Out Of PovertyFree Stuff
And it also came as a surprise that these people weren’t at all interested in helping me when I went broke. “Let ‘em die!” You know who came to my rescue when I went broke? Poor people.
Also, our much maligned (deservingly so) and impotent social safety net (aka, our welfare system) got me through. Sort of. I say “impotent” because the system is not designed to help anyone get out of poverty. Nor, in my case, did it provide enough even to make ends meet.
Food Banks
One of the first places I looked for help was food banks. I googled “food banks” in my area, and was encouraged to find several.
The first one I went to, in Lakeview, spoiled me. I got two big bags of steak and chops and baguettes and organic this, that, and the other. Flowers, even. And the upper-middle-class volunteers were SO kind and enthusiastic. I know these types well, since I come from that stock. We love making a big show out of helping poor people, when we’re not shaming them. And God bless us, everyone! Whether we’re doing it out of Christian charity or white guilt, at least we’re doing it with a smile. Nevertheless, I was told by da whites (very politely) that next time I would have to go to a food bank in my own, unlucky neighborhood.
I usually tell people that I live in Andersonville — a quaint, middle-class area in Chicago’s northside. But actually, I live in nearby Uptown, which is where (I’m convinced) the term “low-life” came from. Most people here are literally low on life (i.e., energy). And ground zero for these characters is the intersection of Broadway and Wilson. They just stand there . . . all day . . . looking lobotomized . . . bumming cigarettes and change. I’m always in a hurry to get out of poverty. These people aren’t.
And yes, I know that that sounds unkind. Or something a Republican would say. But I beg you to consider that there are always a few bad apples in any group. Some poor people give the rest of us a bad name.
Furthermore, it’s not unkind to expect people (even sick, down-on-their-luck people) to try. At least a little. Try to find a place to live and work that isn’t on a sidewalk. Try to smile and move like you have a purpose.
And I’m talking about my economic peers here. So if you’re a well-to-do liberal, keep your self-righteous mouth shut. This discussion doesn’t concern you.
At any rate, when I did go to a food bank in this God-forsaken neighborhood, it was in the basement of the Christ Died For Our Sins church at the southwest corner of Wilson and Sheridan. And I was told to take a number, which was 200 and something. And I was told to sit with the hundreds of elderly, Asian, Eastern European, black, and Hispanic beggars. I felt the way, perhaps, all of those people feel most of the time in America. That is, the odd man out. And helpless, with few opportunities for advancement.
The low-on-life coordinators took their sweet time organizing the donated goods into identical bundles: one meat; one bread; one bag of potatoes; one box of mac-n-cheese; and so on. Why they hadn’t done all that portioning prior to opening the doors is beyond me. I remember thinking, Damn, I could do all that work much faster; AND (because of my upbringing) I could at least pretend like I really wanted to be there. In the end, I waited about four hours before my number was called.
I went to several other food banks over the course of that first year of nothingness. Not-having-enoughness. Not having ANY sense of well-being. The slow burning drip of fear of people and economic insecurity. I’m still waiting for that particular 12-Step promise to kick in.
Catholic Charities, down in River North — my former (lucky) neighborhood, back before the bubble burst — also offers regular table scraps. [“Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” — Matthew 15:27 (NIV)] One bag a month of mostly unhealthy stuff. Chips, candy, soda, Wonder Bread, imitation pancake syrup. Thank God for beans and rice, peanut butter and saltines.
And if you smell a whiff of peevishness throughout these descriptions of both rich people AND poor people, then yeah . . . I have no trouble admitting that I’m still colicky about those first two or three years of my climbing out of poverty, and all the retarded assholes from both groups blocking my way. People who want to work should not have to crawl through the spanking machine just to get food.
And people who don’t want to work? Well . . . I’ll deal with that in the next Out Of Poverty.
Hey buddy, you need any money?
No, this was a few years ago. But thanks.