My apologizes to George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion."
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Unless you've lived it, you have no idea what poverty is like. In that regard I believe that it has things in common with combat – at least that's what one of the few people from my youth that I respect told me. His name is Joe, he is a Vietnam combat vet having fought in the jungle for three years which gave him what I now know is PTSD and ultimately landed him in a wheelchair and living on public assistance. Since Joe knows being both a foot soldier in war and poverty I'll take his word for it that they are similar in both your inability to significantly control your circumstances, and how they mess up your mind.
My life in poverty – although I could never express it in these terms when I lived it – was a life of subservience. I had to depend on others to survive, whether it be the charity of others or hand-outs from the government. Living in subservience preys on your mind more every day. Unless you are an unusual or gifted person, over time living in subservience saps you of both initiative and hope. It is especially hard for a woman, like me, born Charlotte Grimes, since males in poverty often take out their frustrations on the women similarly situated – certainly in my case that was true.
I had it especially bad while in poverty because I have a pretty face and silky hair, and a slim figure with medium sized boobs. While those characteristics can help get one out of poverty – if you can avoid prostitution – they are a detriment when in it because you become a target of all of the frustrated hormonal men living in the same general squalor that you do.
The first time that I was sexually assaulted, two days after my eighteenth birthday, only serendipity saved me. While I fought hard it was a losing battle, but then for only the first time in a week a squad car came into our neighborhood with sirens blaring and my tormentor got scared and left, after smacking me good. I vowed that it would never happen again.
Joe and one teacher in High School – more about her later – were the only two people that I could ever get any worthwhile advice from. My mother became a whore to survive and lacked any common sense or judgment. My father – or so I am told – left when I was three or four, which from what I've heard about him was actually good news for me.
One of the few talents I recognized while growing up was the ability to do a good job in cutting anything with scissors – hair, dress patterns, and paper for the few school projects the pathetic, usually non-challenging schools that I went to, required. I hinted at the attack when I talked with Joe on the front porch of the tenement he lived in while I was cutting his hair – he was one of my barber "clients," and the only one who actually paid me something from his Welfare check. I only hinted at it because despite being confined to a wheelchair I knew that Joe would go after the perp and probably end up dead.
"Hey Charlotte," he was the only one to call me by my full name instead of just "Char," he said with a raised eyebrow. "You'd tell me if anyone tried to do that to you, wouldn't you, so that I could skin the fucker alive."
"Hey Joe, I know that you've got my back. But I really need to be able to defend myself. Got a suggestion?" I replied as nonchalantly as I could while trying not to cut his reddened ears along with his gray hair.
"I could teach you how to use a knife; do you have one?" he asked after a heavy sigh.
"No, I don't; just these scissors," I replied while snipping away.
"When you're done turning me into a good-looking guy, let's go inside and I'll give you one," was his upbeat response.
I don't know where Joe got the knife that he gave me – it was, according to him, the best one for me of the three different types that he owned. It was clearly not Vietnam vintage; he called it an "S30V." It was all black with a sharp point and a partially serrated edge, blade length 3.5 inches, a use length of eight inches, and a folded length of 4.5 inches. It weighed less than three ounces.
Joe taught me how to open the knife with one hand, the myriad of ways to hold it depending upon the circumstances and the type of damage you needed to do with it, the different types of slashing and thrusting movements, and how to properly conceal it yet have it ready for instant access. After a few weeks of working with Joe every other day or so he said that I was "Real good" with it; and I was confident.
When two guys jumped me about three weeks after I finished my lessons with Joe, they both left with serious – though not life-threatening – wounds. I made them both understand that if they tried to sexually assault me again I'd kill them – and I meant it. The word got out and no one bothered me again. However, I had to always carry the knife with me as a credible threat – which included to school.
Even though I was six months over eighteen years old, since I had a late birthday and had been held back for poor performance once (I "flunked" seventh grade) I was only a sophomore in High School. I got caught with the knife at High School, refused to give it up, and was expelled and reported to the police.
I told my whore of a mother that I would be at Joe's and that the cops could find me there. Both of the cops who showed up had fathers who were Vietnam Vets and they knew and liked Joe. He talked them out of arresting me and explained – I don't know how much of it was bullshit – to them that the knife was perfectly legal and that I had been molested in the past and needed it to defend myself. They gave me a warning and told me never to go near the school with it – of course since I had been expelled I wouldn't be anyway.
The only person at school who seemed to care that I was gone was Ms. Brooks, a teacher that I had for two years of English. She took a genuine liking to me, thought that – especially considering my background – I could communicate well and had a chance to succeed in life. She gave me all sorts of practical advice that most people in normal families would likely know by the time that they were ten, but that I didn't. One of the most important things she told me was that "Everyone has Opportunity knock on their door once in their life. You not only have to answer the door and invite it in but leave with it, and ride that one chance for everything that you can!"
After I was expelled Ms. Brooks came to my house and told me that was just a minor setback, and that I would get my chance in life and that she "expected" me to succeed. I had my doubts, especially since no one wanted to hire a High School drop-out – except to wash dishes, which I ended up doing at a medium-priced Italian joint, Giodona's, a two mile walk from my house.
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I met my future husband Matt at Giodona's. Like me he was a low-skilled part of the kitchen staff. Also like me, he had lived in poverty during his life. What attracted me to him initially was that he was friendlier than the other guys I knew and had a decent sense of humor – poverty had not completely beaten him down.
Once I was convinced – as convinced as I could be without getting expensive testing – that Matt was disease free I fucked him. The first two times was with a condom, but condoms cost money and aren't as much fun, so after that it was bareback but taking into account my cycle, one of the few worthwhile things that I did learn about in school.
Sex with Matt was not a Fourth-of-July fireworks display, tsunami, or earthquake type of event. It was nice – primarily because it allowed a temporary mental escape from the effects of poverty – but certainly never curled my toes. I had had only two other, short-term, partners by the time that I met Matt, and all three seemed to be primarily interested in getting their rocks off as soon as possible. I enjoyed it – but it certainly wasn't the earth-moving experience I had seen in movies or read about in books available in Ms. Brooks' English class, such as "Wilde Thing." I read that book before the principal pulled it out of her classroom saying that it was inappropriate for teens, even though I was over eighteen.
