Where the bootstraps are

When I was growing up, we didn't have much. My father was out of the picture when I was two, and I was well aware of the infrequency of child support. My mother worked two jobs most of the time, and still we scrounged for food, for decent clothes, field trip fees. We relied on each other. It wasn't always easy, but we made it. She didn't accept public assistance, and although I respect her for that decision, I did not make the same choice when I was presented with it years later.

I went away to college on student loans and Pell Grants. I got married and had two beautiful children while still in college. I had "income" from my loans. I knew how to live cheap-- I'd done it all my life. I'd been "the babysitter" for many of my nephews and nieces from the time I was 12. I had lots of experience with kids. My husband had tried college, but couldn't make it work. He was older than I was. He was always willing to work, but he never was able to make much money. He desperately needed respect, and when he didn't get it he got angry and lost his job. There was yelling, and tantrums, and insults against myself and the kids, and although I knew he always carried a cloak of pain there came a point when I could no longer let him drape it over us.

I called up the welfare office and asked what I would get if I left- $532, an extra $50 if my husband paid consistent child support. I'd also get foodstamps. My daughter, still an infant was on WIC.  Rent was over half that, even partially subsadized. I quietly decided to give things six months to improve. That was sometime in late fall, October or November, 1992, I want to say.

I do remember the following Valentine's Day. We were home, things were relatively calm, and we were watching Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. My daughter was sleeping. My son, 2, was climbing in and out of his cardboard toy box and playing in the livingroom. My husband was painting a piece of microwave glass he'd found in the dumpster. (Yes, this was "normal.") My son bumped into accidentally while playing, and my husband went into a rage. Picked my son swung him violently into his high chair and faced it toward the wall. I went and got him, held him in my lap. My husband leaned over us as I sat on the couch and screamed, "You're taking his side!"  He went outside for about ten minutes, and I got us both calmed down. When he came back in I said, "I can't live like this. I can't let the kids live like this."

He went to talk to his brother for a couple hours, and came back informing me that he was on the lease and not going anywhere. He did start acting nicer overall though-- for about a week. I started looking into the possibility of moving back to the Twin Cities where most of my family was. I didn't really want to though. It would mean dropping out of college. I was pretty standoffish, trying my best to distance myself emotionally. He figured it and said, "you're still thinking about a divorce." I admitted that I was, and within days he left voluntarily.

In the coming months he made offhanded threats to take my son, separate him from me, and from his sister. Treat them like his and hers bath towels. I went to the women's shelter and told my story, about Valentine's and other incidents. The court issued an order of protection for a year. Stay away from me, supervised visits only with the kids. He honored the order pretty well, all in all, but after the year he actually moved up to St. Paul and didn't see them at all. Everytime I moved closer to where he was (for reasons that had nothing to do with him), he moved further away. I have never said he couldn't see the kids, but visits were very few and far between-- the last one being about 9 years ago.

My single parenthood has been just that-- a single parenthood. No free weekends or Wednesday nights to myself. All me all the time. Child support has been far from consistent, especially while I was on welfare. I moved from Marshall to Mankato after I graduated from college. I wasn't ready for the cities. I couldn't get a decent job for a long time, and when I did pick up a few hours here and there it was incredibly painful to leave the kids. I had horrific moodswings. I'd find myself elated after talking to a friend from college, and days later I'd be in tears most of the time and barely function. My son learned to make himself peanutbutter sandwiches when he was four years old.

I relied a lot on faith, prayer, and I decided to give myself an opportunity, since I was not finding any in Mankato. I published an issue on a fiction magazine, advertised for submissions, read and commented on everyone, and even paid the writer's $5 for their stories. I typeset it myself on my Smith Corona word processor, stapled together about 100 copies and distributed them to local coffee shops. The venture cost me money rather than made it but it lifted my spirits enough to be able to do other things. I monitored myself as my crying spells grew less frequent, and shorter in duration, until they were all but gone.

I got a "real job" at an apartment complex for developmentally disabled adults working with 4 women with severe to profound mental retardation and various physical disabilities as well. The complex was across the street from my apartment. I had some back trouble, so I could only work about 25 hours a week. I juggled daycare between my neighbor, and high school and college kids. I was inspired by the strength of the women I assisted, how they tried so hard, even with all their limitations, how it took so little to bring them joy.

I was doing better. My welfare checks were about half what they were. Much of the money I made went straight to daycare. My rent was $400, and since I was working I was allowed to make an extra $100. I heard Bill Clinton's speeches about the 5 year cap on welfare payments. I had been on AFDC for over 3 years. But it wasn't just that that motivated me. My son was starting kindergarten. I didn't want them to look back and see the way that I made money as going to the mailbox and getting a check.

