Economic Euthanasia

Have you heard this phrase before: economic euthanasia? Its the phrase that is used when people choose to put their animals to death versus paying for life-saving medical care.  Its something that people who are against human euthanasia argue--that people will be choosing to end the life of a person in their care, if the cost of caring for them becomes excessive.  It is also a topic that ran through my head last night as we tried to figure out what was wrong with our 9 year old cat.

Dr. Google had a prognosis of certain death for Kyanite the cat last night.  It was after the children had been sent to bed, and once we were settled into our pajamas and considering a movie, when my husband pointed to the cat and asked, "What's wrong with him?  He's been acting like that all day."  The cat, hunched and half squatted, and obviously in pain, cried when I started the pat-down looking for abscesses (he's a fighter, not a lover).  None found, but a feel of his extended tummy and his cry gave me a grim idea of what could be wrong.  Simple would be constipation, but scary would be urinary tract problems.  Urinary tract would mean costly treatment, something that we have no way of affording.  Constipation, maybe we could home treat.

We love our pets.  We've had the cat for nine years, he's part of our lives.  The dogs are interwoven tightly with the children.  We skate along on the thinnest of possibilities and continue to pray that nothing happens to any of them or us.  Even knowing that I cannot afford to end my own pain due to lack of money, I am terrified of what will happen to my pets if they are hurt or sick.  Nine years is middle age for a cat.  He's healthy, happy and generally a giant pain in the behind, but he's our kitty.  Was I really having to consider killing the cat because I couldn't afford 3-5 days for him at the vet to have his urinary tract flushed and the possible stones/crystals dissolved? I'm not even sure I could afford economic euthanasia at this point. Its a terrible and bleak reality of being this poor.

What happened with the cat last night?  After a late night run to the grocery store, we pieced together a makeshift litter box for the cat.  I carried him to the box and set him in it, where he proceeded to urinate (putting my mind momentarily at ease).  We fed him from what we had left of the canned cat food in hopes that it would help his digestive tract.  Today, he doesn't seem to be in as much pain, and his tummy isn't as distended.  Perhaps we have dodged a bullet here and the cat will improve.  In years' past, I would still take him to the veterinarian and make sure he was ok, but we can't afford the luxury of that now.

We add one more layer of fear and anxiety to our lives.  Having pets brings us such joy and peace in so many ways.  The companionship, the comfort... these are things that cannot be replaced.  Yet, having pets when you can't afford emergency or even basic medical care is frightening.  Its one more thing that hangs over our heads.  We took on these animals when we were comfortably able to care for them, they depend on us and trust our promise to take care of them.  Would we have gotten pets had we known how difficult life would become years later?  I don't know.  How on earth could we have known nine years ago that we wouldn't be able to pay for medical care for the cat?  At that point, it seemed like life was nothing but guaranteed to be great.

At this point, we can only continue to hope and pray that something out of the multitude of employment applications that we've sent out will catch the eye of a hiring manager somewhere and we can climb out of this desperation--not just for our children and us, but for our beloved pets too.

A Merry Christmas

Thanks to family members who fulfilled the children's Christmas wish list of clothing and needs, and thanks to friends who filled in the blanks, the kids had a beautiful Christmas. The beauty wasn't in the Avengers' teeshirts, skinny jeans, basketballs, or Star Wars pajamas, the beauty was, and is still, found in the love of the people who thought about these kids, and went above and beyond friendship or family duty.

The beauty of Christmas was found in the eight-year-old boy who couldn't contain his excitement and woke at 1:00 am, 3:00 am, 5:00 am and finally was allowed to be up at 7:00 am.  We have a rule that the children must wait until the Christmas tree lights turn on via timer before we open gifts.  The poor boy woke his sisters up at 3:00, was invited to snuggle, and then he asked every 10 minutes or so, "what time is it?" until they were all well awake and giggling long before the Christmas tree shed its pink, marshmallow glow in the livingroom.

The beauty was in the simplicity, and in setting aside expectations.  Its a hard lesson, and one that we as adults have struggled with.  While we would have loved to have spent the holiday with family and friends, enjoying the laughter, meals and games, as we have in times past, a simple Christmas has its beauty.  We miss the chances to celebrate life and family together, yet we know that this year we don't have that option.  We have to get through the here and now. It reminds me vaguely of the Seder dinner when we toast, "next year in Jerusalem."  Maybe our toast should be, "next year with family."

Friendship

After we placed the first presents on the wall, my oldest mentioned that she wished that we had enough to decorate the "little" false wall too (the hallway wall, for those who know the layout of the house). I told her that would certainly mean that they had a lot of presents, but that we needed to remember that we are so fortunate to have people who have blessed us so much already. With the same voice that mothers use to remind their children of starving children in Africa, and homeless children from Syria, I reminded her that the purpose of Christmas never is about the presents (as I cringed in my own heart at how much I wished I could fill the walls with gifts for my kids too--I'm only human).  

You can imagine the kids' surprise when our friends stopped by today with Christmas gifts from their family to ours. The kids were so excited to see their friends, and to make plans for the winter break that they considered the gifts briefly, and then got out the chessboard.  It was after our friends left that the kids realized that the gifts were for them, and would fit on the little wall and even fill in gaps on the big wall. Perhaps, my oldest's wish might come true.  I laughed that the kids were more excited by the visit than the packages.

Likewise, you can imagine our happiness earlier when a friend stopped by to drop off other gifts (coffee--the nectar of life) and a card. The thoughtfulness of friends when we don't expect it always makes me tear up. We never expect people to be so generous, mostly because we understand that everyone has so many struggles that they face themselves. Life isn't easy, even for the best of us.  But this season has shown us that we are so truly blessed with friends and family beyond anything we could imagine.    

My husband and I fall into the blues more frequently as we consider and worry about our family and life.  After a particularly depressing bit of news yesterday, today reminds us that we are still fortunate.  We have friends and family who care about us.  Not everyone is as lucky as we are. Yesterday, we did have to talk with the kids about friends who sometimes become uncomfortable and don't know what to do when their friends are sad or have something bad happen in their lives.  Tonight reminded our kids that there are people who don't care about that stuff, there are people who just care about their friends. 

The Wall

Every year at Christmastime, we place the gifts on the false wall on in the living room.  It started as a way to keep the kids and pets out of the presents, to keep the floor of a small living room clear of clutter, and as a way to decorate the house for the season.  For those years, the kids have taken joy in counting the gifts on the wall, looking up and trying to read the tiny tags to see which ones belong to them.  They pick their favorite papers and ribbons.  They laugh and try to figure out if each package might fit the size or shape of something from their Christmas lists.  Even in years where we haven't had a lot, and even though we try to fit to minimalist rules, the joy of anticipation fills the house more thoroughly than the scent of gingerbread and sugar cookies.

This year, we didn't start the wall when the box of gifts came from my sister.  We placed the bright and cheerfully wrapped gifts under the borrowed Christmas tree.  When a brother-in-law dropped off some presents on his way through, we took set them aside and didn't place them on the wall, or even under the tree.  A vague thought of waiting until Christmas Eve to put the gifts out was the excuse.  Another box from my sister-in-law, and a second one from my sister accumulated.

And then I realized that I was killing Christmas for my family.  By neglecting to put the gifts on the wall, I was stealing Christmas more effectively than the Grinch.  I'm pretty sure I have a black, little heart shriveled up in my chest.  I hate that I don't know how to do this.  I hate that I don't know how to be gracious enough to allow others to give my children a beautiful Christmas.

The kids were out walking the dogs when we put the gifts on the wall. The smiles and happiness when they saw the wall made me realize that even though I feel a distinct lack of joy this season myself, I cannot be so selfish as to steal it from my children.

So this year, while we fight the depression of repeated failures and a lost lifestyle, we may not have joy of our own, but we have to do our best to preserve the joy of our children.  There is no handbook for poverty, and if there is, we can't afford it.  But if there were, we would have to write a chapter on not destroying your children's hope and joy.  Its not as easy as it sounds when you have to choose between Christmas gifts and dog food.

The Adventure of Kids and Poverty

How can I write a blog about experiencing poverty and not include more about my family?  I think its because we try so hard to protect the children, so that they do not know the full extent of our desperation.  I so want to protect them from all of this.

And yet we are failing.  We are failing even as we try so very hard to hide the truth, the fear, the anxiety.  We see it manifested in the hard set of my twelve-year-old daughter's eyes.  We see it in her failing school work, and her hiding in her room instead of being with the family in the evenings.  We see it when she claims to not want to eat.  We see our failures manifested in our 11-year-old's anger.  We see it when she eats out of stress, we see it when she cries and she doesn't know why.  Even our 8-year-old isn't immune to the problems of the adults.  We see him cling, and try to hold on for hugs and cuddles.  We see his speech impediments, and his attention span leave.

