The Art of Being Poor
CW: Mention of sexual assault, miscarriage, depression, medications
I'm poor.
Have been since I started working, probably always will be. My anticipated income for this year is around $8400. It's really nobody's fault except Circumstance. I'm paid fairly, but I'm not able to work full-time, and living off government benefits is like living life with one foot about to slip off the edge of a cliff - one mistake and it's all over.
Once upon a time, I was close to having a "normal" life. I graduated from college at 20 and started a Master in Teacher program. I would have had my Master's degree at 21 and been the youngest student to complete that program. I made it through the summer term, and although there were a couple of days when I had to sit outside in the hall and take notes because my anxiety was too high to be around everyone in the classroom, I felt okay. I've always been a good student and had no problem pulling As and the occasional B. Fall term, things started falling apart. First, I was sexually assaulted, and then had a miscarriage while at my student teaching placement. In November, a friend passed away from leukemia at the age of 22, and a few weeks later my grandfather suffered a stroke and fell into a coma. I ended up calling out of my placement several times due to anxiety - my mentor teacher was a bit of a battleaxe and incredibly intimidating. My grades started dropping and I had to get extensions on my papers. A few days before the end of the term, I was informed by the program head that I would not be allowed to continue the program, due to my emotional instability. I was devastated.
Getting booted of my program was a huge turning point in my life. Since the program was full-time, I wasn't working and was living off of financial aid. When we got back from two weeks in another state watching my grandpa die and then pulling together a memorial, I was kicked out of the small studio apartment I'd been renting for the previous two years. I moved in with who I consider to be my second family and spent a couple of months floating around aimlessly until I landed in another nanny position.
Up until then, my life had gone mostly according to plan. When I graduated from high school, I also had done two years of college, was Salutatorian, and had a GPA of 3.987. I got into the only college to which I applied - the private Christian university at which my parents met a couple decades ago. I received a scholarship that paid for half of my tuition, got a job at a daycare center close by, roomed with someone I knew from childhood, and thought that, maybe, things were finally going to get better.
Looking back, I really have no idea how I managed to graduate. I was very, very mentally ill, and on top of that I had recently gotten back into treatment and was in the process of trying different medications. When I started taking Seroquel (see previous posts), an antipsychotic, I slept through all of my classes even though my roommate woke me up multiple times, and I didn't get out of bed until probably 3pm. I skipped classes if I was late because I couldn't bear to come in late and have people look at me. My major, Spanish, required a lot of speaking and working in groups, but when the professors told us to partner up I would hide myself in the back or corner, hair covering my face, and do the work on my own. I skipped all of the dorm activities and any spare time was spent in bed or in the music building, where I could play piano, or sit in a piano room with the door locked and cry/talk on the phone without my roommate seeing.
I moved out of the dorms and in with my second family after my first semester. I passed my 400 level writing-intensive Spanish literature class with a C-, thanks to an amazing professor who saw I was struggling and gave me opportunities to make up work. Later in the year I had to withdraw from a required class because I couldn't keep up with the essays (surprise, I LOVED writing essays). I was no longer exceptional. That was a hard pill to swallow, but I was often distracted from my studies by side-effects, from sleeping all the time to losing my balance on flat ground, fever and chills, twitches, irrational thoughts (if I step off the sidewalk I will fall off the edge of the world, green things don't exist), and, of course, the ever-present dizziness and nausea. Somehow, I still managed to pass all my classes and finish my major in two years. It helped that my favorite Spanish professor was the head of the Modern Languages department and waived my travel requirement because I told her I could not be in another country for six months without my therapist and someone watching my meds. I think we both cried at graduation, in our black gowns, and she hugged me and told me how proud of me she was, and I told her I wouldn't have made it without her.
I graduated in May, and my master's program started in June. I was asked to leave in December, with only one term remaining. I moved around a bit, nannying and doing other part-time jobs, and as I continued to see my shrink and try to deal with my mental illness, I slowly realized that I would probably never be able to work full-time. Hitting 30 hours a week would send me into panic attacks and depression sleeps, culminating in my first psychiatric stay as an adult.
This was a difficult reality to accept. I was always an overachiever. I was smart, I was dedicated. I was supposed to be successful. I was supposed to be an adult. But it was too much. My brain just...shut down. I struggled to make enough money to pay for rent, medications, and counseling appointments, much less luxuries like food and tampons. I daydreamed about college, when I worked 12 hours a week, didn't pay rent, and could spend $40 on shoes on an impulse. I vividly remember walking into the grocery store one day with three dollars in my pocket, holding a box of noodles in one hand and tampons in the other, knowing which one I had to choose, almost bemused by the tragedy of it.
