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.
Matt asked me to marry him when I was nineteen, and even though I didn't feel what I had read about as "true love" for him, I hoped that marriage would at least be a respite from poverty, believing in the old saying that "two can live as cheaply as one." We got married before a justice of the peace at City Hall, with Ms. Brooks as my witness, and Matt's best friend as his.
Only after we got married, and I lost my job at Giodano's, did Matt reveal to me his brilliant "financial plan." "Hey, Char, if we have a kid then we can get more public assistance." I actually think that he thought that we could pull ourselves out of poverty by me getting pregnant. I was too stupid and desperate at the time to realize what bullshit that was and went along with it, and I was pregnant within about six weeks after I lost my job. Fortunately Matt was still working at that time, although for minimum wage, and we got Medicaid and food stamps, as well as rent assistance for our squalid apartment.
Some women are said to "glow" during pregnancy. Maybe if you have perfect pre-natal care, work with a trainer, and can afford all of the best foods, you glow. However given my situation during pregnancy I more "dimmed" than "glowed." I had a difficult time and felt fat and dumpy. It didn't help that Matt lost all interest in sex with me after the sixth month.
I was thrilled when my little girl Lisa was born, however. Lisa had all the necessary parts, was really cute, and we bonded instantly. It was difficult to care for her, however, given our poor financial situation and lack of any helpful family members. I don't know if it was because of that, or hormones, or both, but I developed what I later learned was postpartum depression.
My situation got desperate when Lisa was about three months old when I found out that Ms. Brooks had been killed by a stray bullet as she was leaving school in a drive-by shooting between two rival gang members.
Matt had no empathy for my situation. He did little to help with Lisa, couldn't understand why I was getting so upset about "some teacher" being killed, and had already started pressuring me to have another kid to help fulfil his genius financial plan.
The state of mind that I was in one Thursday when I was in the midst of my postpartum depression was likely the worst of my life. I was grieving over Ms. Brooks' death, and Matt and I had had another fight about me getting pregnant again, and I had no hope for the future. I despaired.
I tried to snap out of it – not realizing that it is impossible to "snap out" of depression – by doing about the only thing that gave me joy; taking Lisa on a walk to a park in an upscale neighborhood about three miles away from my dilapidated apartment. I had a used stroller that Joe had given me that was entirely functional and after I nursed Lisa we set off on our journey.
Unfortunately, the trip to the park not only didn't help my mood, it darkened it. I saw other kids happily playing, with their joyous parents nearby chatting each other up, and I realized that my child would likely never be able to enjoy the carefreeness of youth since her every day would be a struggle to survive – just like it had been for me. With tears in my eyes I walked over to the elevated bank of the river that defined the western boundary of the park with Lisa in my arms. I do believe that most likely I would have jumped in and both of us would have drowned, since I didn't know how to swim and of course Lisa would be helpless. I was stopped by a hand on my arm.
I turned to look who was holding my arm and saw a well dressed woman with perfectly coiffed hair and expertly applied makeup, likely in her fifties. It was clear that she was one of the "haves," and a classy one at that.
"Miss, you look so forlorn," she said in a kind and pleasing voice. "Is there something that I can do to help?"
There was something about her face that made me trust her; maybe because she was an older better-heeled version of Ms. Brooks.
I tried to mouth something. No words came out. I started bawling and shaking. She led me over to a nearby bench and sat down with me.