We continually address these problems.  We adapt to the kids' needs.  But it is always hard when we see another faucet of our failure sparkling at us, making us more aware of just how far we've fallen.  Today's sparkle of failure was discovered when we realized that the oldest had been lying and cheating at school--which under the circumstances would be understandable, if she wasn't homeschooled.  But sometimes homeschooling creates a perfect condition for cheating and lying, especially when two parents are splitting the instruction where one did it all before.

When we feel our own anxiety and stress bubbling just under the surface, how can it not occasionally overflow into the children's life?  How do you make poverty and all of its accouterments into an adventure?  How much "character" do you feed your children before they choke on it?  Before we choke on it?

Maybe the worst of it all is that the kids feel abandoned and friendless.  Having forgone joining a co-op this year because I knew I couldn't meet the costs, time and physical requirements, the kids are at a distinct disadvantage.  I cannot commit to field trips, or anything else that requires a financial output, or a physical output on my behalf.  Its something I didn't worry about until I started to see the ramifications for my children.  The middle school friendship is such a fickle creature anyway.  For all of the work and encouragement we put into 4-H, church, and personal relationships, it seems meaningless.  The girls express their disappointment and anxiety by asking to drop out of activities they once loved.  They feel as though their friends don't really like them.  Yet, I wonder how uncomfortable it must make their friends to be around my kids who were once cheerful, happy and unfettered by worries that middle class children don't entertain.  When adults can't face their friends after they've experienced something like this, how can we expect kids to?

Still, when we sit at the table and work on schoolwork together, or when the kids make sure they are nearby to listen to read aloud, there is peace for a moment.  We have each other.

I Tried to Sell the Car

Poor people aren't stupid, they are lacking in financial security.  There is a difference.  Its not always bad decisions that lead to financial insecurity, sometimes, bad things happen, and cannot be avoided.

I went to try to sell the car today.  We've been talking about it, since we know we have equity, and if someone gave us the minimum of what is worth, then we'd be able to buy a different, cheaper car without payments.  I was honest and up front about why I wanted to sell my car, and preferably trade down for something else.  I clomped around the car dealership looking for cars that the saleswoman couldn't find.  I waited as she looked for keys to cars that apparently weren't even on the lot.

But let me back up.  Before I took this step, I looked at all the major appraising sites to figure out about how much the car is worth.  I knew that I would be lowballed on value, so I wanted to be prepared.  I knew what number I was looking for.  I know what the car is worth.

Back to the dealership, where the saleswoman talked to the trade-in guy, who then test drove the car, and looked it over.  With all the information of the vehicle available he came back with a greasy smile on his face, telling me that the good news is that I'm not upside-down in the car.  I started with surprise.  I told him I knew I wasn't upside-down and that I have equity.  He told me I was right and that he could offer me $2500 more than we currently owe on the car.  I told him that was much too low.  I had looked at the appraising sites before coming.  I was sure the car was worth well more than $6000 over what we owe.  Oh no, I was wrong, that's if I were to sell private party.  I pointed out private party made the car $8000 more, according to the sites.  He insisted that I was mistaken.

I left.

I'm not stupid.

I know what the car is worth.  I was hoping to avoid extra taxes and maybe just have something go easy for once since my life became one big mess.

This is our only car.  When we bought it, I negotiated a very good deal, and the payments weren't prohibitive since we had a good income with the promise that everything would only get better.  Had we known that we wouldn't be able to afford the car at any point, we wouldn't have bought it.  But the world was full of promise just three short years ago.

And now its not.

graese

It was 3:45 when I sat down with the boy to start his spelling test.  I knew we were in trouble when his first word was spelled 9ray, and I gently reminded him to try to write all of his letters the same size.  The consternation on his face as he struggled through the first half of the test switched to resignation, and tears began to build in his eyes as we continued through the second half.  We finished the test, and I looked at the list of words my son had stumbled on, among them: grace, mercy, pray, obey...  Words for an eight-year-old.

When we end the test, I tell him to close his test book.  I'm not going to grade tests this afternoon--its too late in the day.  He's morose, looking at the page and knowing  that the words aren't right, but not sure why or how to fix them.  I tell him that he'll have a chance tomorrow, at the beginning of the day, to look at the test and to fix any words that he wants.  He brightens.  He leaves the table to move on to his chores, relieved that he'll have another chance to make things better.

The smallest amounts of mersey can make such a big impact.

People: From Brazil

The administrative assistant sets up the conference phone and computer for a webinar.  A quick scan of the room reveals the classroom camera is turned toward the wall.  I've chosen to stay for two classes in order to fulfill the ever present requirements in keeping my family fed.  There are three for the first class, and just two of us for the second class.  I appreciate the chance to passively listen.

With the phone on mute, and the camera facing away we talk softly through the second class.  She's from Brazil.  Her brothers tell her to go back, that life would be easier for her if she goes back.  They tell her this always.  She doesn't want to go back.  She tells me there is no one there for her.  Her brothers, they are here.  They have families.  She asks if I have a family and I tell her that I have three kids.  Am I married?  Yes, but she is not.  She is divorced, and he is in Brazil.  Why go back if he is there?  She shows me the laminated card certifying her as a United States citizen.  She belongs here now.  I agree.  Even if its harder for her here, she belongs to the US.  I belong to the US and its hard for me too.  We have that in common.  Her brothers, they tell her to go back, but why?  They are here, and they are her family.  Her mama and her father too, are buried in the cemetery near here.  Why go back to nothing?  She asks if my mother is here?  I feel slightly embarrassed, my mother lives further north in Idaho, I explain.  But I see her often?  Again, I'm embarrassed, no, I haven't seen her in more than a year.  I qualify that we talk on the phone quite a bit.  My father?  No, he died nearly 14 years ago. I have no brothers, and my sisters aren't here either.  "Alone?"  Yes, and I feel regret admitting that.

She would work any job, dishwashing, cleaning, hard work, anything, but she "has no good English," and people won't hire her.  She's right, I struggle to listen carefully, and understand her. I have a terrible ear for her Portuguese accent, and I apologize and tell her I don't hear well.  Its my own fault for being a completely homogenized person who has never been challenged to learn more than rudimentary Spanish.  She shouldn't feel worse simply because I'm uneducated.  She understands English and Portuguese; I can order chicken in an American-Mexican restaurant.  Its easier though to just say I don't hear well, than to point out I'm not smart enough to listen well.

The next time we see each other we grin at each other like children who have gotten away with something.  I admire her, she possesses a sweetness and a fierceness that I'm not sure I would have if I were in her shoes. She's brave, and I can only wonder if I would have that same courage if faced with the same circumstances.

Advent: Peace

Peace?  Peace, this year?  How do we celebrate peace when the world is falling apart big time, and my little world is falling apart too?  How do I find peace when I wake up feeling at war with my own body?  How do I find peace when I'm filled with worry and fear?  How do I even think about contemplating peace when every little thing is against it?

It was a rough day, which followed a rough night.  I woke with no intention of leaving the house, and it made me angry and even sad.  I wanted to go to church.  I wanted to go out on a special shopping trip.  I wanted to be a part of Sunday humanity--not as fast pace as 3 Saturdays before Christmas humanity, I know my limits.  Instead, I spent the majority of the day medicating and icing my knee.  The bummer part of reinjuring it, is that it is extra hurty and painful.   I had no intention of finding anything to celebrate about peace today.  In my little tract house, there is no peace, so we'll not even consider the state of the world, in which I feel like I'm watching a renaissance of the dark ages approach.

All day, I've felt sorry for myself.  I'm supposed to start focusing on peace, and yet, I've lost hope--at least for the day.  I'm in Advent limbo, and my mood is too stilted to even try to get out.  And yet, this is exactly why we have Advent.  A season dedicated to seeing past the darkness of the world and looking for the Light.  A season where we look at how times have been bad before, where there was no hope, and no peace and we find it in God's plan for us.  I don't struggle as much with hope during Advent.  Hope is the future, and you can look past the here and now in order to hope.  Its the idea of being at peace that I struggle with.  I worry so much.  I fear so much.  I see so much sadness, anger and fighting in the world.  Its peace, even small peace that I struggle to find and hold on to.

I had my weeks out of order, I wanted to celebrate love this week, which is easier.  I wanted to put off peace, until I had hope and joy and love and felt good about life.  Its easier to find peace when life is full of hope and joy and love.  But that's not the way it goes.  So this week, I'll focus on calming the fear and worry, the anger and sadness, and I'll find peace.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

In the middle of the week, my big dog, Andy knocked into my injured leg, aggravating the injury afresh.  It wasn't Andy's fault, there was a bit of chaos coming in the door, and it wasn't the kids' fault, since they haven't noticed or been told that giving the command to "back" had been dropped since it wasn't being enforced regularly.  It was just a painful accident.

