$57

Being Poor and "Successful"

I have 57 dollars to my name.

I have an easier time writing about some traumatic experiences in my childhood than I do about poverty. Why is that? Why is there such a sense of shame when it comes to poverty? I know that there are a lot of people reading this who are in a similar predicament, and yet we all suffer stoically in silence.

I work hard and yet; my debts right now outweigh my income. A lot of it stems from an ongoing custody case, where legal fees have accrued to an unmanageable amount. My kids are important to me, so I keep pressing on. I put up my house for sale, in the hopes that this will alleviate some of that debt, but it’s been almost a month, and it hasn’t sold. I recently got a promotion at work. In theory, that should help, but the system is not very fair to fathers and who knows how much of that I won’t get to see.

I get my kids half the time. I have to provide for them. I have to buy them food and clothes and snacks for school parties and events.

I have 57 dollars.

“Papa, can you buy me this Wednesday Addams hat?” my six-year-old asks in Walmart.

“I can’t, Penny. I’m sorry.”

She pouts and looks at me, disappointed.

We keep walking down the aisles.

“When can we get that new Mario game?” my 9-year-old son asks. “A lot of my friends already have it.”

“Maybe for Christmas,” I tell him. “That’s not a necessity.”

He knows that I’m not committing to anything at the moment. That it’s more than likely a no, but I don’t say that, because maybe things will change in the next month. Maybe. Just, maybe.

My oldest doesn’t ask for anything. She’s 11. On some level she knows that things are tight, even though I never share with them why or how tight things are. I just tell them, “I can’t afford that right now.” Or I tell them what I already told my son, “That’s not a necessity.”

But I get it. I was a kid once. I wanted hats, toys and games. But I grew up in Havana, during our great depression. I knew not to ask for anything. It didn’t mean I didn’t want those things, I just learned to stop asking. I learned to read the mood and to read the room.

I have 57 dollars.

My kids have a roof over their heads. They have toys, more than I ever had in my entire life. They have a Nintendo Switch that I bought a few years back. They have their basic needs met.

I have 57 dollars.

There, we’re at the rice and beans aisle. That’s cheap. I can grab some peppers and a few other spices, some ground turkey and make a Cuban dish. That should last a few days. Spaghetti is cheap, too. I can stretch that out for a few more days.

“Can we get some candy?” Penny asks.

I sigh and then I smile. “Okay, but just one each,” I tell all three of my kids.

“It’s okay,” Ellie, my oldest says. She doesn’t want to impose. She has learned intuitively not to ask for things. She has learned to read the room.

“Come on, E,” I tell her. “You can grab a candy.”

Her eyes light up. All their eyes do. They grab their candy. We go to the self-checkout, and they help me scan our items. We left Walmart.

I have less than 50 dollars now.

We go to the local Arts District. A TV crew from Spain is doing a story on what the non-profit I work for is doing. I’ve been the face of that for the Latino market. I’ve been on countless interviews lately. The Mayor and his wife are there. We know each other well by now. It’s raining and we go inside a local sweets shop, waiting for the film crew to get there. My youngest says she wants a treat, but I remind her that we just bought candy and we’re going home soon anyway.

It turns out that the Spanish television producers didn’t need me, so I just hung out with my kids instead and walked around for a bit. A few other people stop me on the street and recognize me from my TV appearances.

“Are you famous?” my son asks.

“I think maybe a little bit,” I say.

I know they think that’s cool. Maybe right now to them that’s more important than anything else.

I have less than 50 dollars as we walk back to the car. I have to get gas. Friday’s coming, but that’s six days away. I’ll have to make it last. I’m stressed out, exhausted, battling anxiety, but my kids depend on me.

“Papa’s famous!” Penny yells excitedly. Her eyes light up with pride. She runs to me and hugs me.

That seems to be enough for her, so that’s enough for me right now.

Note: Hitting publish is a bit nerve-racking for this post because of the shame attached to being poor. I know that I’m a good dad and a hard worker, but still, my anxiety high even writing this, but I feel that it’s important to break some of the stigma surrounding poverty in this country. You can work hard and still be poor.

Thanks for reading. Would you mind sharing this post with others?

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