I wish I could start this out by saying that nobody knows what it was like for me to grow up poor, but the truth is that many of you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not special, and many, many people do have and have had it worse than I did. I’m not bitching and moaning: I’m more of a move-on-and-fix-it kind of guy, anyway. The only thing special about me is my voice. You see, poverty and literacy don’t go well together, and I’m a special kind of poor kid. I grew up and bought some new clothes and an education. I learned to blend in, and I’ve been living the Gatsby life ever since.
Jerseys and jeans
Jeans have a ridiculous half-life around the legs of little boys, and jerseys only tend to be relevant for a few years. While other kids were sporting Jordan’s jersey, I was just getting a brand new/old Clyde Drexler jersey (this promulgates my current belief that true hipsters are born from poverty). I know what you’re asking yourself, “You mad, bro?” No, no I’m not mad. I loved that jersey. I loved every irrelevant jersey I ever owned.
My closest brother to me in age, Aaron, is only 2 ½ years older. Right after I hit my first growth spurt, we were almost the same size; what he was growing out of could fit me almost perfectly. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I would be getting those jeans…
I coveted that pair of my brother’s jeans: It didn’t have grass stains, the knees weren’t tattered and torn away from use, and they were short enough that I wouldn’t have to roll them up this time. Brand? What brand, what label? Brands didn’t matter. Besides, unless some other family gave it to us, it was Rustler— some Wrangler knockoff—anyway. This pair would keep the snow off my skin in the winter when I rolled down a hill, built a snow fort, or made snow flavored snow cones.
Being the youngest boy in a family with 4 brothers and 3 sisters meant that everything I owned had been worn by one of my older siblings. It never really felt like anything was ever mine—try to imagine growing up around someone else’s dog, and when that dog grew old, went blind, started peeing in the house, and couldn’t hear, that’s when you got it. Congratulations! But I wanted that pair of jeans. They had some life left.
The snowball effect
It was a little bit like Christmas, but it was a Christmas that you never saw coming. It almost always started from the top, though. Sometimes, my oldest brother would clean his room and figure out that he wanted to get rid of a few shirts he’d outgrown, or one of the other moms at church would give a bag of clothes to my mom, and that’s when the fluffy, white trash bags would start rolling downhill to me. But when? My second oldest brother would get a few new shirts and it might be a couple of days, weeks, or months, but that would make it down to the next brother in line, and he would need to clear out his old clothes, and then Aaron would get one of those bags. And that’s when I knew my time was coming.
Socks and underwear
Yes, when you’re poor, you get these used. I won’t out anyone by name, but let’s just say that one of my brothers earned the nickname Skids. I know what you’re thinking: Gross… Yeah, poverty ain’t pretty. But walking a mile in someone else’s underwear is nothing like walking a mile in their socks. Did you know that the elastic band in socks tends to wear out after a few owners? Imagine how aggravated little ol’ OCD me was when my socks started sliding down and falling off of my feet—worst feeling ever.
Sometimes we did get new socks and underwear, and let’s just say that getting socks for Christmas isn’t as bad as it sounds.
The new outfit
I remember it like yesterday. Mom took me to the clothing section at Kmart to pick out a brand new outfit for the church dance. I couldn’t believe it. I picked the shirt, I picked the jeans. The price tag on the jeans was more than my mom had planned on, but I was a total brat about it. I just had to have the white-washed jeans. They were so in…
The shirt was a blue-ish purple button up. It was perfect. More than perfect, it was mine. I remember wearing that outfit every chance I had. I wore the jeans until they too became holey. My mom cut them into jean shorts for me, like so many other pairs of jeans, so that I could keep wearing them. That lost its appeal when Maggie made fun of me in the church gym because they were too tight on me. I never wore them again.
The big joke
If there is one universal truth, it’s that people will make fun of you for being poor, for wearing the wrong brand, for having baggy clothes. Kids are mean. I remember going through the lost and found in school looking for new clothes. I found a few gems. I still have the red Structure shirt I found in the locker room bin. The sleeves have holes in them, now (go figure), but it makes a great camping shirt. I can’t forget the sheer terror that overtook me when someone recognized it as being his. I lied about the size and said that my grandmother had gotten it for me for Christmas. I still feel guilty about not returning it to him right then and there (You can have it back if you're reading this!), but I couldn’t take being the kid who wore lost and found clothes. It was bad enough being the home-schooled-Mormon kid.
