom worked as a secretary anywhere she could find a job. Neither were too proud to work.

We always had a roof over our heads, but we did not have the luxuries others seemed to be enjoying. We had a black and white television… even in the Eighties. My parents drove used cars that were unreliable: Dad became a great mechanic. We did not have air conditioning because it cost too much. Sometimes my parents would have to choose between bills to pay. They always let the water go because our neighbors were family and we could carry water in empty milk jugs. We did not have a Nintendo until the Sega Genesis came out. We were the last people I knew to get a VCR. Sometimes the bicycles we rode were used bikes that Dad fixed-up for us… they always looked good as new.

Most of my clothes were hand-me downs or second-hand yard sale acquirements. I never paid much attention to it until my sixth-grade year. Jeremy, the class bully, made fun of my clothes and soon the entire sixth-grade class joined in. I spent my days humiliated about the condition of my wardrobe… Mom and Dad could not afford to buy me new clothes, but they scrimped and saved until I was able to buy a couple of new outfits so that I could feel good about myself.

My borderline-poor childhood taught me how to survive. My working-class parents taught me all about the power of self-pride, elbow grease, and determination. Then I would watch two people who had no chance in life make their own. Dad went to college and struggled through, delivering pizzas while Mom worked as a secretary at the local college. When I was in the third grade he received his diploma and teaching license. Then Mom began taking classes around her work schedule. It took her eight years, but when I graduated high school, she graduated college (also with a teaching degree).

Youthful Hope

I began college hopeful and convinced that I could do anything I put my mind to. The American Dream had taught me that anything is possible if a person is willing to work hard enough. I was willing to work. And work I did. I had an on-campus job in the library and an off-campus job at a burger joint. After having watched my parents accomplish their goals, I knew I could accomplish mine.

Yet, despite my parents having professional jobs, we were not yet middle-class. Both parents were still paying on their student loans and they could not afford to help their children (three of us, all reaching college age in a six year span). I wanted to attend West Virginia Wesleyan College, but after a year I left, feeling dejected by the world I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

Forced to attend my parent’s alma mater, I was unhappy with the school. West Virginia State University did not offer the major I had wanted. State did not have a “college feel.” It was a commuter school with a student population dominated by non-traditional students. Commuter students were often ignored and there was little involvement on campus. I was working at a fast food joint, living with my parents, and going to my last choice of schools.

I dropped out; disgusted with the direction my life was taking. I was beginning to realize that I did not have a choice. I would not be able to be anything I wanted. I began to realize that my parents had become teachers out of convenience, not out of desire. Dad was (and is) a great teacher… but it was a profession that was available when no other was. Mom, also a great teacher, never found a full-time teaching job and became a bookkeeper and glorified secretary.

Descent Into Hell

It was no wonder I married the first man who offered. He was wealthy (from an inheritance and not from any personal success), and he acted as though I were the only woman on earth. At first, anyway.

We had a whirlwind courtship and I did not notice the red flags that were being raised: he bounced from job to job, always looking for a way of shirking responsibility; he did not want me to know his family or friends; he expected to know every detail of my life, but was hesitant to reveal his; he was jealous of my love of books and of writing because I was not paying him enough attention; he made my friends and family his own and then drove a wedge between them and me.

However, I was young and in love. I had a wealthy man pursuing me and begging me to marry him. I was living the Appalachian Dream. I was Cinderella and Prince Charming was standing at my door with a glass slipper.

The marriage quickly descended into hell. We had only been married three days when he ditched me to visit a strip-joint on the edge of town. He was constantly missing work, and he would spend his entire paycheck as soon as he received it. My paychecks were used to pay the bills. He refused to let me have any access to his bank accounts or to even see what their status was.

He began pursuing my best friend. Then he began pursuing his boss… at least this motivated him to go to work. He was often late coming home and deceptive about where he had been. He was frequenting strip clubs and gay bars with his best friend, an openly bi-sexual man. Soon he began downloading gay porn on the computer, and when I confronted him he reacted with anger.

He was emotionally abusive and very manipulative. He had me convinced that there was something horribly wrong with myself and that I should become a housewife so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the stress of work. I became isolated and alone.

When he finally left, I was left without a job and without money. I didn’t fight for it, though… I just wanted him out of my life once and for all.

I returned to school, determined to get my degree and go on to graduate school. I had been denied my dreams when I was younger. I had settled for the dream of being a wife and mother… but he took all of that away from me. Now, nothing was going to stop me.