In addition to the accidental bashing by the dog, we had snow and ice around Southern Idaho.  I had flirted with the idea of ordering spikes for my crutches, but decided to wait.  Amazingly, a dear friend must have felt a presence in the Force, because she felt compelled to send me the tips.  I'm kind of disappointed that the snow and ice are melting because these things are awesome.  I wish I would have had them a long time ago.  I bet if I pair them with my snow boots, I'll be a clomping, abominably crippled snow beast, and small children will stare in awe at me.  They stare already, but that's beside the point.

Speaking of white Christmases, my husband and I realized that with all that was going on, we needed to get the kids a Christmas tree.  This year, more than ever, its important to try to pull ourselves together and focus on the traditions we have for Christmas.  We place a premium on enjoying the entire season of Advent and Christmas, with rituals and decorating to reflect that.  We aren't extravagant people, and we've never spent exorbitant amounts on Christmas.  We don't celebrate with Santa Claus (although we do talk about the tradition of Saint Nicholas, and why his actions were important), but we have other traditions that we hold as more important than the jolly fat man, dressed in red, giving gifts.  

Every year, we go down to the Santa's Elves tree lot, operated by Gene Kelly, and pick out a tree to bring home.  We knew we couldn't really afford the price of a fresh tree this year, so we weighed our options.  We considered going out to get our own, but decided against it because of my knee, plus the cost of gas and worry over the tires.  This left us with fewer options for Christmas.  Neither of us are willing to forego a tree, considering how much else the kids have managed without lately.  So as my husband and I went from thrift store to thrift store, we realized that we couldn't even afford what was left there.  I swallowed a bit of pride (mmm.... pride, it goes down like cold gravy, thick and so lumpy), and asked on social media if someone had one we could borrow.  This request was quickly answered, thus for the first time, we have a white Christmas tree.  

This year's tree is not as grand as trees in the past, and we didn't expect it to be.  My husband and I grimaced a little at the green stringed lights against the white limbs, and how the entire tree glows pink, but the kids love it.  We started to grouse at the kids for their ornament choices and then stopped ourselves.  To us, it wasn't what we were used to and there was that tinge of regret that we didn't have the 9 foot tree of years' past.  I'm not sure the kids really care that the tree isn't fresh, or tall, or green.  It would be easy to only focus on what we are missing, but we can't allow ourselves to do that.  The kids love the white glowing marshmallow tree, decorated with their favorite ornaments.  And because of that we do too.  

In this season, we might want everything to be perfect so we can ignore that it isn't, but that's not the right way for our family to go about this. We have to acknowledge that things aren't the same as they were before.  Its ok to not to have a perfect, middle-class, American, Christmas.  We can create a Christmas that is full of hope, peace, joy, and love.  

Jumping Through the Hoops

There are other new faces, but his anger swirls around him like a cloud of cigarette smoke.  I've already installed myself into a seat and laid my crutches behind me.  My binder is open and I'm ready to take notes.  Its job club, which is mandatory.  They hype it up with promises of employers coming in to give pointers or interviews, but today there is just the job counselor, discussing interviews and something else, which I've already forgotten.  We go around the room giving our name and a success this week; a few of us snicker at the twelve-step meeting atmosphere today.  Some of us have gone to the trouble to wear interview clothing to the class for the extra points.

The angry man refuses to answer the questions.  I get it.  None of us want to be here, and all of us know the fear of being sanctioned and losing the food stamps that our families rely on.  He's new to this though, and he's mad that he had to bum a ride from a friend to get there, and he had to walk through the ice and snow.  He's so angry that they threaten to take away the food stamps for his family if he doesn't comply with the program.  We all know the feeling, some of us have been involved longer and have resigned ourselves to the program in order to keep food on our tables and our children covered with medical insurance.  Most are working diligently to get out of the program, and won't be here long.  We all know we have to clear the hoops like dogs in an agility competition.

I smile across the room at the woman next to him.  She's distraught since her oldest just shipped out to boot camp. She has so much worry in her heart for her son, and she's so afraid that he won't come home once he's sent to Kuwait after boot camp.  Food, shelter, work, the Navy, clothing for the younger kids... today, she's overwhelmed by everything and her eyes turn red and tear up.  Its stuff like this that no one tells you about when you hold your first baby in your arms.  That some day you might not know what to do or how to hang on.

We get through the class, and I pick up my crutches, backpack and coat in order to move on to my next appointment with my caseworker.  The angry man starts with surprise when he sees the crutches and asks what happened.  I retell the general story with a shrug, and smile that its just part of life for now.  He asks how I've been getting around in the ice and snow, and I laugh and say very slowly.  He grins slightly, still holding onto his offense, but not as tightly.  He tells me that he has to come because they'll take away his mother and brother's food stamps, and his brother is mentally disabled.  That's how it works, though.  The state wants every able-bodied person to work, so if you have someone in your house getting food stamps, the state requires everyone else to be employed or involved in a program like this.  He can't live with family to avoid being homeless, and get back on his feet, without the state getting involved and telling him to get a job (which he was already working on).  So while he may never eat there, and he only sleeps at the house, he has to comply with the state or be responsible for his brother and mother losing their food stamps.

Its humiliating to be forced to look for work according to someone else's way, when you were already looking on your own terms.  But as we've already discussed, the state of Idaho isn't in the business of acknowledging the humanity of the poor.

Advent: Hope

Advent season has officially begun. I've polished the little brass candlesticks, but I've yet to go to the store for my purple, pink and white candles, which I will do this afternoon.  These symbols are important enough to spend the money on having them in the house.  The candles are lit in order, the first is a purple candle, that represents Hope.  The second candle is also a purple candle representing Love.  The third candle is the pink candle that represents Joy, and the fourth candle is a purple candle representing Peace.  The final, white candle is the one we light on Christmas day, the candle of Christ.  We've celebrated Advent for years with Bible readings and family time, but last year I added the candles--because nothing encourages prayer like giving your kids candles and lighters.

This week, we will light the candle of Hope.  With this, we will not only acknowledge the most important hope of Christ's arrival, but the personal hope that the interviews this week will be fruitful.  We hope, even when fear threatens to overwhelm us.  We hope even when we have no money to pay the bills.  We cling to hope even when we want to cry and feel sorry for ourselves.  We hope even when our bald tires slide across the ice.  We hope always.  Without hope we would fall apart.  So this year, when the first candle is lit, we will say our prayers of hope and we will continue to be thankful for the gifts we have.

What a Whirlwind

I'm exhausted.  On Friday, I found out I was chosen after a phone interview to advance to round two for an interview in Oregon.  It was in our hometown, and if I were to get the job, it would put us in a good position to be closer to help my mother-in-law and my own mom.  Plus, there is something so comforting about going back to the beginning, especially when life has been chaotic for so long. We scrambled to pull together enough money for me to even travel to Oregon, and to find a car that had better gas mileage and tires.  While our car is a great car, we have put off buying tires so long that we aren't very safe anymore.  I took my princess daughter with me on this trip, which turned out to be an excellent idea.  She was so helpful and fun to have along.

The interview itself was a new experience for me.  It was a group interview with 7 other candidates for the position.  Watching the interactions of the interview panel with the other candidates made me suspect they had already picked the one they were most interested in.  I'm not a loud, forceful person in group situations, so I was at an additional disadvantage.  That's life though, isn't it?  There will always be someone who is better spoken and who appears more capable.

I am thankful that I had the opportunity to go to this interview, not because it was anything life changing or wonderful.  If anything, it was just because it proved that I do present my skills in such a way that at least draws interests from employers.  As discussed before, I'm at an additional disadvantage due to my injury.  I made it to this interview because I first went through the phone interview.  

Since it is Thanksgiving week, I'll let you know that even though the poor school is closed Thursday and Friday, I am still required to fulfill my obligation to the state in taking classes and applying for jobs.  Poor people aren't allowed the time to spend with their families without worry over obligations to the state.  Holidays are only for the wealthy, and those of us who choose to be unemployable because of injuries must still meet the quota of job applications and hours spent learning how to get hired as an able-bodied person.  Being poor means you don't get to have the dignity of enjoying your family.  It means you have to worry twice as much about how to fulfill your obligation when the means to do so aren't available.

I am humbled

When I started this little blog it was an exercise in organizing my thoughts with the hopes of maybe opening  eyes. I was filled with anger, hurt, humiliation and pain that my friends, my relatives--people I love, were blindly posting on social media hateful opinions about how despicable poor people are.  They--my friends, my family--were posting that they wanted to see people who were already humiliated and broken, further humiliated and further broken.  Broken to the point that they disappeared and didn't exist.  And with that, I wished I didn't exist.  I wished that I could go on pretending to still be middle class.  I wished with all my heart that my friends and family wouldn't hate me because I decided feeding my children was more important than maintaining an image.  My hope was that I would feel better, and that my experience would help someone else feel better about struggling to survive.  And perhaps by putting the clean, black words onto the screen, I could cleanse myself of all of the anxiety and fear that comes with watching my little world burn out into a mess of ashes.