At this point, my shrink suggested trying to get on benefits. I was hesitant, but eventually started the (long and infuriating) process. After several attempts, I was approved to receive Social Security Income (SSI) benefits. I didn't realize at the time that I had just sold my soul to the government.
Here's a little sampling of the attitudes I might face if I choose to divulge the fact that I get benefits:
So imagine you're too sick to function, struggling to buy food, and after endless applications, interviews, and red tape, you get, say, $300/month from the government to supplement the $400/month you make from your part-time job. And on top of that, people judge you, because your illness is invisible and therefore invalid. Don't forget that you often are forced to disclose that you are on benefits, because as a nanny you don't get pay stubs and you need your employers to sign documentation stating your wage, which you must report to the Social Security Administration (SSA) every time it changes. You must also report every time you move, when your rent goes up or down, and make sure you own less than $2000 of assets (doesn't include car), which also means no more than $2000 in your savings account. That's right - if you manage to save up $2000 from your $700/month ($400 rent, $100 counseling, $100 meds, which leaves $100 for gas, food, clothing, pets, etc.), you can lose your benefits entirely.
The other really shitty thing about SSI is that it is based on your income, whereas SSDI (Social Security Disability Income) is not. Your SSI payment can change month to month depending on income, while SSDI stays the same. Last I checked, the maximum monthly SSI payment is a little over $700, while SSDI is around $1200. I didn't qualify for SSDI because you have to have worked a certain amount of hours in a certain amount of time, and as I was declared legally disabled at 21 and had never worked full-time, I didn't have enough credits. If I'm on SSI and unemployed, I will get $700 a month. If I'm working, SSI will pay up to what's known as "Substantial Earnings," which right now is $1180. This means if I am making $800 at my job, my SSI check will be around $480. However, if I manage to find a job that pays me over $1180/month, I lose my benefits. This basically just encourages working under the table, so if I claimed I was unemployed but was actually working, say, 25 hours a week at minimum wage ($1,182/month), I would make that, plus my $700 SSI payment, and possibly more, because your SSI will go up if you're paying rent. Therefore, I could easily push my income up to almost $2000 a month, instead of the ~$800-$1000 I make when I report my income. HOWEVER, if I get audited or reported and my fraud is exposed, I face fines, possible jail time, and will lose my benefits, including Medicaid. I also finally got into subsidized housing after 1.5 years on the waiting list, and face being evicted from there as well if I don't report income or am caught committing fraud.
Possibly the most frustrating part of all of this is I did everything right. I started getting paid for childcare by my church around age 11 and had a regular job playing piano at 13. I went to college and got an education. And then my program - I was so close. I was six months away from being highly employable in a job that would certainly not make me rich, but would give me insurance and a retirement fund. When I realized that this was an unattainable goal for me, I tucked my tail between my legs and politely asked Uncle Sam for help, which is my right. I follow to the letter the rules that keep me poor, not just because the consequences if I were caught are dire, but as a matter of ethics. And, if I continue to do this, I will continue to be poor. I will stay in my small, loud, indoor-smoking-allowed, addict-filled apartment complex. I will work as much as I can, as long as it's not *too* much. I will gratefully accept my Medicaid and the limited number of providers I can see for my laundry list of psychological problems or my physical illnesses that never manage to present typically. I've been saving to buy a keyboard (don't worry, it's under $2000) that will officially belong to my parents, because it would be one asset too many. And I will continue to pretend to everyone possible that I'm "normal," because that is the only thing I have ever wanted to be.
The system is broken. I know that better than many. I am also incredibly glad it's there, because, without it, I could easily be homeless. I have some food in my cupboards and shoes on my feet, but it's not because of anything I did. And I'm well aware that the people who don't have these things are mostly just unlucky. The American concepts of individualism and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps are extremely damaging to the poor. There's nothing I could have done differently - aside perhaps from marrying rich - or could do now to pull myself out of poverty, because I literally cannot work enough hours to make a living wage. I imagine if my child had lived; I don't know how we would have survived.
There are probably more people around you who are struggling than you realize. People who show up at your church so they can get a free meal; people who call out sick from work because they don't have enough gasoline to drive there; people who have learned how to stand and walk to hide the holes and stains in their clothes, and whose shoes are held together with glue and prayers.
What I hope you get from this post is that being poor does not mean someone is lazy or not living up to their potential. Sometimes it's just the hand of cards we're dealt. And the easiest way you can help is to keep yourself educated, be thankful for what you have, and try to pay it forward when you can.