 I am very grateful to the taxpayers of Minnesota who kept me out of deeper poverty, who allowed me to stay with my kids during their preschool years-- when I was the only parent they had. I know there has been a lot of changes since I have received any assitance from 'the system" but back then, it was a prison. Every time I talked to my caseworker about getting off welfare she was very discouraging, and told me it was nearly impossible. When my son was in Headstart, caseworkers would come by with the same negative message.

I pressed on. I got a second job working relatively consistent day hours at a grocery store cashiering about 30 hours a week. I still worked 25 hours at the other job. In both jobs I was on my feet much of the time. Both jobs I worked very hard, for very little money. Even at 55 hours a week it was not enough to be released from welfare. At one point the manager at the grocery store threatened to make me decide which job was primary. I couldn't physically work more at the apartment, even though it did pay a little better than the grocery store. I hated being away from the kids so much. The kids were not consistently reliable, and my neighbor suffered from severe depression. My regular provider-- during my grocery shift-- would call in sick fairly often, and I'd have to leave work and scramble for another sitter.

I knew if I managed to get off AFDC, the county would pay my daycare bill. This was my ultimate goal. I loved working with the women in the apartment, but of course I loved my children more. I finally got off by conveniently losing some of my daycare receipts, by claiming that I bartered daycare with my neigbor (her daughter was in my son's Headstart class) more often than I really did. I was able to move to a consistent 40 hours at the grocery store where I made about $800 a month. I struggled as much as ever, but at least I was free.

A few months later the grocery store I worked at closed. I moved back to the cities and into my mom's, along with one of my sisters and her 4 kids. We worked opposite shifts, did a lot of barter daycare. I also worked a lot on the weekends. I worked at a grouphome similar to the one that I had worked at in Mankato. When both my kids were in school I moved into my own apartment. My sister did the same, but we were relatively close, so there was still a lot of daycare bartering going on. Her older kids were old enough to help out, and I paid them too, what I could.

My primary shift when my daughter was in kindergarten was Saturday, Sunday, and Monday nights, 10 hour overnight shifts. I also picked up additonal afternoon shifts as needed- (2-10pm). Sometimes I would work shifts that lasted from 2pm until 8 am, or 10 pm until 2 pm the next day. All physical work. Even when I didn't have an extra shift Monday's were really hard. I'd get off at 6, go get the kids from my sister's, get home an get my son on the bus just after 8. Then I would lightly nap while my daughter watched TV or played, and get up again at 11 to get her on her bus for kindergarten. Sometimes, I'd sleep a little while longer, but usually I couldn't. Sometimes I'd try to runa quick errand before the kids got home around 3. If I was picking up a shift, I'd have my sister or my older neice get to my apartment before the kids did to watch them.

It was far from an ideal situation, but I didn't want to go back through a new county to try andget any kind of daycare assistance. Even if I did, I didn't drive and would have to get something that was within the district of their school. Besides, that I didn't work "banker's hours"  which was when most of the centers were open. Even if I did find something there was still no guarantee-- actually very little chance-- that any help would be available. Daycare waiting lists were over 2 years long, and by then my kids wouldn't even need a sitter anymore.

When my daughter was in 1st grade I traded my grouphome job to work at a nursinghome within walking distance of my apartment as a cook/dietary aide. I worked some weekends, but my main hours were 6-230 during the day. I bought a white board and wrote down all the steps the kids needed to take before going out to their bus. I set the sleep timer on the tv so they would know when to leave. I asked a neighbor to check in on them in the moring, but according to the kids, she rarely did. They never missed their bus. (Awesome kids, I've got. :) ) I got home about the same time they did in the afternoon. The only problem was my feet were throbbing by the time I got home. I'd go straight to my computer when I got home and worked on my typing speed.

A couple months later I started working downtown desk jobs.  It's hardly the highlife, but it's a liveable wage with decent benefits- most of the time. I make far more than I ever made in any manual job that I held, yet I work less hard.  Yet those who work those jobs are expected by many to work 2-3 of those jobs, juggling schedules that aren't always compatible, and give those that work them just enough hours to make sure that their workers do not qualifyfor benefits like vacation, and healthcare. When healthcare was available it can be as much as half the worker's take home pay. I just went without. Something needs to change, not necessarily writing checks, but reforming the industries that the working poor work in to become more family friendly. Offering more licensed daycare at a reasonable cost, for shifts ther than 9-5.

The kids are in highschool now, my son goes to the community college part of the time and will be graduating this year.  My daughter is a freshman, and an excellent student. I am very proud of them both. I hope and pray that they will be able to make a better life for themselves when they are on their own. I hope that they will never find themselves ina position where they need to "pull themselves up by their bootstraps." Because when you are in a difficult position, a good bootsrap is hard to find. Many just can't. For those that do, we as a society needs to be as encouraging and supportive as we can.