I had a hard-nosed chemistry teacher in high school. She went over the top to explain how careful we had to be with the equipment. She told us how much everything cost and how much the bill to our parents would be should we break anything.
She was spacing us out for a test once and she told me sit at a lab desk. I don't know if my clothes smelled particularly cat-like that day or what, because not many students were placed as far away as I was. Probably. I was always covered in fur, piss, fleas, and my own body odor.
Anyway, as I sat down, a large glass something knocked to the floor. I visibly cringed, shoulders hunched, face mangled. My head fast-forwarded to my mother berating me for the cost of the thing. In my head, she had already told me how worthless I was and made my insides crumple. The chemistry teacher refused to meet my eye. She just said, "Oh.... I'll clean that up. Don't worry." And that was the end of it.
Could she tell from my face that we were perpetually poor? Could she tell that that $15 item was the difference between life and death? Maybe. I sometimes got the feeling that the staff "knew" I was not an average kid. My shoes and backpack smelled. My hair was unkempt. My clothing was always covered in fur from cats sleeping on beds, chairs, and clean laundry baskets (which my mom thought was adorable). God, even our towels were always covered in fur. You'd go to dry off after a bath and be plastered in fur and flea dirt. It makes my stomach turn just thinking about it.
Another time, our physics class went to Kennywood to label the physics properties that the rides had. It was a well known trip that everyone went on. But it wasn't free. You had to pay whatever dollars to go. It was a discount, but I remember that I didn't even ask my mother. The amount was unthinkable. My teacher noticed that I was not getting on the bus and the only thing he could manage was to say, "Not going, Stace?" I just shook my head. Maybe he thought I would cry? Maybe he thought I'd ask for help?
Living in poverty is trauma. It's having to always take less than you need. It's always wearing the wrong clothes. It's having to cut up your English poster from last quarter to make homemade index cards for your biology presentation. It's not being able to care that you didn't do your Spanish project (and failing because of it) because you couldn't afford the color photo copies and the video rental you needed to do it. It's never knowing who to ask for help. It's looking pathetic when you do. It's admitting that you have nothing to offer and no value as a human. It is pretending not to like things because you might need a few dollars or a supply that you don't have. It's pain. It's tears. It's damaging.
And what I couldn't get from the adults in my life, I got from food. Food was love. Food was my babysitter. Food was celebration. Food was condolences. Food was a cure for boredom.
It's hard to forgive. It's hard to reprogram.