I've been on the receiving end of some wonderful support, but also some painful criticism and hurtful actions.  Let me tell you something, its surprising to be criticized for making sure your children are safe and fed.  It hurts to be told you are wrong to hope that things will get better.  It hurts to be told that you are the reason society is failing. It hurts to be attacked on why you haven't sold all of your belongings and become homeless over taking state charity.

For all these hateful things directed at me, I've read words of support and love. I've talked to friends and families who have been in this position, or close to it, or only by the grace of God have been able to avoid it.  I read words of encouragement and prayers.  These things alone make this load less of a burden for us.  I never, ever expected the outpouring of kindness and care that I've received in the past couple of days.  For this I am humbled and reminded of how sweet and precious each and every person in my life--even the anonymous ones--are.  Thank you.

Hope

Yesterday was a rainy day here in Southern Idaho. It was that gentle, cold, fall rain that doesn't do much of anything but fall. I don't know if it was the rain, or the state of my life that lent a grayness to my day as I headed off to fulfill my obligation with the state. Offspring's "Get a Job" started to blare on the radio as I pulled out of the driveway. I listened and sang along with the entire song. I owned the CD when owning CDs was a thing cool people did. The lyrics added to my grayness.

I greeted my friend in Arabic when I entered the classroom. She greeted me with a joyous smile in return. We were learning about conflict resolution in the workplace. I was grouped with my friend, another refugee, and a woman my age who was once a teacher. Would I use these techniques? Maybe, I wasn't that interested in the topic, choosing it only because of the longer class time, which fulfills my obligation to the state. My friend and the other woman struggled to understand, and I realized as I went to pull out my phone to help translate, that I've forgotten it.

After class, I took care of paperwork, and then once in my car, I sat for a minute. I could use some real hope. I turned the radio to the Christian rock station.  Just anything hopeful. The first song I heard is about how you can stop making bad decisions, and how you can go back to God. I don't think I ever really left God. I don't like this song, its not hopeful. I flipped through the channels and end up back on the same radio station. A song about how God was changing the singer through the little inconveniences in life blared. I turned the radio off.  I needed hope, not drivel.

I drove through the school zone and watch as mothers and fathers drove erratically--one woman cut me off as I turned right, in the process she barely missed running over three children crossing the street. She turned a u-turn directly in front of me and oncoming traffic, narrowly missing the same three children she tried to run over in the first crosswalk. Maybe everything is hopeless. Between this disregard for the lives and safety of children, and the disregard for life everywhere, it really does seem hopeless.

When I walked into the house, my husband greeted me, "hey, you forgot your phone. I texted you but then I saw your phone on the bed, so you didn't get it."  "Yeah, I know. I realized I forgot it once I was there."  "Anyway," he continued, "I have an interview tomorrow." With that, a small sliver of hope took hold. I looked at the sofa and saw a package. I took it to my room and found the packing list to determine where it came from. A friend sent something for the kids' for Christmas. I reminded myself that just the night before I opened a box delivered from Amazon, with no sender's name, but with cheesy potatoes and other wonderful things for our family. Who was I to feel hopeless in this world?

Today, the phone rings fifteen minutes before the scheduled time of my husband's interview. Surprisingly, its for me. I interviewed two days ago for a job in Oregon. They were calling to invite me to the second round of interviews to take place on Monday. I'm excited. My husband is too. He cloisters himself into the girls' room at the little sewing table/desk. The kids and I commit ourselves to absolute silence. Nearly an hour later he emerges, smiling. It sounds like he will be on the call-back list for the second round.  He'll have to drive to Washington to interview in person.

Hope. I needed hope. Now I clutch it closely as we try to figure out how to meet not just our basic needs, but the added necessities of traveling. But we do have that hope to hold on to.

Day Three

The princess is still a walking cesspool of illness.  Last night, she rallied and I believed that she would be ok.  Then in the middle of the night, she was up sick.  Now is the time I count my blessings.  There have been many times when the husband has been gone on a work trip and the children have passed around a tummy bug, or a fever, or cold virus.  But the joy of my life as a mother, at times like these, is that I do not have three children under the age of 5 passing illness to one another anymore.  Everyone knows how to be sick without making a huge mess anymore.  Those days when the icky laundry would pile up and I would follow the kids around with towels and buckets are past.  Now, some cleaning, plus a lot of Lysol, and we can usually keep a virus to a minimum.

My plan today is to venture out to the store. My husband does all of these errands for me, especially since I've been hurt.  I've been trying to visualize my best plan of attack.  In this, I realize that I must take the oldest with me to the store.  She won't be happy as we will have to buy those items that 12-year-old girls are so embarrassed to admit they need.  This is not an adventure quest she wants to go on.  I find it kind of funny...

But beyond our current week's issues, I have something that weighs on my mind.  Its a middle-class, lack-of-information problem that I probably have thought in the past, too.  I don't hear these ideas from people who are poor, who have been poor for a while, or who have risen out of poverty.  I hear these things from people who are working middle class.  Its the idea that there is someone else who will take care of this problem.  In my case, its the problem of healthcare.

A person who was on medical leave recently returned to work at the poor school.  She was aghast that I haven't had surgery for my torn meniscus.  She wanted to know why I hadn't.  Why hadn't I gotten medicaid?  Why don't I have Obamacare (seriously people, its ACA, Affordable Care Act, regardless of what you think of it). Why hadn't I gone to the county?  Why hasn't my church paid for it?  Have I thought of looking into finding a church that would? Why haven't I gone ahead and gotten the care and then made payments?  A lot of times, the hospital and doctors just write off these things.  She couldn't believe that I would put up with this injury for so long!  She had to think of some way to fix it.

And that is all good and well.  If she has a better idea, that is honest, I would be willing to consider it.  I don't qualify for medicaid.  The county gives you a loan and they put a lien against your house (our house won't sell for a price high enough to cover knee surgery).  I haven't thought about asking my church to pay for this... and I certainly won't be changing churches based on what they can give me.  All doctor's offices require either insurance or payments at time of services, to take services without paying is stealing. Since I have friends who work in the medical field, I would no more take toilet paper from their children than to steal the services of a doctor. When the hospital agrees to write something off, you still have to pay taxes on that, and then you have a bigger problem than just being poor.  You have the problem of a huge tax burden that you have no way to pay.  So I'd rather endure this injury than to not have integrity.

Eight Hours, Now What?

The news that my husband was going to be gone for a week to do some exploration on a couple of mining projects was very exciting.  Sure, he'd miss our son's confirmation at church, and I would be on my own for a whole week, but how wonderful that he had this opportunity.  An opportunity that speaks volumes about their company taking off and starting to become what they have worked so hard for.  We knew that if this was successful, it would definitely be worth the sacrifices.

I cataloged my challenges in this chapter of adventure and how I would be able to manage them.  Crutches, but I was happy to assure my husband that I'm at a lower level of pain then I had been in quite a long while.  Not healed, but not so badly affected that I yell about aliens like a crazed escapee of Area 51. I've been hobbling around the house rather effectively lately, so if I'm careful, I'll be ok.

The broken washer.  We dug out quarters hidden from the last time the washer went out.  That will get a midweek washing under control.  The kids might think its fun to go to the laundromat.  Or at least we'll fake that its fun.

The kids' schoolwork, no problem there, although the more I thought about it, we could play hooky, maybe take the dogs out somewhere?  The plans were coming together nicely.

Poor school.  Well, there has to be a gray cloud somewhere, right?  The girls are capable of being left alone, but I might just drag the boy along with me to make sure there is no fighting on a school day.  He might like an outing. This challenge could be easily dealt with.

My princess daughter woke up early.  She took a long shower and laid on the sofa.  She then threw up.  No problem, it was probably a different manifestation of the tummy bug most of us had last week.  She'd stay home from church and then everything would be ok.  We've got this.

Two church services, and more walking about than normal.  I was tired, but that was ok.  My eyes started to tear up and feel hot.  Perhaps I was very tired.  The other kids and I took care of the daily chores.  I had forgotten how many little chores there were.  My husband has taken care of the little chores since I was hurt, and we split them before.  I felt colder than normal, so I found my favorite "old man" shirt to wear over my teeshirt.  I was still cold, so I added a coat.  Something might not be quite as ok as before.