Fall From Grace

I found it difficult to find a job that was willing to work around my schedule and that would pay enough that I would benefit. I had learned from my first attempt at college that a full-time minimum wage job only hurt a working-class person’s chances at getting financial aid. I made too much to qualify for grants, and so I went deeply into debt with loans.

It only took two years to finish my degree (even after having changed my major to something totally different than it had been the first time.) But I was sinking deeper and deeper into financial despair.

Eventually I found a job as a pizza delivery driver. But my insurance found out and I had to quit that job, but it got me through college. I graduated in the summer with a Sociology degree… what was I going to do with that?

I was out of work for some time. My degree meant I was overqualified for the unskilled jobs I had worked for so long, but I was in competition with more experienced people for the few social service jobs available. Every thing began to fall apart that summer.

First, my gas was shut off. I didn’t mind because in the summer, the only thing I used it for was to heat water. I was able to do this on the stove, which was electric. It made it inconvenient for bathing, but I tried to cheer myself up by imagining I was living the rugged life of the early settlers. For a while it was actually kind of fun.

Then my water line sprung a leak and I found myself with a four hundred dollar bill. I dug up the water line myself and patched it… because I had no record of hiring anyone, the water company refused to write off any portion of the bill. Now I had no water and I quickly learned how miserable life without running water could be.

I placed a Rubbermaid storage bin under the gutter on my back porch and collected rainwater. I used this water with which to flush the toilet and to clean the house. I hauled drinking water from anyone’s home that would allow me. I showered at my parents’. Worst of all, I was losing hope that I would ever have a good life at all.

I finally begged and borrowed enough money that I was able to have my water turned back on, but I still had no gas. Winter was rapidly coming and a fellow church member found me a job at the local grocery store, working in the deli. It paid minimum wage and the most I was given was thirty hours a week… but I was thankful to have something. However, by the time I paid my water and electric bills, there was nothing left to pay toward the gas bill.

The weather began to get cold and I hung blankets over the windows and doors. I had a fireplace in the living room and I was able to keep this one room heated to around fifty degrees. However, a venture down the hallway to the bathroom was a frigid experience that left me holding my bladder until if felt like it would burst. My parents and friends offered to let me sleep at their homes, but on freezing nights I was afraid that the pipes would burst and I would find myself in an even worse financial position. So, I stayed at my home, huddled under stacks of blankets, sleeping on the couch, stoking the fire through the night and braving the freezing house to check the water faucets every hour to ensure they had not frozen. If they had, I would have to go into the dark and even colder basement with a hairdryer and thaw out the pipes before they split open.

My life was miserable.

I learned where to get free food. I learned where to get assistance with bills… but it was never enough. I was thankful my ex had left me the house, even if he had left me nothing else. Without it, I would have been completely homeless.

It’s hard to sleep when you are cold and hungry.

A New Beginning

I was determined to go to graduate school.

After Christmas I packed up everything I had and moved to Colorado. The economy was much stronger there, and I was convinced that I would have a better life. Surely I would qualify for need-based scholarships. I would work hard and make straight A’s… so I would get a merit scholarship. I had a strong Appalachian work ethic, and like my parents, I would work any honest job.

But I did not receive a scholarship (need based nor merit based). I was unable to find a job. Professors, though giving me nothing but A’s, looked at me like I had a third eye in the center of my forehead anytime I spoke with my hillbilly twang. Fellow students were concerned graduate school was too hard for me… it did not matter that I had as much education as them. My college degree came from West Virginia, and they thought that made it less than theirs. Everyone I encountered asked where I was from. Then I was forced to endure renditions of “Country Roads” that would make Simon Cowell cringe. People mocked my accent and I found it more and more difficult to fit in with people.

Choices

Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Graduate school was slamming its door in my face and I suddenly realized that I did not have choices. I had chosen the college I wanted to attend, but being poor I was not permitted to attend school there. I had chosen to go to graduate school, but they were making it perfectly clear that I was not welcome there.

The great American Dream tells us we can be anything we choose… but when you are poor you know that is not true. When you are poor you never have the choices you want. You want to have water and heat, but the only choice you have is to choose between water or heat. You want to have food, but the only choice you have is which food bank you visit. You want to wear nice clothes, but the only choice you have is what richer people have donated to the thrift stores. You want to live a life that is comfortable… it doesn’t have to be extravagant, it just has to be adequate, but the only choice you have is to live in misery.

This is poverty.