poverty

Colors

/ Rowdy / 4 Comments

I.

Ezekiel —though he only thought of himself as “Zeke”— was a quiet and serious ten-year-old who was excited to learn he was allowed a free ride into the country once a day.  Zeke lived exactly one mile from his elementary school, which meant he was allowed to ride the school bus. He usually walked to school, but one rainy day he took the bus for the first time, and learned a secret: Though his house was the closest drop off from the school on the bus route, the driver drove the morning route one direction and the afternoon route in the opposite direction. This meant Zeke’s ride was either five minutes or nearly two hours.

The bus’s route made a large loop south of town, past the cotton and wheat fields, down into the canyon with its hardwood trees. In the fall, the flameleaf sumacs would be a riot of yellow, orange, and red against the dark green of the junipers on the slopes. In winter, the green of the winter wheat on the red dirt always fascinated Zeke. By the time spring came, he was always ready for the agarita, sand plum and cottonwood blossoms. Zeke spent the seasons watching a march of new colors as each plant bloomed, matured, and died. The late afternoon sun always felt good on his face through the window.

Halfway through the year, the bus driver would flip the route, which made Zeke’s house the first pickup in the morning, and Zeke would sometimes awake in the dark to be able to see the sunrise from the edge of the canyon. Some of the country he knew, remembering sitting next to his father on the bench seat of the blade as he maintained the county roads, at least before his father got fired for being drunk and unreliable. Some of the other country was new to Zeke, and he drank up the scenery like a man dying of thirst.

 He nearly got banned from the bus system when he decided to see a different bit of country by getting on a different bus. He planned on riding the full loop and then walking home from the bus barn. It was a pretty ride through country Zeke had not seen before, but it was the one route where the driver parked the bus at home, since he lived at the end of the route in the middle of the country. Zeke was surprised when the driver shut down the bus at a house in the middle of nowhere, as was the driver when he heard Zeke call from the back of the bus. The driver’s surprise quickly turned to anger as Zeke explained the situation, and the driver cursed not so under his breath all the way back to town.

The next day Zeke was called out of class to a meeting with the bus driver, bus barn supervisor, and Mr. Adams, the principal. Mr. Adams gestured for Zeke to sit down and began,
“Zeke, we couldn’t get ahold of your parents to be here. Do you know where they’re at?”

“No sir, but I guess my dad is at work, and my mom might be out mowing yards to help with bill money,” Zeke replied. Mr. Adams and the bus barn supervisor exchanged glances, and Mr. Adams continued,

“Well, I don’t guess we need them here for this anyway. Son, the bus system isn’t your personal tour guide service. Mr. Kemp had to spend expensive gas and his personal time to drive you back into town, and then all that time and gas to get back home to his own family. It wasn’t fair to him for you to decide to take a joy ride, and he’d like to see you kicked off the bus schedule since you live so close to school anyway.”

Zeke was panicked. He had already learned to not give the world tears when he could help it, but Zeke couldn’t stop the burning feeling coming into his eyes. He blinked a dozen times, swallowed, and sobbed, “Please, please don’t do that. I didn’t know the busses didn’t all go back to the barn. I just wanted to see the country. I like it out there. Please.”

Mr. Adams sighed, looked at his watch, and then to the other adults, “I don’t think we can kick him off the bus, based on the home situation. I’ll find something appropriate to settle this once I get ahold of his parents; y’all go on back to work while Zeke and I try to get his mom on the phone.”

After the others had left, Mr. Adams said to Zeke, “I don’t care if you take the long way home every day. I understand, I grew up out that way. I don’t even care if you take one of the other busses every now and then. I’ll fix it with the bus supervisor. But let the driver know before you get on, and don’t ever get on Mr. Kemp’s bus again, or we will ban you from the busses.

When the story made the rounds at school later in the day, a classmate called him stupid, poor, and lazy for wanting to sit on a bus all afternoon or get up so early when he could just walk home in a few minutes, and even more so for getting on the wrong bus.  Even if there had been something worth going home to, getting a free ride once a day into the country seemed too good to pass up.] 