The princess looked flushed.  I took her temperature, and then for fun took everyone else's.  She had a fever.  I gave her an acetaminophen.  I had a fever.  I took some too.  The other kids were fine.  She said her legs hurt.  I offered that it was because she had laid on the sofa all day.

My joints were starting to ache.  The major joints that are affected by my use of crutches, were hurting even more.  I made dinner early, not sure if I'd manage later.  At this point, my husband had been gone only 8 hours of a 6-7 day trip.

Only a few more tasks for the day.  Drop a child at church to work.  Pick her up.  My head aching.  My joints hurting.  My knee unexpectedly gave out completely.  ALIENS!  By the 12th hour of solo parenting I'm in agony.  My injured leg now contracting painfully as the rest of my body gives in to the illness.

This is not starting out as a glorious week of adventure.  Unless the adventure involves taking a left turn to a special circle of hell.

I plan a war on the illness via medication.  I'm not going to fail at this.  I warn the kids about the extra upcoming challenges to this special adventure week.  I've come to the conclusion, this could be worse, but I'd very much rather it not be.

More Adventures

I looked at the boy's hand-me-down shoes and realized they were completely ripped out.  I knew he was outgrowing them, but I didn't realize that they were so damaged or so small.  They were a full size and an half too small.  He never complains, only occasionally asks if we can look for shoes at the thrift store for him.  So on Quarter Day we go to the thrift store and look.  But boys are so hard on their clothes and shoes that finding clothing and shoes for him is difficult.  If we can patch, hem, fix buttons, polish or otherwise rehabilitate an item we do, often choosing items that are passed over by others.  He's not picky, and being the youngest and only boy, he's pretty nonchalant about wearing clothes passed down from his sisters.  Looking at the shoes, I realize I cannot let him go on like this.  We head to the girls' closet and find a pair of black boots that fit him.  He's thrilled to get a nice looking pair of shoes.  I promise him we will go through the girls' shoes more closely and see what they have that he can wear.  The girls protest this proclamation, but they forget that their brother only had 1 pair of shoes, where they've been blessed with many hand-me-downs.

I spend the morning researching the error code my washing machine flashes.  One description of the issues of this model starts with, "common problems with this otherwise tragically flawed washer:..."  Hoping (always hoping), that the code is something simple, something that doesn't require expensive parts or even worse, expensive electronic parts.  We've replaced so many parts on the washer already, but now, we just... can't.  One hundred seventy-five dollars for a new control board is out of the question.  It used to be a big annoyance to have something go wrong with the washer or dryer, but now, its so prohibitive that its impossible.  

I cry.  The kids are out walking the dogs, so I break down in the privacy of my temporary solitude.  I consider the 2-3 loads of clothing we wash daily.  

I  pull myself together.  I come up with a plan.  I'll make it an adventure.  This will be a learning experience.  We'll get through this challenge too, and we'll become better people for it.  Because if I don't pull myself together, or come up with a plan, or make it an adventure, or learn from it, or get through this challenge or become better... I'll become bitter and angry.  I'll teach my kids to wallow in self-pity and to blame the world for their problems.  I can't let that happen.  There is so much more at stake than a washing machine that doesn't spin or a child with no shoes.

Two-sided days

Do you know what a two-sided day is?  For me, its one where I experience hope, happiness, joy and anger, irritation and disgust.  

The day started out well, I felt good about the interview, and about the position.  I would really like to be chosen for this job.  I left feeling worthwhile, and capable.  Not like someone who isn't worthy of consideration.  I had hope.  The children were working somewhat on task when I got home, the husband was finishing putting the yard to bed for the winter.  I enjoyed a couple of hours at home helping the kids with their schoolwork.  Teaching them, working with them is a joy, even when the boy falls out of his chair while learning his multiplication tables.

The other side of the day took place in poor school.  There are some truly beautiful people in the room.  People who are struggling, people who are hopeful.  Out of the 13 people in the class today, there were more than a couple of bigots.  Now, I understand why the state sent me, a once middle-class, white woman to the class.  I get it.  I've been at home with my children for quite a few years, working as a consultant, or as an unpaid volunteer, and homeschooling.  I haven't done a full-time gig in a long time.  The state determined that I fit the category of needing help to get work.  I may not like being forced to attend this program, but I do see why I have to be there.  The state follows protocol, and as we've discussed earlier, a temporary disability isn't recognized in the protocol.  Therefore, I am required to attend a program contracted by the state to force me to find work.  

I attend the mandatory class.  I dress in my interview outfit (bonus, I was already wearing it).  This gets me extra points so I can go to the company's Closet of Happiness for Poor People (not its real name), and choose a single item that food stamps won't buy.  I was told there was toilet paper, there wasn't.  

As an aside, food stamps should buy toilet paper, or you should donate it to food banks and charities.  It is the most necessary hygiene item.  Soap is nice, but showering carefully and daily in warm water can offset a lot of personal odor.  There are a lot of people who follow natural body care practices, and its fine.  You would never notice.  But you notice when a person doesn't use toilet paper.  So a word of advice, when you donate those pickled herring that are about to expire in your pantry, donate toilet paper too.  If you are a Costco member, donate a big pack of the individually wrapped rolls.  People need toilet paper along with the cream of celery soup (why did I buy that?).

Back to my class.  I sat alongside a couple from Iraq.  They struggle with English.  Remember though, the description of English as being a language that pulls other languages into dark alleys, beats them up, and goes through their pockets for loose grammar.  People who aren't born speaking English are learning a violent language.  Our language regularly riots and takes hostages.  Knowing this, having studied, and taught Latin and English Grammar to my children, I have great respect for anyone who learns this language.  

The husband of this couple from Iraq was a doctor before coming here.  He'd like any job in the medical field, but his education and experience as a doctor isn't recognized here.  He and his wife have come as refugees and are going through the refugee program that our local college sponsors.  It doesn't take much reading to figure out that the situation in Iraq.  His medical experience is probably what ensured he and his wife could come to the US.   They struggle to introduce themselves and to answer the questions.  The husband has a stronger grasp on English.  I admire them.  I know learning English isn't easy, and I can't imagine learning it from a non-germanic or non-romantic language.  

Here's where the day made me so angry.  As the wife struggles to introduce herself, other adult students groan, roll their eyes, and mutter about how people should just speak English if they are going to live here.  I'm embarrassed.  I look at these other people and wonder why they think that a woman who wants to get hired at Walmart is a threat.  I wonder how they can treat a man who was once a doctor as subhuman.  Its disgraceful.  Everyone in the room is there because they have asked the state for help in taking care of their families.  How can any one of them think they are better than the person next to them.  

How, and why, have we managed to pit poor people against poor people so effectively?  Here is my prediction:  my Iraqi tablemates will get on their feet much more quickly than 2/3 of the people sitting in that room yesterday.  They will not waste time finding excuses and having unrealistic expectations, instead they will work hard to build a good life.  I am humbled.

Blessings

We are blessed.  Even in these struggles we are blessed.  I have a train of thinking that I follow when I feel like this knee is causing too much pain, and I am overwhelmed with fear for the future. It goes like this:

"I can't believe that this is getting worse.  What am I going to do?  What is the purpose behind this?  How can I fix this?"

Paul frequently wrote of a thorn in his side, and sometimes I want to think this knee and this poverty are figurative thorns in my side.  But really, Paul's suffering was from being beaten for speaking the Word of God, and for teaching about Christ.  I've done nothing like that.  In fact, I'm quite a selfish person, who lives in relative comfort when compared to others.  I've rarely been taken to task for my faith in God, and its always been reasonably civil.  Sure, I've been called names, lost friends, and had my feelings hurt, but never beaten or imprisoned.

And really, I can't compare my struggle with Paul.  But we do have Christians imprisoned around the world in terrible conditions, which are much more like Paul."

At this point, I remember Saeed Abedini, the pastor from Boise, Idaho who is imprisoned in one of Iran's worst prisons because he was building orphanages and because he is a Christian.  He is beaten and abused regularly.  His wife has shared reports that she receives from family who can visit him, and its heartbreaking.  To think of how overwhelming it is for this family.

So I shall not carry-on and complain.  I have my husband close.  I have my beautiful children.  If my "thorn" is an injury that will someday be healed and a financial struggle that will someday resolve, I will count myself among the most blessed.

Affairs of the Heart... er... Knee

I really struggle with my knee.  Its getting worse, and while I consider myself to be fairly reasonable and even a bit stoic, I find myself unable to steel myself against the pain as well as I used to.  Perhaps its the longevity that is breaking me more often.  Morning, night and all hours between, it is a constant companion.  At first, I thought that I was just being weak and unable to manage a common injury.

