There's been some tremendous writing by Caliberal [1] and Bluebird [2] about poverty. Liza [3] has written about the mommy wars at home. It has gotten me to thinking about a time, not so long ago, when I experienced first-hand what happens to a lot of single mothers in this country. I've been working for almost 3 years now at a job I hate. I was thinking this morning of how much I hate my job, thinking, once again of quitting. The time for me to go is approaching. I know myself well enough to know that when I've reached this point of despair, there will be a period of bitching and moaning, but eventually, I'll leave.
This piece was written in May of 2003. It's not polished, and ultimately, it pulls back and lives inside my head, but it's not hard for me to remember what hunger feels like, what fear feels like, and, ultimately, what a belief in self feels like.
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I am a few days past my 40th birthday, out of work, a writer who can’t seem to get published recently, a mother who doesn’t have custody of her children, a woman who frequently does not eat meals because she is completely out of money. May I mention my two advanced college degrees? May I mention my feminist faith in self-sufficiency? May I mention how difficult it is to maintain my dignity, let alone faith, in the face of failure?
My daughters live with their father. I know that you will ask why. People always do. If they were living with me, the question of why I had custody and he did not would never arise. But their father having them implies something, and so it’s a question I get asked a lot. The answer is complicated, but here’s the gist: When I left their father I knew I was setting out on a hardscrabble path that would introduce chaos into their lives. Their father has a good-paying job and no intention of leaving the small town in upstate New York where we reside. I knew that the one thing they needed during the upheaval was whatever stability I could give them.
My girls know that I love them. I have never said a bad word against their father in front of them. I want them to know that divorce is not the worst thing that can happen to you. I tell myself that the fights they witnessed between their father and me, the long silences, the glares, the angry rebukes, that witnessing a bad marriage was more damaging than watching us learn to live our lives apart. I have asked myself more times than I can count whether they would agree with me. But I keep in mind that I am the grownup.
My timing for leaving could have used some work. I was unemployed at the time, as I had taken time off to write a novel. I have many job skills and good credentials. And to that point, I had never had a problem finding a job. So, when I left my husband, I figured that I would quickly step into a position. But I left him in August of 2001: September 11 had a major impact on the publishing field. I have sent out enough resumes that I owe the forest ten trees. In the meantime, I scrape by with freelance writing and editing assignments I pick up.
I went hungry for several days a couple of months back. I had enough money to feed the girls during the three days a week they stay with me, but none for myself. So I didn’t eat. I admit it: I was panic-stricken over my hunger, but I took a certain perverse pleasure in the idea that I was sacrificing myself on behalf of my children. It’s what we’re taught, right? That mothers will allow themselves to be killed in defense of their kids. And it’s true: there’s no doubt that I would become Athena in full-battle regalia should we find ourselves in a life-or-death situation. But this was not it. This was me finding a way to punish myself for my choices. I decided that it was okay for me to go to the soup kitchen to eat. I had told myself that I didn’t have the right to eat at the soup kitchen because I wasn’t poor enough, that I would be taking food from the mouth of someone who needed it more than I did. But there’s something about lying awake at night, starving, that led me to the realization that I was poor. And yes, I know the famous distinction between broke and poor—but I’ve been broke for two years now, which I think has put me in a “poor
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