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The pid has requested that no biographical information about her be distributed. The essay is a personaladdressed directly to the reader, about living in poverty. Listen to me.
Here I am, dirty, smelly, and with no "proper" underwear on and with the stench of my rotting teeth near you. I will tell you. Listen texf pity. I cannot use your pity. Listen with understanding. Put yourself in my dirty, worn out, ill-fitting shoes, and hear me. Poverty is getting up every morning from a dirt- and illness-stained mattress. The sheets have long since been used for diapers.
Poverty is living in a smell that never leaves.
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This is a smell of urine, sour milk, and spoiling food sometimes ed with the strong smell of long-cooked onions. Onions are cheap. If you have smelled this smell, you did not know how it came. It is the smell of the outdoor privy. It is the smell of young children who cannot walk the long dark way in the night. It is the smell of the mattresses where years of "accidents" have happened.
It is the smell of the milk which has gone sour because the refrigerator long has not worked, and it costs money to get it fixed. It is the smell of rotting garbage. I could bury it, but where is the shovel? Shovels cost money. Poverty is being tired. I have always been tired.
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They told me at the hospital when the last baby came that I had chronic anemia caused from poor diet, a bad case of worms, and that I needed a corrective operation. I listened politely - the poor are always polite. The poor always listen. They don't say that there is no money for iron pills, or better food, or worm medicine. The idea of an operation is frightening and costs so much that, if I had dared, I would have laughed.
Who takes care of my children? Recovery from an operation takes a long time. I have three children.
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When I left them with "Granny" the last time I had a job, I came home to find the baby covered with fly specks, and a diaper that had not been changed since I left. When the dried diaper came off, bits of my baby's flesh came with it. My gdt child was playing with a sharp bit of broken glass, and my oldest was playing alone at the edge of a dirhy. I made twenty-two dollars a week, and a good nursery school costs twenty dollars a week for three children. I quit my job. Poverty is dirt. You can say in your clean clothes coming from your clean house, "Anybody can be clean.
For breakfast I give my ttext grits with no oleo or cornbread without eggs and oleo. This does not use up many dishes.
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What dishes there are, I wash in cold water and with no soap. Even the cheapest soap has to be saved for the baby's diapers. Look at my gt, so cracked and red. Once I saved for two months to buy a jar of Vaseline for my hands and the baby's diaper rash.
When I had saved enough, I went to buy it and the price had tet up two cents. The baby and I suffered on. I have to decide every day if I can bear to put my cracked sore hands into the cold water and strong soap. But you ask, why not hot water?
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Fuel costs money. If you have a wood fire it costs money. If you burn electricity, it costs money. Hot water is a luxury. I do not have luxuries. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how young I am. I look so much older. My back has been bent over the wash tubs every day for so long, I cannot remember when I ever did anything else.
Every night I wash every stitch my school age child has on and just hope her clothes will be dry by morning.
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Poverty is staying up all night on' cold nights to watch the fire knowing one spark on the newspaper covering the walls means your sleeping child dies in flames. In summer poverty is watching gnats and flies devour your baby's tears when he cries. The screens are torn and you pay so little rent you know they will never be fixed.
Poverty means insects in your food, in dirfy nose, in your eyes, and crawling over you when you sleep.
Poverty is hoping it never rains because diapers won't dry when it rains and soon you are using newspapers. Poverty is seeing your children forever with runny noses. Paper handkerchiefs cost money and all your rags you need for other things.
Even more costly are antihistamines. Poverty is cooking without food and cleaning without soap. Poverty is asking for help. Have you ever had to ask for help, knowing 6 your children will suffer unless you get it? Think about asking for a loan from a relative, if this is the only way you can imagine asking for help. I will tell you how it feels. You find out where the office is that you are supposed to visit.
You circle that block four or five times. Thinking of your children, you go in. Everyone is very busy. Finally, someone comes out and you tell her that you need help.
That never is the person you need to see. You go see another person, and after spilling the whole shame of your poverty all over the desk between you, you find that this isn't the right office after all-you must repeat the whole process, and it never is any easier at the next place. You have asked for help, and after all it has a cost. You are again dirhy to wait. You are told why, but you don't really hear because of the red cloud of shame and the rising cloud of despair.
Poverty is remembering. It is remembering quitting school in junior high because "nice" children had been so cruel about my clothes and my smell. The attendance officer came.
My mother told him I was pregnant. I wasn't, but she thought that I could get a job and help out. I had jobs off and on, but never long enough to learn anything.
Mostly I remember being married. I was so young then. I am still young. For a time, we had all the things you have. There was a little house in another town, with hot t and everything. Then my husband lost his job.
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There was unemployment insurance for a while and what few jobs I could get. Soon, all our nice things were repossessed and we moved back here.
I was pregnant then. This house didn't look so bad when we first moved in. Every week it gets worse. Nothing is ever fixed.