There really was not much at home for Zeke to hurry for. A rundown trailer with holes in the floor and daylight between the windowsill and the wall of his room. Depending on the season, it was either cooler or warmer on the bus anyway.  When Zeke’s father was actually working, he would be gone until dark. If he had recently dragged up from a job, he would be at his desk in his “office.” The desk was simply a piece of old plywood laid across two surplus filing cabinets in the corner of the living room. There was a particle board divider to hide his father from most of the room. He would spend hours at the makeshift desk, watching a tiny television, or using a legal pad to dream into ink the life he wished he had instead of being a drunk disabled vet with a wife and kid he really didn’t have much interest in. When his father had company over, he would sit outside the “office” in Zeke’s mother’s chair, and tell his friends lies to continue dreaming the life he would rather have had. Once Zeke had found an old, ragged pronghorn shoulder mount laying by a dumpster and dragged it home. The next day, his father hung it on the living room wall in the rundown trailer. The next weekend he was telling his friends he killed it “years ago up in panhandle” and had finally brought it out of storage. Zeke indignantly piped up to tell them it was his, found fair and square, but before Zeke could say more than a word, his father ordered him out of the room to get everyone another beer.  Zeke’s mother might either be doing side jobs or in her bedroom, lost in her thoughts. Zeke was never really sure what those thoughts were, but they usually made his mom sad.

So, it didn’t really matter if Zeke got home at 3:30 or 5:30. No one really noticed. At least not most days.

II.

The fad at the time was game called thief. Zeke was never sure how it started, but if one student was going to borrow a piece of paper from another, he would say, “Hey, let me steal a piece of paper from you.” Later it became a series of pranks where one kid would steal another kid’s pencil and then later give it back. It was started by the cool kids, the popular kids, the kids whose families were slightly richer than the rest. Then one day in science class, Johnny Allen and Brett Farmer asked Zeke to try to steal Jennifer’s box of crayons. Jennifer was Johnny’s fraternal twin, and they never missed an opportunity to get something over on the other. Zeke was excited to finally be a part of something, and he eagerly agreed. Zeke watched Jennifer got up to go sharpen her pencil, and he carefully slid the crayon box out of her desk. The crayon box was Crayola brand. One of the big boxes with 120 crayons with the sharpener in the back. Colors like burnt sienna, shamrock, cornflower; it felt heavy in Zeke’s hands as he slipped it into his backpack next to his Ben Franklin 8 pack of dull colored crayons.

Zeke thought the plan was to later give Jennifer’s crayons to Johnny, but there was never an opportunity to hand them off. So it came to pass that at the end of the day, Zeke was sitting in his homeroom when the crayons still in his bag when the guidance counselor came in and whispered Mrs. Reagan’s ear. Mrs. Reagan stood up and said, “Okay, class, someone has stolen something, and we need to find out where it is. We’re going to go through your bags and then we’re going to search your lockers. After that, you’re free to go for the day.”

 Zeke panicked, and just knew they were talking about him. As they began searching the bags, Zeke was able to slip to his locker located on the far wall and slip the crayons into his locker. After they finished searching bags, they began on the lockers, and likewise, while the guidance counselor and Mrs. Reagan were busy with other lockers, he was able to slide the crayons out of the locker and into his bag. The teacher and guidance counselor were clearly stymied. They knew they’d find it in that room, but they released everybody, and Zeke pedaled his bike home scared and unsure what had just happened. It was supposed to be a game. He knew he had no business with those expensive crayons, and he knew he would never be able to explain things. So, Zeke dumped them in a wooded area behind his house before coming home. At home, his mother was waiting at the door.

“Zeke, let me see your bag.”

Zeke handed the bag over. He wondered if he had ever really been part of the prank, or if had been the subject of it as his mother searched through his bag and came up dry. She excused herself into the living room to make a phone call and told Zeke to go to his room.

 The next day, another fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Purslane called Zeke aside, and interviewed him,

“Zeke, I know you stole those crayons. And you’re going tell me where they are. I know you’re guilty, and you will not eat lunch in this school until I get those crayons.”

Even at ten, it wasn’t lost upon Zeke that Mrs. Purslane was Johnny and Jennifer’s aunt. He thought about trying to explain that it was just a game and that something went wrong, but he could tell Mrs. Purslane was not interested. So finally, he admitted he had stolen the crayons. He tried to explain what happened, and indeed, Mrs. Purslane was not interested in listening to him. More calls were made, and Zeke was released to go home to retrieve the crayons. Spring in Texas is hot, and that year was dry like most years. The crayons had melted and ruined in the sun. Zeke’s father, who couldn’t afford to buy crayons of that style for his own son, was forced to spend money on those crayons for somebody else’s kid. It also wasn’t lost on Zeke that though there was never money for the good school supplies, there was always money for the bar tab.

Zeke’s father was furious. He tore into Zeke with a belt screaming,

“You little thief, You dirty little thief!”

 Zeke tried to explain to his father, but again, the adults were all past the age of silly childhood games. And it wasn’t any surprise to anyone that a white trash poor kid would try to steal the best crayons from a member of one of the good families in town. It wasn’t even a surprise to the white trash’s father.

Zeke was given the punishment of staying after school each day until he filled ten five-gallon buckets full of rocks from the dry and dusty playground.