The Christmas gift
Christmas time was always a stressful time at our house. How my parents afforded what they were able to give us is still beyond me. I probably asked for more than I should have. I can only imagine the guilt my parents faced each year in not being able to make all of my wildest dreams come true.
There was one Christmas that still leaves a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about it. We had just pulled into the Wal-Mart in Bristol when I vaulted out of our 12 passenger van in excitement to run inside and look at all the toys I would never get. Bam! I had slung the door right into the nice, shiny car beside us. I ran around the corner to tell my mom, but I was met by some lady screaming and yelling about all of the damage I had done (it was a small scratch). She started yelling at my mom, and I just knew that it meant I had ruined Christmas for my entire family. My mom was always telling me to slow down, and this time I had done it. My mom was already halfway down the parking lot and didn’t know the woman was yelling at me. I was 4 or 5. I didn’t know what to do, so I just ran after my mom. The lady just kept yelling as she hopped into her car and lite her cigarette.
The whole time we were in there, I was sick with guilt. I couldn’t enjoy playing with the toys at all. I just knew she’d be out there waiting to make us pay for the damage I had done. She wasn’t there when we got out, and we got Christmas after all.
I forgive four-year-old me.
The working class
My dad worked hard. He was always working. He would take service calls at all hours of the night and even on Christmas and other holidays. I didn’t understand it then, but I am so proud of him for that. My parents were hard working people. And they worked hard at home to keep the family going. If something broke, my dad could fix it. I would spend hours buzzing around him, watching him meticulously take something apart, fix it, and put it back together (I wondered why I always seemed to annoy him, but it makes perfect sense, now). And I learned. I learned how to fix anything and everything, how to make do with what I had, how to take care of what I had, and how to work.
When I was 12, I started my own lawn mowing business. It wasn’t easy getting accounts, but this is where I started making money off of my above-average-intelligence and natural business acumen. Most people were hesitant to give a kid a whack at their precious lawns, so I started offering the first job free, and then I did a job I could be proud of. I never once didn’t get money forced on me for that first job. And I had business cards. I designed them myself. Goodlawn of Springfield (I didn’t want to go violating any copyright laws, and I figured I was the only one in town). I offered military and veteran discounts, too. The old folks loved that one! In the first year, I made enough money to partner with my parents in buying a new Lawn Boy. It was a beauty. I was so proud of it. Before I knew it, I had several mowers, weed eaters, and a trailer—all of which I sold to pay for my first car.
I was buying everything new: new clothes, new shoes, new, new, new. I even started buying my lunch at school. I became a consumer. To fuel this new need of mine in the off season, I made business cards for snow removal. The first snow of the year, I went and banged on every door in my neighborhood.
“No thanks. I’ll do it myself!” SLAM!
Door after door, no takers. I started regretting all the money I had spent on those cards. I was smart enough to put magnets on them and tell each person to call me if they changed their minds.
6 inches of snow later, our home phone started ringing off the hook. I was singing and shoveling snow out of driveways and stuffing green, cold money into my pockets. “There’s no business like snow business, like snow business I know!”
Before I was even 14, I bought my first cell phone so that I could have a business line—and to call my mom when I needed a ride back from a job.
Pocket full of change
When I was still a little boy that couldn't mow lawns, I never had much spending money, so I would buy 10 cent Kool-Aid packets at Food Lion whenever we went. Kool-Aid is the official drink of poor (well, now it’s Mt. Dew, but it was, promise). I stuffed my purchase in my pocket and headed over to Revco (pretty much like a Walgreens) to look at the comic books with my brothers.
I felt a big hand grab my shoulder from behind.
“Hold it right there, thief!”
The manager pushed, prodded, and pulled on me and started searching my pockets. He pulled out my crumpled up Kool-Aid packets and told me that he was calling the police. I was scared and embarrassed. I kept telling him that I bought him, but he wouldn’t believe me. I just had to be a theif. My brothers ran up and started screaming that they didn’t even sell Kool-Aid there (they didn’t).
After what seemed like an eternity, he let me go and told me to leave his store.
I’m glad they’re out of business, now…
Free! Take one.
I learned a lot from growing up poor, and I wouldn’t trade my childhood for yours. I learned that sticks could be toy guns and swords and that there is never a good reason to be bored. The outdoors are the best free experience out there. Books are free, too, at the library. I learned to love reading.
I learned to love the kid in baggy clothes. I learned that nobody was better than me just because they thought they were. I think a lot of my competitive nature came from me wanting to show the world that I wasn’t trash, that I had value. You have value. You are not your fucking kakis.