I took to heart those horrible words about how poor people, and people on welfare, just pretend they are hurt, pretend they are disabled, pretend they can't work. Since I am one of those people now, this must mean I pretend that I'm in pain in order to get more from the government and give less back.  I did my best to hide the pain, to reject the crutches, to ignore the implications.  And yet, none of that has helped.  None of it actually helps me walk, or takes the pain away.  I wish I was just pretending that this injury was stealing my quality of life from me.  Then I would be able to stop the sham, and regain the fun and joy in being a wife, in homeschooling my children, regain the excitement and ability to fish, camp, hike and cook, regain the ability to do.  With regaining the ability to do, I would regain more than the ability to work.  I haven't just lost work with this, I've lost the ability to enjoy my life.

Idaho doesn't recognize temporary disability, and a treatable injury is a temporary disability.  Because of this, I cannot ask for any sort of accommodations.  When I awkwardly clomp on my crutches through the doors of an office to interview, I am obligated to tell them I am not disabled.  I cannot ask for any accommodations in the job, even when its obvious that I will need them.  This means I have no protections against discrimination, which leaves me in an unfortunate loop.  I cannot get a job which would allow me the financial ability to treat my knee.  If I continue with my knee untreated, I cannot get a job.  If given the option of hiring between two people with similar skills, employers will choose the fully able-bodied person, or they will choose the person who they know has legal protection.  They will not choose someone who might miss work or looks like they might need to take time off for medical reasons.

And with that said, I will spend this weekend preparing for an interview for a position I want, in a office I would enjoy working in.  I will be well-researched, ready and excited.  I will squelch the fears, and the knowledge that I am at a disadvantage, and I will be ready.  Maybe this will be the panel of interviewers that look past my knee injury and see that I am a capable candidate regardless of my crutches.

Poverty, Seasoned with Extra Embarrassment

I see the hateful messages on social media about how the poor clean out the stores on the first of every month, spending the tax dollars of hard working Americans on things like candy, soda and potato chips.  I see the outrage that a decent person has to wade through nasty, disgusting, welfare breeders with their whining and filthy sprogs around them, just to get to the ground beef.  Everyone sees those opinions.  They aren't kept quiet by any means.  The comments are as common as flies on a ranch in September.

So we try not to fit the welfare stereotype.  We plan a quick trip for milk and essentials to the "used food" store (a grocery outlet where much of the food is of questionable origin and /or expiration date).  We run out of milk before the first but the shame of having to run the SNAP card on that day along with all the other welfare people stops us from remedying it.  We wait, and on the evening of the second, my husband goes.  He asks if I know if we have our credit.  I tell him I assume we do, its supposed to post on the 1st.  Forty-five minutes later he calls me.

He uses that professional hushed tone of a man who is doing business in a grocery store.  There is disappointment and embarrassment in his voice, and I can feel the heat rising in my face even though I'm not there with him.  He says the card won't go through.  He asks if I know for certain if there is funding.  We both wonder if I failed a task on the paperwork hell quest.  I look for the letter.  It gives me no information.  I rip my wallet apart looking for the information card.  It has a phone number that only is manned on business days during business hours.  I take over the computer and frantically work at setting up an online account.  I tell him what I'm doing.  He tells me the decline code.  I find nothing.  Sixteen minutes later, I finally am verified to access the account and find that we've been funded.  He's about ready to put the food back when he sees the manager.  She tells him it was the state server that had crashed.

Last week, he spent time in the offices of a large corporation working on negotiations for a project.  He and his partner met with an investor for another project.  Moments before he went to the store, I had looked over his shoulder as he wrote a proposal.  And yet, here he was laid low by a computer glitch that made him feel like he was less than worthy of the milk and few groceries he needed.

Thirty Days of Gratitude

Every year for a number of years I've participated in posting a gratitude a day for the month of November on social media.  Sometimes, its very easy.  I can find 30 things to be grateful for in less than a minute.  Sometimes, it seems trite and silly.  Sometimes, I feel like I'm riding the bandwagon, even though I know I've practiced this longer than Facebook has been around.  But sometimes?  Its hard.  Its hard to find the things to be grateful for when life is difficult, and my horizon is blurred by so much.

This year, I will be thankful and show gratitude.  Facing financial difficulties in the United States is still a sight better than living well in a third world country.  I don't live in a culture where I must build my own hut out of cow manure (Masai).  For this alone, I am thankful.  My small American tract house is large compared to many places, even compared to other first world cultures and American cities.  We house only two generations in this home.  Not only do we have the luxury of indoor plumbing, we have two bathrooms.  Water comes into our house on demand.  Not just water, but clean water, free of parasites and germs.  I have a device that provides enough hot water to shower 5 people with hot water left over.  I don't have to walk 3-4 miles a day to get water (est. 1,000,000,000 people do).  I don't have to worry about my children being assaulted by soldiers or gangs when they use water (South Sudan).

Compared to other Americans, our life is a struggle.  Compared to other humans?  We've got it easy.

Answer a fool...

Do not answer a fool according to his folly, Or you will also be like him. Proverbs 26:4

Whoops.

I was angry.  Life is unfair.  The anxiety is overwhelming.  I want people to realize that we are all human beings who should be treated with respect.  I want to make people care about others-- or stop caring so much about that small fraction of government money used to provide welfare to help the poor. I want people to think bigger, to realize that there are so many factors involved when you are broken and need help. I want people to be upset about large corporate subsidies and bank bailouts instead (they take up more of the federal budget than food stamps, but its easier to hate me and my children than it is to hate Chase Bank and General Motors). I want too much.  

I answer the FaceBook post quickly.  I wonder why I'm friends with this person who hates the poor so much.  Who hates me so much for being poor.  Who hates my husband for trying to build a business.  Who hates my children for being born to us...  I'm hurt, and in this pain I reply with anger.  I am foolish.

Its quick.  I slap my forehead and realize what I've done as soon as I post the words.  I wish I could take them back.  I am no better than he is.  I am no better than the person who hates the poor, as I answered back to someone only slightly less poor.  There was no right answer.  There was no logical conclusion for them.  Its easier to rage against my family than it is to hate a faceless bank who doesn't care about people. In his mind, I am the national debt.  I am the reason our country is failing.  My answer to a baited question convicts me in a court of people who are one or two steps away from being just like us.  Maybe they are fortunate enough to live near people who can help them.  Maybe they have resources that we don't have.  Maybe they don't know what its like to have a scattered or minimal support system.  Maybe they do.  Maybe I need to think more and respond out of humility and grace.

To whom do I ask forgiveness?  My husband and children for allowing them to be dragged through the mud because I answered a foolish question?

I still worry about how we are perceived.  I never wanted to be hated, but it was just so much more important to make sure my children has access to medical care and food.  

It could have been a lesson in humility, but instead I am humiliated in my foolishness.  This is hard.

Aliens... with Laser Jackhammers!

"Someone please get me the white pillow, the big ice and my brown blanket."  All three kids take off to various places in the house to bring me the requested items.  I suck in a breath at the pain that shoots through my knee and leg.
"Why do you do that?"  My oldest girl asks.
"It hurts.  Like... I don't know how to explain it..."  My eyes tearing up a little at the pain, and I grit my teeth.
"Jackhammers?" The boy offers.
"Maybe like magical trolls with jackhammers..." I reply.
"Trolls exist!  They steal your socks, but only the left ones.  What's with that?" The three recite in unison the lines from a popular dragon movie.
"Ok not trolls.  Fairies?"
"No, they aren't that mean." My princess middle child says.
"Aliens!" The boy interjects excitedly.
"Ok.  Microscopic aliens live in my knee.  They take laser..."
"Laser jackhammers?"
"Sure.  Microscopic aliens live in my knee and leg and they take very tiny laser jackhammers and try to mine the..."
"They're stealing your bones!" The oldest eagerly contributes.
"Technically, I think its cartilage, but maybe the aliens are just tunneling through it..."
"With laser jackhammers..."
"OK, so microscopic aliens have entered my knee and leg and they are tunneling through the cartilage and into bones with..."
"LASER JACKHAMMERS!"  We all shout and laugh.
We laugh at the idea of the laser wielding aliens trying to steal the bones from my leg.  And now, when I call for their assistance we yell, "the aliens are attacking, take your positions!"  "Its the aliens! Quick!"

And this is why instead of uttering "damn" with this particular pain, I now say "aliens," and giggle a bit.

I have good kids.

Welfare Queens

She's overwhelmed.  You can tell by the set of her eyes.  In this class we aren't asked why we are here, but it comes out in conversation.  We are just checking in and learning more of how to fill out the forms.  Her roots show she's about 6 weeks past her appointment in the salon, and from the look of it, she's used to having a higher quality cut and color.  She's required to have an email address in order to be here, but doesn't have any idea how to set one up, or how to use a computer.  She's never really had or wanted to.  She says her husband was a machinist, but he left.  She appears to be on the lower end of 60.  A younger lady offers to help her with the computer center, and just that relief softens the lines around her eyes.  The fear of not fulfilling every requirement of the program and ending up "sanctioned" is real.

