by
Sarah Smarsh
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When I was an adult, the Kansas legislature passed a law forbidding using cash assistance to buy tickets for ocean cruises, as though poor people are notorious for spending weeks in the Bahamas on taxpayers’ dimes. The same law limited the amount recipients could access as cash; regardless of their total monthly allotment, they could take out only $25 at a time via an ATM. It was a needless measure that benefited private banks contracting with the state, since every card swipe racked up a fee. Where once poverty was merely shamed, over the course of my life it was increasingly monetized to benefit the rich—interest, late fees, and court fines siphoned from the financially destitute into big bank coffers.
christ
Grandma was right: I did think I was too good for the environment I’d been born into. But I thought she was, too. I thought everyone was. So my intention was to get as much attention as possible. Not because I reveled in it—I was a quiet loner, most often—but because I knew that was the only way I’d ever receive the chances I wanted.
What we lost in stability, by way of our economic lot, we gained in adaptability, in hard clarity about what does and doesn’t last. During the Great Recession in 2008, both my parents lost their jobs and entered one of the hardest stretches of their lives. But, while some members of the middle class saw their assets dwindle for the first time, people like my family had known economic trauma before.
Perhaps for that reason, my parents had no illusion that banks or markets were a safe investment. Mom didn’t purchase more house than she could afford with the idea that she’d live there forever. She did so precisely because she didn’t believe in security and figured life is short so you might as well have a big bathtub when you can get it. Like Dad, she knew all about a “mobile home”—an oxymoron, seemingly, but encoded with a deep truth: No house is truly secure. The body is the only permanent home, and even that one comes with an eviction notice.
reminds me of Evicted
also, maybe similar idea for N's mother during 2008
If there was something to get out of, some place or class, in many ways I am still there and perhaps always will be. I am there by choice, to some extent, appreciating its riches that shaped me—the wildness of a childhood untended, freedom from expectation, a robust, learned understanding of my own capabilities.
To experience economic poverty in a country famous for its abundance is to live with constant reminders of what you don’t have, like running a hot marathon next to a cool reservoir from which you’re not allowed to drink. [...]
I did not leave one world and enter another. Today I hold them simultaneously—class being a false construct, like any other boundary or category we impose. You don’t really climb up or down, get in or out. Mine isn’t a story about a destination that was reached but rather about sacrifices I don’t believe anyone, certainly no child, should ever have to make.
But Nicole couldn’t explain, not even to Ruby, who was her closest friend at the store. (Never mind that Ruby was forty-eight, the same age as Nicole’s mom, and of a different race. Who cared? Nicole’s fiancé Marcus was black too.) Still, if she told Ruby how happy leaving Meredith hanging had made her, she’d sound like she needed to get a life.
are you KIDDING
Potterstown had yet to recover from the departure of IBM, once its largest employer. These days, Potterstown was as much museum as city, its past glory evident less in its people—many of whom walked around with something of a shell-shocked look, as if modernity itself had caught them unawares—than in the fine old buildings that had outlived the purposes for which they’d been built. The domed, neoclassical former Potterstown National Bank, for example, was now a struggling coffee shop. A former shirt factory housed an organic bakery called Kneads that was, like the coffee shop, geared toward part-timers from New York. For most of its full-time residents, Potterstown’s center of gravity had moved from downtown to the surrounding ring of strip malls, in which liquor stores, kidney dialysis centers, dollar stores, cigarette discounters, and military recruitment offices flourished. If it weren’t for the influx of city people each summer, Potterstown would be in far worse straits, like so many of the truly depressed towns farther upstate—towns that didn’t even have a Walmart, let alone a Town Square; even with the city people, store #1512 was a low-volume store, a training store, where corporate sent new managers to cut their teeth. The highest-grossing and most profitable stores—the ones they sent their best managers to—were located in places whose fortunes had risen in recent years in inverse proportion to the nation’s Potterstowns. Affluent suburbs, places like Westchester County and northern New Jersey. And Connecticut. West Hartford was the big time.
ok this isn't too bad
“It’s not that,” said Milo irritably. (Jokes by people other than himself tended to grate on his nerves.) “Meredith ignores me, and I’m as white as can be.” He held up his arm, as if the others might not have noticed his skin color before now. “She doesn’t even say hello to me. It’s as if I’m not even a person to her, as if the truck just throws itself.”
At this, Milo laughed.
my god
She might once have had other aspirations, but her life had taken a decisive turn when she was seventeen. She had run away from home. For a while, she’d lived in her car. Even after she’d gotten on her feet—found a job, a place to live—she had struggled. For years, she had been both depressed and wild, self-destructive. It wasn’t until Val met Liz in her mid-twenties that everything changed. In the past five years, Val had gotten married, gotten her GED, had a baby. She’d reconciled with her grandmother—now she and Liz took care of her and lived in her house. Val even saw her mom sometimes—without her dad’s knowledge. He was the reason she’d left home in the first place. He was the kind of person who’d get drunk with his buddies and go out to the coop and shoot his own chickens. For fun. He also didn’t like gay people.
blargh
He walked by a largely abandoned shopping center from the 1960s with weeds growing through cracks in the parking lot. Land here was so cheap that when a building became outdated, its owners often didn’t bother to tear it down. They just built a new one next door. What’s a half mile of dead space to people in cars?
this is reasonable though like would it be that hard to say it in a more interesting way
The irony, she thought as she began to pace, walking parallel to the line, was that until yesterday Little Will’s constant badgering about the backlog had bothered her far more than the thing itself. Unlike unload times, which had to be reported daily, the existence of the backlog was unknown to anyone outside the store. The only way corporate would find out about the backlog was with a surprise site visit. And those were rare. In practice, corporate almost always gave advance notice. On the other hand, managers’ ability to operate within budget was pretty much the most important metric used to evaluate performance and determine raises and promotions. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand that corporate’s willful blindness to conditions in the store, compared with its hyperattentiveness to the budget, was a way of telegraphing to managers what they should prioritize if they wanted to be successful.
so bland sorry