I have value. Not because of the things I have, now. It was never about the things I have because I never had them. I will forgive a child if he scratches my car. People are people, and things are just things. Live richly like you are poor.
Jerseys and jeans
Jeans have a ridiculous half-life around the legs of little boys, and jerseys only tend to be relevant for a few years. While other kids were sporting Jordan’s jersey, I was just getting a brand new/old Clyde Drexler jersey (this promulgates my current belief that true hipsters are born from poverty). I know what you’re asking yourself, “You mad, bro?” No, no I’m not mad. I loved that jersey. I loved every irrelevant jersey I ever owned.
My closest brother to me in age, Aaron, is only 2 ½ years older. Right after I hit my first growth spurt, we were almost the same size; what he was growing out of could fit me almost perfectly. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I would be getting those jeans…
I coveted that pair of my brother’s jeans: It didn’t have grass stains, the knees weren’t tattered and torn away from use, and they were short enough that I wouldn’t have to roll them up this time. Brand? What brand, what label? Brands didn’t matter. Besides, unless some other family gave it to us, it was Rustler— some Wrangler knockoff—anyway. This pair would keep the snow off my skin in the winter when I rolled down a hill, built a snow fort, or made snow flavored snow cones.
Being the youngest boy in a family with 4 brothers and 3 sisters meant that everything I owned had been worn by one of my older siblings. It never really felt like anything was ever mine—try to imagine growing up around someone else’s dog, and when that dog grew old, went blind, started peeing in the house, and couldn’t hear, that’s when you got it. Congratulations! But I wanted that pair of jeans. They had some life left.
The snowball effect
It was a little bit like Christmas, but it was a Christmas that you never saw coming. It almost always started from the top, though. Sometimes, my oldest brother would clean his room and figure out that he wanted to get rid of a few shirts he’d outgrown, or one of the other moms at church would give a bag of clothes to my mom, and that’s when the fluffy, white trash bags would start rolling downhill to me. But when? My second oldest brother would get a few new shirts and it might be a couple of days, weeks, or months, but that would make it down to the next brother in line, and he would need to clear out his old clothes, and then Aaron would get one of those bags. And that’s when I knew my time was coming.
Socks and underwear
Yes, when you’re poor, you get these used. I won’t out anyone by name, but let’s just say that one of my brothers earned the nickname Skids. I know what you’re thinking: Gross… Yeah, poverty ain’t pretty. But walking a mile in someone else’s underwear is nothing like walking a mile in their socks. Did you know that the elastic band in socks tends to wear out after a few owners? Imagine how aggravated little ol’ OCD me was when my socks started sliding down and falling off of my feet—worst feeling ever.
Sometimes we did get new socks and underwear, and let’s just say that getting socks for Christmas isn’t as bad as it sounds.
The new outfit
I remember it like yesterday. Mom took me to the clothing section at Kmart to pick out a brand new outfit for the church dance. I couldn’t believe it. I picked the shirt, I picked the jeans. The price tag on the jeans was more than my mom had planned on, but I was a total brat about it. I just had to have the white-washed jeans. They were so in…
The shirt was a blue-ish purple button up. It was perfect. More than perfect, it was mine. I remember wearing that outfit every chance I had. I wore the jeans until they too became holey. My mom cut them into jean shorts for me, like so many other pairs of jeans, so that I could keep wearing them. That lost its appeal when Maggie made fun of me in the church gym because they were too tight on me. I never wore them again.
The big joke
If there is one universal truth, it’s that people will make fun of you for being poor, for wearing the wrong brand, for having baggy clothes. Kids are mean. I remember going through the lost and found in school looking for new clothes. I found a few gems. I still have the red Structure shirt I found in the locker room bin. The sleeves have holes in them, now (go figure), but it makes a great camping shirt. I can’t forget the sheer terror that overtook me when someone recognized it as being his. I lied about the size and said that my grandmother had gotten it for me for Christmas. I still feel guilty about not returning it to him right then and there (You can have it back if you're reading this!), but I couldn’t take being the kid who wore lost and found clothes. It was bad enough being the home-schooled-Mormon kid.
The Christmas gift
Christmas time was always a stressful time at our house. How my parents afforded what they were able to give us is still beyond me. I probably asked for more than I should have. I can only imagine the guilt my parents faced each year in not being able to make all of my wildest dreams come true.