I'm poor.
Have been since I started working, probably always will be. My anticipated income for this year is around $8400. It's really nobody's fault except Circumstance. I'm paid fairly, but I'm not able to work full-time, and living off government benefits is like living life with one foot about to slip off the edge of a cliff - one mistake and it's all over.
Once upon a time, I was close to having a "normal" life. I graduated from college at 20 and started a Master in Teacher program. I would have had my Master's degree at 21 and been the youngest student to complete that program. I made it through the summer term, and although there were a couple of days when I had to sit outside in the hall and take notes because my anxiety was too high to be around everyone in the classroom, I felt okay. I've always been a good student and had no problem pulling As and the occasional B. Fall term, things started falling apart. First, I was sexually assaulted, and then had a miscarriage while at my student teaching placement. In November, a friend passed away from leukemia at the age of 22, and a few weeks later my grandfather suffered a stroke and fell into a coma. I ended up calling out of my placement several times due to anxiety - my mentor teacher was a bit of a battleaxe and incredibly intimidating. My grades started dropping and I had to get extensions on my papers. A few days before the end of the term, I was informed by the program head that I would not be allowed to continue the program, due to my emotional instability. I was devastated.
Getting booted of my program was a huge turning point in my life. Since the program was full-time, I wasn't working and was living off of financial aid. When we got back from two weeks in another state watching my grandpa die and then pulling together a memorial, I was kicked out of the small studio apartment I'd been renting for the previous two years. I moved in with who I consider to be my second family and spent a couple of months floating around aimlessly until I landed in another nanny position.
Up until then, my life had gone mostly according to plan. When I graduated from high school, I also had done two years of college, was Salutatorian, and had a GPA of 3.987. I got into the only college to which I applied - the private Christian university at which my parents met a couple decades ago. I received a scholarship that paid for half of my tuition, got a job at a daycare center close by, roomed with someone I knew from childhood, and thought that, maybe, things were finally going to get better.
Looking back, I really have no idea how I managed to graduate. I was very, very mentally ill, and on top of that I had recently gotten back into treatment and was in the process of trying different medications. When I started taking Seroquel (see previous posts), an antipsychotic, I slept through all of my classes even though my roommate woke me up multiple times, and I didn't get out of bed until probably 3pm. I skipped classes if I was late because I couldn't bear to come in late and have people look at me. My major, Spanish, required a lot of speaking and working in groups, but when the professors told us to partner up I would hide myself in the back or corner, hair covering my face, and do the work on my own. I skipped all of the dorm activities and any spare time was spent in bed or in the music building, where I could play piano, or sit in a piano room with the door locked and cry/talk on the phone without my roommate seeing.
I moved out of the dorms and in with my second family after my first semester. I passed my 400 level writing-intensive Spanish literature class with a C-, thanks to an amazing professor who saw I was struggling and gave me opportunities to make up work. Later in the year I had to withdraw from a required class because I couldn't keep up with the essays (surprise, I LOVED writing essays). I was no longer exceptional. That was a hard pill to swallow, but I was often distracted from my studies by side-effects, from sleeping all the time to losing my balance on flat ground, fever and chills, twitches, irrational thoughts (if I step off the sidewalk I will fall off the edge of the world, green things don't exist), and, of course, the ever-present dizziness and nausea. Somehow, I still managed to pass all my classes and finish my major in two years. It helped that my favorite Spanish professor was the head of the Modern Languages department and waived my travel requirement because I told her I could not be in another country for six months without my therapist and someone watching my meds. I think we both cried at graduation, in our black gowns, and she hugged me and told me how proud of me she was, and I told her I wouldn't have made it without her.
I graduated in May, and my master's program started in June. I was asked to leave in December, with only one term remaining. I moved around a bit, nannying and doing other part-time jobs, and as I continued to see my shrink and try to deal with my mental illness, I slowly realized that I would probably never be able to work full-time. Hitting 30 hours a week would send me into panic attacks and depression sleeps, culminating in my first psychiatric stay as an adult.
This was a difficult reality to accept. I was always an overachiever. I was smart, I was dedicated. I was supposed to be successful. I was supposed to be an adult. But it was too much. My brain just...shut down. I struggled to make enough money to pay for rent, medications, and counseling appointments, much less luxuries like food and tampons. I daydreamed about college, when I worked 12 hours a week, didn't pay rent, and could spend $40 on shoes on an impulse. I vividly remember walking into the grocery store one day with three dollars in my pocket, holding a box of noodles in one hand and tampons in the other, knowing which one I had to choose, almost bemused by the tragedy of it.
