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.