A Pessimistic Perspective of Poverty

A Short Preface

I wrote this “post” in May of 2023 just to express my feelings about some of the things that my family was dealing with at the time. Rereading through it, there are certainly some things that I would change, but I think that my sentiments are still quite relevant. If I had more time in my non-fiction class, I would have revised it for one of my essays, but maybe that’s for another time. Anyway, here it is:

A Pessimistic Perspective of Poverty

Poverty is like quicksand; easy to fall into, difficult to get out of. Every hour, every second, you only think about staying afloat and making it through the next week, the next day. The worst part about it is seeing the ones you love, struggling to float beside you.

A rope tied us all together, meaning that we could keep each other from drowning, but each of us could not ourselves escape. I feel like I’ve escaped the quicksand. I cut the rope connecting me to the others and climbed out to lay at the edge of the muck. But at what cost? When I was still in the sand, I could help keep my family afloat, but now that I’m out, I can only watch as they struggle to not drown.

There are also times when poverty feels like a resistance band. It is as if life is a race, and everyone has already left the starting line, but you’re stuck at the start. You don’t even want to win, you just want to participate, but you can’t because there is a band tied around you. If you want to go forward, you must tug and pull with all your might. If you slip and fall, you are yanked backwards to where you started, or maybe further back than that. You can never escape. You can never even leave the starting line.

There is so much to see and experience out there. I know this because I see others, even friends and family, experiencing the things this world has to offer. But those things are not for us. They only exist as a carrot held in front of our face, encouraging us to keep trying. Maybe one day, with extreme effort, we’ll be able to reach it, but for now they only exist as motivation to not give up.

I’ve been asked why I work so hard all the time. My friends and family who want to spend time with me and wish only happiness upon me but do not understand what drives me. I remember countless times being told to go and enjoy myself. To stop working so hard. To stop studying and go play videogames for once. But how can I rest if I know that I have a chance to grab the carrot? How can I relax so late into the race? Everyone else has long been running, but I’ve barely left the starting line. I have snapped the band that was holding me back, but I still have an entire race to run. They say slow and steady wins the race, but if there is a big enough handicap, no amount of endurance will allow me to catch up.

There are other times when poverty seems more like a steep hill. It doesn’t matter why you are at the bottom, only that you must climb out or you will die and leave your family stuck there. As you climb, every little bit of upward movement feels amazing. Then your hand slips, or a rock comes tumbling down at you, or you get tired and can’t maintain your grip. You slide back down, grasping for something, anything that would halt your regression. Maybe the first, second, or even hundredth time you fall, you can shake it off, square your chest, and try again. However, inevitably, the constant falls and your lack of progress will take their toll on you. You will begin to wonder why you even try to escape the hill. Is the promise of a beautiful world beyond the hill’s crest even worth the trouble? Maybe you should accept the bottom of the hill as your place in life. Maybe you don’t deserve the beauty on the other side. Maybe you belong at the bottom of the hill.

Sometimes I forget why I fight so hard to make something of my life and conquer the hill. Looking back on my life, I was dealt a shitty hand of cards. Not the worst, but far from the best. I spent the first decade of my life homeless, something I didn’t realize until recently. I suppose “unhoused” would also describe it. When I was one year old, we moved to Missouri, and we lived in a hotel for a few years. My first memory is of running down the hallways of Intown Suites. Then, we slept on the floors of family. Then, we slept on the floors of family friends. Then, we slept on the floors of strangers.

My mother would homeschool us, spending much of her time and effort teaching us to read and write and do math. She taught us how to make sense of the world we lived in. Eventually, we got a three-bedroom apartment barely big enough for the six of us. Then, my youngest brother was born. Nathaniel Xavier Hammond is his name. A cute, energetic, and clever boy with down syndrome. Soon after, my mother found out she had several autoimmune diseases, including Lupus, Rheumatoid arthritis, and Sjogren’s syndrome. Any reasonable person would fall into a deep depression, give up on the world and accept their grim fate. Not my mother. Despite dealing with depression, to this day, she cooks, cleans, and listens to all our insignificant problems. She cannot do the things she always wished she could do, but she rejects the possibility of becoming completely bedridden.

Anytime I feel unfocused or unmotivated, I think about my mother. I think about all those times she was in pain but still made sure we had something to eat. I think about all those times I heard her puking at 3 am because medicine was making her sick. I think about those days my mother had to use her walker or cane, and complained because she isn’t even fifty yet. And I think about how she will die someday, and she might not get to see me succeed.

That is why I fight so hard.

Because of her, when I started down this path of doing something with my life, I began to tell myself, first thing in the morning: “Remember why you fight. Remember why you fight. Remember why you fight…”

My mother gave so much to me, and she gave up so much for me. She gave everything to boost me up the hill. If I do not fight as hard as I can to reach the top, her time and energy would have been for nothing.

Lastly, there are times when poverty is a deep pit. The sides are so steep that no one could climb out alone. However, if you muster your strength, perhaps you will be able to give those you love a glimpse of the outside world. Maybe once or twice a year, on their birthday or on Christmas, you will be able to lift them up to see the things the world has to offer. There are times, though, that you cannot lift them up. “Maybe next year, or in a few months, when I have gathered some more money,” you say. The misery of being stuck in an almost inescapable pit is overwhelming. There are ways to escape the pit, but you would be hard-pressed to escape the pit with your whole family. You would have to leave them behind if you were to get out.

Climbing out of the pit can be hard. I had no debt to start with, but I also started with no money and often no transportation but my own two feet. On weekends, I would walk a mile to work at 4am, and walk a mile back after my ten, eleven, or twelve-hour shift. During the week, my sister and I would either get a ride from our father, or we would make the mile-and-a-half walk from school to our job, whilst carrying our heavy backpacks. Despite the stress of a first time at a public school and job, I kept fighting. Now, I have moved out, started college, and have my own car. It feels good, but I can’t help but look down into the pit I escaped from, and wish I had enough money and time to pull my family up too. I see their faces, and I hear of their suffering. What can I do for them without sacrificing my newfound freedom? Nothing.

Now, I stand at the edge of the quicksand, shouting words of encouragement as my family struggles to stay afloat. I know I could help them, but that would mean I’d have to get back in. I feel helpless as I watch them struggle to stay above the mire. As they endeavor to leave the starting line and enjoy all the sights that the race will show them. As they strain to climb the hill and see the world beyond its crest. As they sit dejected at the bottom of the deep pit. Yet, I can do nothing but watch and hope they do not sink.