Across the room from her sits a whiskey-voiced woman with too much makeup, cataract-red lipstick and hair piled high on her head.  Her hair too, is showing 12 weeks of gray roots but under a home dye job.  Her make-up is applied thickly to hide the black eye.  I'm pretty sure its not an accidental black eye, and despair hangs over her like a web.  If I had to guess she's mid-50's.  I wish I could offer to take her to coffee.  I don't have what it takes to be a support for her, but I wish I did.  I wonder if anyone ever lets her know that she's valuable and beautiful.

Next to her is the young 20-something-year-old lady. Dressed in men's jeans and a men's shirt, with large, clunky-looking sneakers.  She shuffled in with a look of irritation and resignation.  She tells me, as she rolls her eyes, she was missing work for this mandatory class.  She works at Little Caesars, but just convinced a mechanic's shop to take her on as "shop-boy".  She says she'll never eat Little Caesars pizza again, and I laugh and tell her I worked at one once, and I totally agree.  She wants to get on her feet and then become a mechanic.  If she missed the class, she would lose her food stamps and WIC.  So she has to choose to miss the work that would pay her bills so that she can continue to feed herself and her child.  I just don't understand this system.

Next to me sits a woman dressed in a floral skirt and flattering coordinated top.  Everything about her is tidy and she brings her own pen.  She's here because she has to be.  Her left hand ring finger bears the indention of a gone ring.  I can only imagine.  When asked what she did to further her job search this week, she responds with updating her resume and sending in 3 applications.  She is embarrassed to be here, and determined to get out quickly.  I'm guessing she was a middle class housewife like myself, before things changed and she broke her pride and asked for help.  She has a quick, efficient way about her and she's looking for office work.  I silently pray she finds it quickly.

These are the welfare queens--these women who are left, broken, and overwhelmed.

The Value of Time

I'm required to document the time I spend searching for work or jumping through hoops on a time sheet.  I'm required to spend time attending workshops, classes and meetings in addition to my job search.  I'm required to sign up and interview with temporary employment and staffing agencies.  What bothers me most about these requirements is that I am treated as though I have all the time in the world and am unilaterally flexible.

I spend time filling out online applications, only to be required to fill out the exact same application on paper.  I show up within the 10 minute window of politeness, only to be forced to wait while the employees at the staffing agency waste an additional 20 minutes of time taking selfies, laughing and carrying on like a bunch of duck-faced, junior high girls.  I go to meetings with my case manager who is running 45 minutes behind schedule.  This is absolutely ridiculous.  Why am I not allowed the dignity of a timely appointment?  Why is my time not valued?  I may be in need of help but that is no reason to not schedule/reschedule so that I can make better use of my time.  Why am I required to behave professionally, but the "professional" are not?

In addition to the fact that this waste of time is obnoxious, its painful.  It is physically painful for me to wait in chairs that can't accommodate my back and knee problems.  I sit with frissons of pain shooting through my left knee and leg, while my back spasms when I try lean against the chair.  I stand on my crutches, then sit again in order to try and relieve the worsening pain.  My knee swells orange size, then grapefruit, then to the size of a large pumelo, as I'm forced to wait.  By the time I get to the car I can barely lift myself into the driver's seat.  I hobble in to my house and beg the children for help in getting the pillow, ice packs, and pain relievers that are just too late to alleviate the pain.  I know that this will set me back the rest of the day and probably several days.

Its not that I mind the forced job hunt so much, as I was already looking for work.  Its not that I mind the injury so much, as I tend to understand it and how it works.  Its combining the work search with a worsening injury and being treated as a person who is not worth any sort of respect. If you ever wonder why it seems you can identify poor people, its because they are treated as subhuman.  They seem to lack self-respect, because they are shown very little respect.  It doesn't take long to break down and accept that you aren't worth a minute of anyone's time.

Kindness is a Ray of Sunshine

Today, I had an intake appointment with Vocational Rehabilitation.  I was treated as an intelligent person, instead of an undeserving drain on society, which was an unexpected kindness. It both raised my self-esteem and made me realize just how awful people who need help are treated.  More paperwork and forms were filled out and signed.  Another interview to find out why I'm not working, except this time I was treated with a lot more respect, to the point where I now realize how little respect I was shown in other places.  Medical release forms have been signed and promised to be sent today to start the verification of my conditions and injuries. Once verified, this will earn me another caseworker/representative, and hopefully a little more tangible help along the way.

I'm tempted to start a case worker trading card collection.  I'm up to three, and there are more on the horizon.  I'll have enough for a pack and a stick of gum soon.  Maybe I could set up a black market trade of Idaho caseworkers trading cards. Statistics will include helpfulness ratings based on the number of other services suggested and/or referred to and actual help provided.  The referral rating is important because there are services out there to help poor people but it does no good if you don't know about them.

People

As much as I like being slightly reclusive, I find that the state requires me to be much more social.  This is taxing.  I can be social, and I, like every other normal person, can flip into my public persona.  You know the one, the smile, the handshake, the laugh, when I'd really rather not be in this place right now.

Social persona is such a funny thing to think about.  We've learned to apply it and use it.  But some people seem to either miss the cues, or their public selves and private selves have been at war with one another so long that they can't keep it up anymore.  I often think this when I meet someone who offers information about themselves that really isn't relevant to the situation at hand.  And yet, I know I've done this, so I'm not judging, just observing.

I clomped into the classroom on my trusty crutches and took a seat, equidistant between two other classmates.  One was a lady who looked to have had a much more difficult 40 years than I have.  She was missing a few teeth in front, her hair in one of the messy ponytails that speaks lack of planning, versus the current coiffed messy ponytail trend.  She was wearing a purple track suit that neither flattered nor insulted her.  She was kind and quiet, she introduced herself and offered a handshake.  Across from her was the other student.  Dressed in a dingy, much too small My Little Pony teeshirt and zip off cargo pants with the top button undone, and the lower legs gone.  Instead of the usual "Hi, I'm Joe," start to the conversation, the opening comment was "It sure is windy and cold out."  I said it had died down some and seemed pleasant.
"Its getting colder though."
"Yes, but I like this weather.  I'd be happy in jeans and teeshirt weather year 'round." I replied.
"I like shorts and skirts weather."
"Nope, not me, I prefer 70 degrees."
"I like to wear skirts.  I'm transgender."
"That's nice.  I'll wear long skirts, but not anything short.  But really, jeans suit me."
"I like short skirts, since I'm transgender."
"Yeah, not me.  I've got old lady legs, so the world is better off if I don't wear anything too short."

The lady offers that she has been told that she has nice legs, but she's embarrassed because of her tattoos.  She rarely wears shorter skirts, and prefers to wear pants, especially now that the weather is getting colder.  I agree with her, and turn to the young person, offering my hand.  "I'm Bethany, by the way."
"I'm Joe, but that name will change."
"Nice to meet you, Joe. Let me know when it does."

Problems with Poor

One of the major problems with being poor in Idaho is the sheer amount of paperwork, and the requirements.  I'm half-tempted to claim to be illiterate in order to get out of the myriad forms that are required to be poor.  This problem is only made worse by agencies giving the wrong referral forms for other agencies. Let me tell you, there is nothing more exhilarating than filling out a 10 page form outlining why you are a drain on society, and why you don't work (hint: its the crutches), only to waste precious gas to drop off the form and be told its the wrong form.  Thanks!  Boy, that was fun!  Let's do it again.... New 10 page form in hand, I get to go home and fill out the updated referral form to return on Monday.

Another major problem with being poor in Idaho is the driving requirement.  Not only are you required to have a license or proof of why you do not have one, you are required to spend an inordinate amount of time driving places.  Fill out this form and take it to that agency across town.  Show up at this office somewhere else and present a copy of this form.  Register in person at these three places and provide your driver's license and social security card.  The problem with this is the gas gauge is drawing down faster than a little boy sucking on the straw in a milkshake.  Can I email a copy of this to the agency?  NO.  Asking that is like asking if its okay to sacrifice a goat at the front desk--and at one place, I'm pretty sure they require a blood sacrifice if you don't complete your quests--just not at the front desk.

Provide proof that you have a car that can be used for this agency's requirements of you. Not having a personal car is sin in southern Idaho.  The wheels turn in the case manager's head, and I might as well be covered in contagious leprosy.  If you don't have a personal car, you are even more of a problematic poor person, especially if you cannot walk.  We have one car, and even though I've explained that my husband works in a neighboring town, this too is a sin.  Finally, the wheels stop turning, "Well, one of you will have to drop the other off and pick up later," she says brightly.  Technically, she is suggesting that I either spend from 8 am until 6 pm in an office (which closes at 5), waiting for my noon appointment and then a ride, or she is suggesting that we drive 80-120 miles a day in order to drop off and pick up.  Again, the amount of gas they expect you to use in order to fulfill their requirements is excessive when you don't have cash to fill the tank. 