On the first day, Zeke began filling his bucket, but even at 10 years old, He could feel the injustice of things. While he knew he had stolen those crayons, he also knew that it was supposed to be just a game. He had never intended to keep them, but based on nothing but Johnny or Brett’s word, Zeke was convicted in the eyes of everyone. Zeke had never tasted this amount of unfairness before, and it was bitter his mouth. So, Zeke began to mill around the playground, kicking at rocks instead of picking them up. Finally at five in the afternoon, the principal, Mr. Adams, came out and saw Zeke had but part of one of ten buckets filled up.

“Zeke, you’re not going get out of this. We’ll continue as long as it takes. Come back tomorrow and you’ll start again.”

 This went on for the rest of the week, Zeke picking up a few rocks, and sitting out in the sun until it was time for the principal to go home. Finally, on the next Friday, after two weeks, Mr. Adams came out around half past four to where Zeke was sitting on the sidewalk and sat down next to Zeke. He eyed the greenish-blue buckle shaped bruise peeking out from the child’s shirt, over his kidney.

“You get that bruise paying for other kid’s crayons?”

“Sir?”

“Zeke, did your daddy give you that bruise for stealing those crayons?”
Zeke knew better than to go telling the truth, even if it was what he wanted to do,

“No sir, I was playing with my belt and accidently hit myself.”

Mr. Adams doubted Zeke had a belt buckle bigger than his fist, but all he could do was to sigh.

“Son, you owe us 10 buckets of rocks. I can’t get you out of this one You’ll pay us 10 buckets of rocks. Why won’t you pick ’em up?”

Zeke tried to explain what happened with the prank, and Mr. Adams actually listened. He thought about it for a while, chewing on the corner of his mustache.

“Zeke, that doesn’t change the fact you still owe us 10 buckets of rocks. I understand the unfairness of it all though. Come on, let’s you and I get these rocks picked up so you can get home.”

The rest of the afternoon, and nearly to dark, the principal of the school and Zeke collected ten buckets of rocks and dumped them in a pile by the fourth-grade door. It didn’t make it right, but it somewhat balanced Zeke’s first taste of the facts of a small town with a tiny bit of understanding. And he never forgot either.

Fear of want

/ Rowdy / Leave a comment

Early on the morning after payday my mother and I would load an old cooler into our old station wagon and drive to town for groceries. Early to beat the heat as the station wagon did not have air conditioning. Early to beat the crowds. I was never part of the planning process, but there was always a plan. Round steak was 23 cents off at this store. Canned goods were always cheaper at that store. The trick was to be early enough to buy the dry goods first and go to the store with the best sale on meat last, but still early enough the cheap meat was not sold out. If times were good.

If times were bad, it didn’t matter how cheap the meat, it was out of reach. During those times, we sometimes lucky to have a bit of venison or rabbit in the freezer, but sometimes there wasn’t even that.

White label generics from the early 1980s. Jewel Grocery advertisement materials.

In the fresh produce section, we would get potatoes and onions and iceberg lettuce. Sometimes a prepackaged bag of the smallest red (un)delicious apples, but usually not. If we had a garden that year, then we wouldn’t get much else. Either we had some fresh produce in season, or my mother had canned what we didn’t eat when it was in season.  The dry goods were from the center aisles, and everything came in white labels. These were not the Hill Country Fair or Signature or Great Value store brands. These were the true generics. No brands, just a description in black ink on white paper. CORN FLAKES. TEA. COFFEE. GREEN BEANS. I want to say they ate the same as the name brand, and some things did. Flour is flour. Sugar is sugar. But the tea was wretched and metallic tasting. We would sacrifice other things to buy Lusianne tea. Whenever I saw generic tea in the house, I knew we were in a bad way. Even worse if there was none. I thought my best friend was rich since he lived in a doublewide and his sandwiches had more than one piece of meat that came from a brightly colored package with a brand name.

These white label products were introduced during the high inflation of the 1970s, and according to the New York Times in 1986 [right], they were already falling out of favor. I can’t speak to national trends, but in 1986, we were still buying them out of need, not favor.

USDA commodity pork. Photo: Flickr user Nikol Lohr, courtesy of Creative Commons license

Sometimes we were on welfare, other times not. The food stamps were brightly colored compared to cash, and I didn’t understand why my mother was ashamed to use them. I thought they looked neat. The commodities were hit and miss. Powdered milk is okay in cereal. The cheese and butter were so good it is still a meme today. The canned pork and beef were not good. A layer of fat and grease over chunks of tough meat that was both bland and horrible tasting all at once. My mother could make it palatable only in tamales, though she tried many different things. Despite that, I’m still thankful for the USDA commodity program. It was still better than the few times that supper was a few beans, bread and drippings though.

