Mumbled Memories After My First Unemployment Check

I remember the drives down to the welfare office. My 10 year old self pretending not to care that my best friend was along for the ride. I remember shopping with foodstamps at the local grocery store where my mother worked the seafood counter. I’d stand in line counting out how many vouchers needed to be ripped from a booklet that always went to quickly and my mother would come home reeking of fish. I remember the meals of instant mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese made with water instead of milk. I remember peanut butter on everything and toast beneath ground beef with flour and salt.

I would obsessively count the money in my hand whenever I had to pay for anything, paralyzed by the fear of having to put things back. Well aware of all the eyes behind me. Shopping for food, for toilet paper, for whatever was never without stress. My mom would send me into the store while she sat in the car, doing hir best to avoid the scene altogether.

When I was even younger I would gather cans and other recyclables to cash in. I’d do odd jobs, usually for my grandmother, and pocket every piece of loose change I found. Though I can’t say I was aware of the addiction that surrounded me, it was clear to me that my mother and I needed money. At the time it was just hir and I, me 5 years old, hir 22. Every cent I earned I gave to hir, to us. I thought I was helping to pay for our groceries, for my mother’s gas to get to work, for our rent. It never even occurred to me to question it. It never occurred to me to that other kids weren’t doing the same.

Once, after my mom got married, I went to church with my new grandmother. She was catholic and I remember the priest talking about the poor. The poor were people who didn’t have enough to eat or clothes to wear. In the middle of the long service I got up to pee and on my way to the bathroom I saw several small wooden containers that said “Offerings For The Poor”. I opened one and found it stuffed full of money, which I quickly shoved into my pockets, continuing on to the rest of the containers. I felt completely justified but I knew better than to tell anybody what I’d done. I understood that charity was to meant to be kept secret. I was 7 years old.

I’m far from that time but I just pulled my first unemployment check from my mailbox. A government check not so different from the one we’d drive to pick up years ago. I have this money now. I can pay my rent and I’m grateful but it’s all just a little too familiar. I’m trying to remember that I don’t have to put peanut butter on everything, but the instinct is still there.