At this point, my shrink suggested trying to get on benefits. I was hesitant, but eventually started the (long and infuriating) process. After several attempts, I was approved to receive Social Security Income (SSI) benefits. I didn't realize at the time that I had just sold my soul to the government.
Here's a little sampling of the attitudes I might face if I choose to divulge the fact that I get benefits:
So imagine you're too sick to function, struggling to buy food, and after endless applications, interviews, and red tape, you get, say, $300/month from the government to supplement the $400/month you make from your part-time job. And on top of that, people judge you, because your illness is invisible and therefore invalid. Don't forget that you often are forced to disclose that you are on benefits, because as a nanny you don't get pay stubs and you need your employers to sign documentation stating your wage, which you must report to the Social Security Administration (SSA) every time it changes. You must also report every time you move, when your rent goes up or down, and make sure you own less than $2000 of assets (doesn't include car), which also means no more than $2000 in your savings account. That's right - if you manage to save up $2000 from your $700/month ($400 rent, $100 counseling, $100 meds, which leaves $100 for gas, food, clothing, pets, etc.), you can lose your benefits entirely.
The other really shitty thing about SSI is that it is based on your income, whereas SSDI (Social Security Disability Income) is not. Your SSI payment can change month to month depending on income, while SSDI stays the same. Last I checked, the maximum monthly SSI payment is a little over $700, while SSDI is around $1200. I didn't qualify for SSDI because you have to have worked a certain amount of hours in a certain amount of time, and as I was declared legally disabled at 21 and had never worked full-time, I didn't have enough credits. If I'm on SSI and unemployed, I will get $700 a month. If I'm working, SSI will pay up to what's known as "Substantial Earnings," which right now is $1180. This means if I am making $800 at my job, my SSI check will be around $480. However, if I manage to find a job that pays me over $1180/month, I lose my benefits. This basically just encourages working under the table, so if I claimed I was unemployed but was actually working, say, 25 hours a week at minimum wage ($1,182/month), I would make that, plus my $700 SSI payment, and possibly more, because your SSI will go up if you're paying rent. Therefore, I could easily push my income up to almost $2000 a month, instead of the ~$800-$1000 I make when I report my income. HOWEVER, if I get audited or reported and my fraud is exposed, I face fines, possible jail time, and will lose my benefits, including Medicaid. I also finally got into subsidized housing after 1.5 years on the waiting list, and face being evicted from there as well if I don't report income or am caught committing fraud.
Possibly the most frustrating part of all of this is I did everything right. I started getting paid for childcare by my church around age 11 and had a regular job playing piano at 13. I went to college and got an education. And then my program - I was so close. I was six months away from being highly employable in a job that would certainly not make me rich, but would give me insurance and a retirement fund. When I realized that this was an unattainable goal for me, I tucked my tail between my legs and politely asked Uncle Sam for help, which is my right. I follow to the letter the rules that keep me poor, not just because the consequences if I were caught are dire, but as a matter of ethics. And, if I continue to do this, I will continue to be poor. I will stay in my small, loud, indoor-smoking-allowed, addict-filled apartment complex. I will work as much as I can, as long as it's not *too* much. I will gratefully accept my Medicaid and the limited number of providers I can see for my laundry list of psychological problems or my physical illnesses that never manage to present typically. I've been saving to buy a keyboard (don't worry, it's under $2000) that will officially belong to my parents, because it would be one asset too many. And I will continue to pretend to everyone possible that I'm "normal," because that is the only thing I have ever wanted to be.
The system is broken. I know that better than many. I am also incredibly glad it's there, because, without it, I could easily be homeless. I have some food in my cupboards and shoes on my feet, but it's not because of anything I did. And I'm well aware that the people who don't have these things are mostly just unlucky. The American concepts of individualism and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps are extremely damaging to the poor. There's nothing I could have done differently - aside perhaps from marrying rich - or could do now to pull myself out of poverty, because I literally cannot work enough hours to make a living wage. I imagine if my child had lived; I don't know how we would have survived.
There are probably more people around you who are struggling than you realize. People who show up at your church so they can get a free meal; people who call out sick from work because they don't have enough gasoline to drive there; people who have learned how to stand and walk to hide the holes and stains in their clothes, and whose shoes are held together with glue and prayers.
What I hope you get from this post is that being poor does not mean someone is lazy or not living up to their potential. Sometimes it's just the hand of cards we're dealt. And the easiest way you can help is to keep yourself educated, be thankful for what you have, and try to pay it forward when you can.
Comments
Post a Comment