In the late 80s we had the dubious good fortune of my father getting injured at work enough that it required neck surgery. Money and food got really tight for a long time after he couldn’t work, but then we got the settlement. Ten thousand dollars isn’t much for a couple fused vertebrae, but suddenly a trip to town sometimes meant a bag of 39 cent party tacos and burritos instead of “shut up, we’ll eat at home.”

Commercial about generics in the 1980s.

It wasn’t a lot of money, and it didn’t last long. But for all my father’s failings, he did one thing that has always stuck with me. We built floor to ceiling, wall to wall shelves and filled them with flats and cases of nonperishable food. Cans of corn, green beans, baked beans, ranch style beans, fruit cocktail, cases of every flavor of ramen soup, sardines, Vienna sausages, crackers, buckets of pickles, sacks of flour, sugar, and dried beans and sacks of rice filled the shelves. We also bought cases of store brand soda: cola, lemon-lime, root beer, orange, grape, and even some Dr Pepper. Then we filled a deep freezer with half a beef from the butcher shop. I can’t remember how long that pantry lasted, but we ate well for a long while.

Looking back at what we bought, I recognize how some readers would shudder at the choices. No one thinks of Vienna sausages, ramen soup, or grape soda when the phrases “food security” or “healthy” are mentioned. It also speaks to the mindset of long-term poverty: thinking of the next meal often makes thinking of the long-term costs impossible. Nevertheless, there was a stretch of time where I don’t remember being hungry, and I remember the sense of safety looking at those shelves brought. There was also a feeling of splurging to have a carbonated beverage.

Thirty-five years later and I am as free from want as I have ever been. I live in a rundown house in a run-down neighborhood, and I drive a rundown truck paid for on a biologist’s salary. But I feel free. I’m not as careful with my money as I should be, but I can buy the foods I want, and the cupboard is always full. I have more books than shelves. I never lie in bed dreading going to work in the morning.

I’ve never been on welfare as an adult.

But I remember that feeling of want.

The feeling of want that comes with being poor isn’t that bit of want you feel between leaving the gym and when supper is ready to eat. It is long. It is constant. It is days, weeks, months of being surrounded by things you can’t have, or worse, that you could buy and be satisfied for a meal and then not have three meals near the end of the month. If you have not been food insecure for a stretch of time, you do not know that feeling, even if you think you can understand it. You’ll see those who least understand it railing against welfare programs, claiming they saw a welfare queen with a cartful of expensive foods while having never felt the morale boost of fresh beef after a month of none, or giving their kid a candy bar after having to say no for the longest time. These people will finish up their rant by saying that people would rather be on welfare than work, even though 75% of people on welfare are either currently working or start working within a year of being on welfare. Even if the welfare queen lies were true —they largely are not— I would still gladly support spending more money on assistance programs. I remember real hunger, and I remember eating after being truly hungry.

At the start of the pandemic people were panic buying food and toilet paper for no reason, some of these people were the first time faced with the experience of walking into a store and not being able to buy what they wanted. It was a temporary situation created through senseless panic, but I am somewhat glad some people got a little taste of unrequited want. For once their privilege doesn’t automatically exclude them from a part of the human experience they would rather not face. I am not idealistic enough to think they’ll learn a lesson from this, but I am satisfied they got the experience.

Before you get angry at my use of the word “privilege”, take a moment to understand what it means. To paraphrase Reggie Shuford, privilege does not mean your life hasn’t been difficult; it just means it may not have been difficult because of your race, socio-economic status, gender, etc.

At the start of the pandemic people were panic buying food and toilet paper for no reason, some of these people were the first time faced with the experience of walking into a store and not being able to buy what they wanted. It was a temporary situation created through senseless panic, but I am somewhat glad some people got a little taste of unrequited want. For once their privilege doesn’t automatically exclude them from a part of the human experience they would rather not face. I am not idealistic enough to think they’ll learn a lesson from this, but I am satisfied they got the experience.

Looking at empty shelves where the beans, rice, and ramen once were, I can also understand the feeling of safety now felt by those bought them out of panic, even I realize the senselessness of it.

At a glance, this story may not strictly fit the Dry Country criteria, but the bones of dryland poverty are there, and I chose to include it anyway. If any of this saddens or angers you, either because you are sad/angry that our neighbors are going hungry or because you are sad/angry that people are eating free at the taxpayer’s expense, here is a solution: While that emotion is still fresh, donate to your local food bank. Help a family not be hungry/not need government assistance. Consider it a gift, or even an investment on the possibility of someone getting out of poverty enough to write you sentimental stories you read on social media.