Wisedocks

What does it feel like to grow up poor?

When someone says they grew up poor, I tell them the mouse story. Not to one up them, but to show them I understand. I could just say, "Me too!" But where is the fun in that? So, what is the mouse story? Let me tell ya.

The Mouse Story

My mom has always been an animal lover. Growing up, we always had at least four dogs, along with rabbits, guinea pigs, pot-bellied pigs, squirrels, birds, fish; the list goes on. We spent a lot of time at pet stores, and I was always drawn to the white mice. One day, I convinced my mom to let me get a couple. Somehow, this led to me breeding them for the pet store to make a little extra money.

This continued until I discovered what the pet store was doing with them. I thought they were selling them to other kids like me, but instead, they were using them as snake food. Horrified, I stopped breeding them and sold all my females, making them promise not to use them as snake food. In the end, I kept two males, Ralph and Mickey. They often fought but got along when I took them out to play. With no money for a separate habitat, I just kept a close eye on them.

So, what does this have to do with being poor? Here's the connection. We had a natural gas stove in the living room, but the rest of the house was freezing in the winter. During a particularly cold snap, I worried Ralph and Mickey wouldn’t survive. I piled all the cedar chips I had into their enclosure and even ripped apart an old pillow to fill it with cotton. If it was 20 degrees outside, it was just as cold in my bedroom. My nose still runs constantly to this day. One morning, I checked on them, and they didn’t respond. Digging through the cotton, I found them burrowed together in the center, hugging each other, frozen solid.

I still think about that over 30 years later, and that's how I tell people how hard it was growing up.

Friends = Food  

Everyone knew we were poor, but I still managed to make a few friends. Being the class clown had its perks, but jokes didn’t put food on the table. Being a picky eater didn’t help either.

I realized around the same time as the mice incident that not everyone lived like us. My friends had food at their houses, so I took every chance I could to spend the night with them.

I’m a loner and didn’t even want to hang out with them that much, I was just hungry. The only exception was my cousin; we were like brothers at that age, and I loved staying at his house.  

That reminds me of something else as a sidebar. My cousin and I would lie to my mom if she said no to spending the night, making up dumb reasons why I needed to stay.

One day, my mom got mad because our lies were obvious and said, “I wish you would stop lying to me!” I took that to heart and promised her I would never lie to her again.

But me, being a smart-ass, took it literally. If she asked why I was in the bathroom so long, I’d tell her it was because I was jacking off, even if I wasn’t. She should have specified what she meant, lol.

When I was 12, I started working for farmers during the summers. I loved having my own money to buy food and school clothes that I chose myself. I also got my first television around this time, a 13-inch black-and-white set. It was a game changer because I could pick up WGN with the antenna and watch Michael Jordan and the Bulls during their peak in 1993. I also got TNT and spent summer evenings watching the Atlanta Braves.

By the time I was 15, I was earning enough over the summer to upgrade to a 19-inch color TV and a Super Nintendo. I felt like I was living large. Growing up poor taught me not to depend on others to get what I want or need. If I ever ask for help, I may not show it, but it’s a desperate situation for me.

Get Out!

When I was 14, my mom kicked me out of the house, partly because of my smart mouth. Having my own money to buy food meant I didn’t have to eat her cooking, which, honestly, wasn’t great. This often led to fights because she hated that I was always leaving. I didn’t like being home either, I’m a loner and can’t stand being yelled at. Yelling doesn’t work on me, as any boss I’ve ever had could confirm. So, I didn't hesitate to leave and went to stay at a friend’s house.

After a few days, my dad found me and told me my mom couldn’t kick me out, so I needed to come home. I said I didn’t want to live with her anymore, but he convinced me to return. My mom then suggested I live in an old concrete shed on our property, about 12 x 20 feet if my memory is correct. She convinced my dad to pay for boxing it in so I could live there. Once he agreed, I started framing the garage door opening with my dad’s help. I lived there until I turned 18 and absolutely loved it! However, it didn’t help me become less independent; it actually made me rely on people even less, probably to an unhealthy degree.

What I mean by unhealthy is that I can build good friendships, but I have no issue cutting them off without hesitation. People just don’t seem to impact me the way they probably should.

This probably has a lot to do with how I was treated as the poor kid growing up. I’d make friends with people, but once they realized how poor we were, they’d drop me. 

Even now, I think my younger brother believes I exaggerate how bad it was. My dad started earning good money around the time my brother was old enough to remember, which was also around the time my mom kicked me out of the house. By that point, though, I think the mental damage was already done. I’m not upset about it; I love being independent and not needing social bonds or a lot of money to be happy. You could drop me in the woods by myself, and I’d thrive. Growing up poor isn’t the end of the world; it can make you stronger and more resilient, as long as you learn from the tough times.