Another "strong suggestion" (because they really can't enforce this one), is that you show up for all appointments, classes and interactions dressed for an interview.  I have one interview outfit.  I draw the line at wearing it everyday, especially for classes and appointments where we go over exciting bits like, "have you thought about a job in production?" "I don't think being somewhat crippled works well in a cheese or cardboard factory, but yes, I can apply there."  Personally, dressing for success means I wear clothing that doesn't set me up for further injury and pain.  That means my safe and sensible sneakers and nothing frilly or excessive to get caught up in the crutches.

The classes they send you to have homework and forms to fill out.  You know, since you obviously aren't spending your time trying to fill out the mandatory applications for work that you must present every week.  At this point, I don't know if its supposed to be helpful or if its supposed to break your spirit.  I'm leaning toward believing the entire system is designed to break your spirit. 

If you fail, or even falter, in fulfilling the sometimes asinine requirements, they will "sanction" you, which means suspend or ban you from receiving food stamps or medicaid.  This means that they can take away the food and medical care of the children.  Its a poignant scare tactic that I have no desire to test.  So I struggle to fulfill their requirements that are sometimes physically impossible.  I do the best I can, and I live in fear that its not going to be good enough.  

This is all part of the being poor in Idaho.  So far, fulfilling the program requirements take up the time I budget for actual job hunting.  They also do nothing to actually address the physical problems that keep me from getting hired.  No one wants to hire someone who doesn't have a permanent disability but who needs physical accommodations to do simple work.  If there is someone who is willing to help me fix my very fixable problems, I'll work anywhere.  The problem is that no one wants to help the injured poor.  Its easier to throw them away like yesterday's bad chicken.

A Solution for Work

Working Solutions.  That's the name of the mandatory program I get to attend multiple days per week.  Let's get this straight, I appreciate help in finding a job.  I need all the help I can get, and if someone can give me pointers or show me how to rewrite my resume to better market myself, I am very thankful.  I do not appreciate a witch with lipstick snarling at me.  I also don't appreciate aging hippies who overuse the "mmm...kay" like the school counselor on South Park.  I know this makes me seem like a jerk, and I probably am one.  I'm sure they help people who are more clueless than a box of rocks.  I don't think I am one of those.  Maybe I have an over-inflated ego--its definitely possible.  They aren't the people who have asked for the state's help in providing for their family and I am.  Maybe being knocked down a few more pegs will break my will enough to actually accept that I'm a loser who needs the state to tell me how to breathe (I think its inhale/exhale, but then again, I should check with one of our caseworkers to make sure).

I was explicitly told NOT to bring a resume.  I brought one, which my new friend, the case manager, actually was impressed with, and glad I brought.  Receiving mixed information is annoying.  I also came with a folder and notebook.  I was the only person who took notes.  This little habit of mine also surprised the case manager.  I'm under the impression that the front desk person (the rude person who I first had contact with), may be giving a lot of misinformation out, I was told I didn't need to bring anything when I asked.  I also suspect if people are reacting to her particular brand of disdain, the way it seemed in the orientation, that there is probably a lot of extra animosity from the people forced into this program.

I am required to spend a minimum amount of time working on applications and going to classes to learn how to apply for jobs and interview.  Exciting mandatory attendance classes with titles such as:

Why Employers Get Grumpy When You Call In Sick 

How and Why Research Wage Information for Job Search

Thanking Employers Improves Job Search Success

These titles make the English tutor in me cringe.  These titles make the home educating mother in me flinch.  Frankly, do I need a 45 minute class on why employers get mad when you miss work?  

I have a confusing special time sheet I get to fill out and turn in every week.  Now, searching for work on the state website, from the comfort of my recliner, while icing my knee, doesn't count on my special time sheet.  But I can go in and search for work from their computer in a chair that hurts me and leaves me in tears and that does count.  Making life more painful makes my special time sheet a special record of hell.  

So this is 40

The plan was we would go to Europe.  Our twentieth anniversary fell during a time of grief and commitment, so we couldn't do anything but cope with the events that life had thrown at us.  Our 40th birthday year would be when we would go--just the two of us--a vacation for just us.  I called my sister and asked the best time of year for her to take the three kids.  We looked at the airlines miles and calculated the costs.  We researched locations that we wanted to see on our trip. We talked about regions, towns, areas, customs.  We started to save.  It was to be the honeymoon we didn't take, the vacation we always wanted.  It was going to celebrate the well over half of our lives that we've been together, growing, changing and supporting one another.

When his 40th came around, we were already out of unemployment payments.  We celebrated his birthday with a cake, a decent dinner.  He and I went out for drinks.  The kids gave him a couple of new teeshirts.  Father's Day was the next day, so he received two new books that day.  Our 21st anniversary followed just a few days later.  He and I went out to breakfast to celebrate.

Money is so far gone now that going out for a drink is a thought beyond luxury.

Last week we applied for welfare.  With more hope than we had any right to hold, we asked for Medicaid.  If only I could qualify for help.  If only I could get this knee fixed before it was beyond hope.  If only we had a little help since we've exhausted our resources and our pride.  We qualified for food stamps.  The children qualify for Medicaid.  I'm told, after the agonizing hour of standing, leaning, sliding against the counter and partition, and shifting weight from my right leg to my hands to the wall, that if we only made more money we'd qualify for the Affordable Care Act, she followed up with "Obamacare" complete with air quotes. He and I don't qualify for Medicaid ourselves--we're in "the gap".

It was scary admitting we needed help.  She was nice.  We came in well-prepared, which might have helped.  She used to work in a bank, but this job was better.  Her husband finally got the raise he deserved so she was going to quit soon.  She joked about my husband and I having joint accounts and how that leads to divorce.  I suppose she sees a lot of the devastation involved with divorces.  She apologized and told me I was required to go to mandatory job training, but my husband wasn't since he was self employed.

An IdahoWorks person called my husband's cell phone the next day and asks for me.  He told her that it isn't my phone number.  She was irritated that she called the wrong number.  He took a message and texted me.  I called her but she was rude as I asked questions to try and determine what to prepare for.  Did I need a resume, did I need to bring anything?  I asked how long the program runs.  She used a voice that crackled with irritation and judgment, "its mandatory until you get a job!" she snapped at me.
"I mean, how long is the orientation? I need to schedule transportation and child care.  I'm not trying to get out of anything."  I felt compelled to tack that last bit on.  Somewhat less snappish she told me to expect it to go until noon or later.  That doesn't actually help me plan out childcare or even transportation, but I thank her anyway.

My birthday was celebrated with red meat.  I feel that frisson of guilt from reading too many social network statuses that talk about how awful welfare people are for eating steak.  It was a great steak, bought at the discounted food store, where the sell-by date was already past.  You know us welfare queens... always taking advantage of the system!

Today, I listen to bluegrass music and wish for a better tomorrow.

Why I'm here

I have a hard time believing that my little family lives in poverty.  Just three years ago we were on top of the world, but times change.  Circumstances change.  Money and income change.  Everything changes.

Here's where we are now:
A family of five--my beloved husband and I have been married 21+ years.  We have three kids between the ages of 12 and 8, which we home school.  We have two dogs and one cat. We bought our small (less than 1200 square feet) house 7 years ago when we moved to the area.  We bought our car 3 years ago to replace an aging minivan.  It was a great bargain, but one we had to finance and now we have to worry about.

The easiest way to explain the financial problems, is to say that my husband's company was bought out.  He had hoped to stay on, but they got rid of his entire office.  We've been through the severance package, the unemployment benefits, the retirement funds.  We've sold what we can.  As a stay at home mom and homeschooling mom, I've been frugal, I've been careful, I've been willing to do without, in order to preserve our way of life.  My husband searches for work, and works with former coworkers to get a new business off the ground, but its fewer hits and more misses at this stage.  I search for work.  I teach the children their school lessons, manage the house, and try to keep the stress to a minimum.

To add to the situation, I was injured while I helped my husband with a cleanup project.  I managed to get a diagnosis of a torn meniscus in my left knee, but I don't appear to qualify for any medical help to actually fix the problem.  I live in a world of unmanageable pain, in which the intensity increases everyday.  My husband  takes care of me.  My kids are expected to help out, and they do.  They keep the house and help cook.  They are good kids, and my husband is a good man.  My knee has failed me, but more importantly, because of it, I've failed my family.

It is here that we struggle to hold onto a shred of dignity and hope.  We question the events that led us to this place, but only briefly, we can't change the past or make different decisions now.  We can only try to survive.