The Power Taught Through Poverty

I grew up poor. There is no other way to explain it. Even if I used the words dirt or piss to describe that adjective. Though the word poor can be used as a noun I guess.

I grew up on the lower end of the tier system of poverty. And there was nothing romantic about that realization. Or nothing to be ashamed of either.

As a young child, I knew the difference between haves and have-nots at an early age. It was hard to miss when the electricity was shut off at least once during the summer because of delinquent payments.

Or the few times we would all have to go into stealth mode when a bill collector was knocking on our door. At least one of us would be peeking through the shade for the all too familiar whisper of “All Clear”.

My folks were working poor. Both clocked into their respective employers for a meager weekly paycheck that barely covered expenses. My Mom, on the other hand, clocked right back in when she came home.

Not a moment's rest for a woman of her generational programming.

What more could I say? That was growing up in the 80s.?

We lived in a working-class neighborhood where all of the mothers would stand in line at the local high school for free boxes of imitation Velveeta cheese, powdered milk, and dented cans of government-issued vegetables.

So growing up, there was never any extra money for luxury ticket items that most people would consider standard. No trips to McDonalds. No Saturday afternoon cinemas.?

Vacations were long drives in the station wagon if there was enough gas.

And usually, that was because the destination warranted a stop at a thrift store, or the junkyard to take in aluminum. We would run around in the parking lot playing frozen tag behind parked cars while my father stared off in the distance with a nonfiltered cigarette hanging from his mouth.

My mom would either be inside searching for a second-hand pair of work jeans for my father, or haggling for a better price of the bags of cans we had just brought in.

As a young boy, none of this crossed my worried mind. And I accepted it without question.

You can not be if you can not see.?

With poverty, comes a whole host of limitations. None of which ever passed my radar. It was an accepted reality. I didn’t know there was anything different. Nor did I care.?

If I needed money for a comic or a toy, I was out in the neighborhood soliciting my help to rake leaves or shovel snow. Allowance was never part of our family lexicon.?

Chores were earning your keep. A meal and a warm bed at the end of the day.

Asking my father for money was like asking for a stone to bleed. That and more times than not, he didn’t have anything extra to give.?

So if I wanted to go to the fair, the mall, or the movies with friends, I needed to figure that out on my own.

Money was a luxury we did not have.

One such memory sticks out the most.

It is a sweltering summer morning and a group of the neighborhood kids knocked on my back door. Someone figured out that we could make money if we had a lemonade stand.

As my friends waited in the yard for me, I scrambled around the house looking for my shoes. All I could find was one.

Frantic, I pleaded with my mom to help. She was busy in the kitchen and yelled back to figure it out. How many times had she told me to put my stuff away?

Without missing a beat, I rummaged in the back of the closet and grabbed my pair of 80s Winter Moon Boots. A monstrosity of plastic and cheap foam with faded cartoon characters on the front.

Not the best footwear for a hot 75-degree morning.

I slipped them on and ran outside as quickly as possible.

Much to all of our dismay, no one in our tiny group had lemons, lemonade, or a stand. We would have to pool our resources together and come up with a solution.

No problem, I was used to that. I was wearing winter boots in the middle of summer.

How hard could this be?

Rushing back into the house I stormed the pantry. Only to have my mom scream at me to get out of her kitchen. I knew better than to grab anything.

I explained my dilemma and asked her if she could help. With a shrug, she said no and waved me away. If I wanted a lemonade stand, I would have to figure it out.

This would require some ingenuity on my part. I went to my room that my brother and I shared, and dug out my piggy bank.

There were three quarters, a couple of dimes, and a small handful of pennies. This would have to do. I pocketed the coins and hightailed to the corner store where they sold everything.?

Including lemons.

It wasn’t until I was judging the size and shape of the fruit, that the older lady in the store asked me what I was doing. I explained that I wanted to start a lemonade stand and asked her if one would be enough.

She smiled at me, shook her head, and reached behind the counter. In her hand were three packets of lemon-flavored Kool-Aid. This would have to do.

When all of my friends regrouped, we totaled; one cup of sugar, a card table from someone’s garage, several different sizes of plastic cups, a pitcher without a lid, a dirty towel someone had left outside, and my three packets of Kool-Aid.

Surprisingly, that did not deter us.

We set up shop on the busiest street we could find. One of us filled the pitcher up with a garden hose and measured out the ratio of sugar to lemonade powder so we wouldn’t run out.

Someone suggested we shouldn’t care too much since lemonade was bitter anyway. We needed to conserve sugar. If I had to guess, whoever brought the sugar didn’t ask, so there was no going back for more.?

We charged 25 cents a cup and took turns manning the table. The rest of us ran up and down the city block screaming at the top of our lungs.

“LEMONADE FOR SALE! COLD LEMONADE FOR SALE!”

I don’t remember too many details about the rest of that afternoon. Except to say that we had a few customers. Chances are we drank more than we sold. In the end, we each walked away with about a dollar.

We closed up shop, split the money equally, and decided to meet back up after dinner for a game of kickball.

I completely forgot I had my winter boots on until my mother pointed it out. She told me that I would be walking barefoot this winter if I ruined those boots. Needless to say, she was mad.?

I didn’t care. I made a whole dollar. Even though I spent a dollar to get the Kool-Aid packets.

Because of poverty, it forged something inside of me that never quits. There is always a workaround. It taught me at a very young age, that if I wanted anything, not only would I have to rely on myself, but anything was possible with determination.?

And that superpower has helped me navigate some of life’s toughest moments. It also taught me to appreciate the value of everything.?

The hard lessons of growing up poor opened my eyes to see the possibilities in everything around me.?

Sure as a child watching friends having certain things I wished I had hurt. Some moments were unbearable, and I would never wish to revisit those times.

With that being said, I can safely say it showed me what is important in life.?It gave me the gift of empathy towards anyone rich or poor. ??

I am a person who will always look for alternatives. A person who will persevere. A person with strength of resolve, courage, and above all, a scrapper-type mindset when faced with adversity.

I have an attitude of “It ain’t over until I say it’s over”.

And even then, there is always a workaround.?