There was one Christmas that still leaves a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about it. We had just pulled into the Wal-Mart in Bristol when I vaulted out of our 12 passenger van in excitement to run inside and look at all the toys I would never get. Bam! I had slung the door right into the nice, shiny car beside us. I ran around the corner to tell my mom, but I was met by some lady screaming and yelling about all of the damage I had done (it was a small scratch). She started yelling at my mom, and I just knew that it meant I had ruined Christmas for my entire family. My mom was always telling me to slow down, and this time I had done it. My mom was already halfway down the parking lot and didn’t know the woman was yelling at me. I was 4 or 5. I didn’t know what to do, so I just ran after my mom. The lady just kept yelling as she hopped into her car and lite her cigarette.
The whole time we were in there, I was sick with guilt. I couldn’t enjoy playing with the toys at all. I just knew she’d be out there waiting to make us pay for the damage I had done. She wasn’t there when we got out, and we got Christmas after all.
I forgive four-year-old me.
The working class
My dad worked hard. He was always working. He would take service calls at all hours of the night and even on Christmas and other holidays. I didn’t understand it then, but I am so proud of him for that. My parents were hard working people. And they worked hard at home to keep the family going. If something broke, my dad could fix it. I would spend hours buzzing around him, watching him meticulously take something apart, fix it, and put it back together (I wondered why I always seemed to annoy him, but it makes perfect sense, now). And I learned. I learned how to fix anything and everything, how to make do with what I had, how to take care of what I had, and how to work.
When I was 12, I started my own lawn mowing business. It wasn’t easy getting accounts, but this is where I started making money off of my above-average-intelligence and natural business acumen. Most people were hesitant to give a kid a whack at their precious lawns, so I started offering the first job free, and then I did a job I could be proud of. I never once didn’t get money forced on me for that first job. And I had business cards. I designed them myself. Goodlawn of Springfield (I didn’t want to go violating any copyright laws, and I figured I was the only one in town). I offered military and veteran discounts, too. The old folks loved that one! In the first year, I made enough money to partner with my parents in buying a new Lawn Boy. It was a beauty. I was so proud of it. Before I knew it, I had several mowers, weed eaters, and a trailer—all of which I sold to pay for my first car.
I was buying everything new: new clothes, new shoes, new, new, new. I even started buying my lunch at school. I became a consumer. To fuel this new need of mine in the off season, I made business cards for snow removal. The first snow of the year, I went and banged on every door in my neighborhood.
“No thanks. I’ll do it myself!” SLAM!
Door after door, no takers. I started regretting all the money I had spent on those cards. I was smart enough to put magnets on them and tell each person to call me if they changed their minds.
6 inches of snow later, our home phone started ringing off the hook. I was singing and shoveling snow out of driveways and stuffing green, cold money into my pockets. “There’s no business like snow business, like snow business I know!”
Before I was even 14, I bought my first cell phone so that I could have a business line—and to call my mom when I needed a ride back from a job.
Pocket full of change
When I was still a little boy that couldn't mow lawns, I never had much spending money, so I would buy 10 cent Kool-Aid packets at Food Lion whenever we went. Kool-Aid is the official drink of poor (well, now it’s Mt. Dew, but it was, promise). I stuffed my purchase in my pocket and headed over to Revco (pretty much like a Walgreens) to look at the comic books with my brothers.
I felt a big hand grab my shoulder from behind.
“Hold it right there, thief!”
The manager pushed, prodded, and pulled on me and started searching my pockets. He pulled out my crumpled up Kool-Aid packets and told me that he was calling the police. I was scared and embarrassed. I kept telling him that I bought him, but he wouldn’t believe me. I just had to be a theif. My brothers ran up and started screaming that they didn’t even sell Kool-Aid there (they didn’t).
After what seemed like an eternity, he let me go and told me to leave his store.
I’m glad they’re out of business, now…
Free! Take one.
I learned a lot from growing up poor, and I wouldn’t trade my childhood for yours. I learned that sticks could be toy guns and swords and that there is never a good reason to be bored. The outdoors are the best free experience out there. Books are free, too, at the library. I learned to love reading.
I learned to love the kid in baggy clothes. I learned that nobody was better than me just because they thought they were. I think a lot of my competitive nature came from me wanting to show the world that I wasn’t trash, that I had value. You have value. You are not your fucking kakis.
I have value. Not because of the things I have, now. It was never about the things I have because I never had them. I will forgive a child if he scratches my car. People are people, and things are just things. Live richly like you are poor.
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