The Legacy Impacts Of Poverty
I grew up poor. My story is not so much a “rags-to-riches” tale (I’m not actually rich) as it is a daily struggle to stop thinking and living like the bottom could drop out any moment. I live with financial security and all of the comfort and privilege that goes along with it. So why don’t I feel comfortable?
To understand how someone like me, who earns a solid salary, owns a home, and has ample savings in the bank can still live in fear of having the rug pulled out from under her, you must understand the experience of poverty. I’m not talking about the lack of money to buy new clothes or healthy food, or even the inability to pay rent on time.
I’m talking about the sensory experience: shivers from the lack of heat, the stench of mildew, taking in your surroundings and longing to be literally anywhere else. It’s waking up every day knowing that life is something that happens to you, that you are not in control.
At the age of 42, I have only recently begun talking about the poverty I experienced in adolescence with my friends and colleagues. I’ve avoided talking about it with others because the situation was never really discussed with me. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from China and together they ran a successful restaurant in Tacoma, Washington. They lived well, bought a house, and paid college tuition for their three children. In early childhood, I felt very secure. There were family trips to California and no shortage of toys and gifts coming my way.
There was a period when my immigrant family was very much living the American Dream. The adults around me seemed happy and proud, and I viewed the world as safe and full of opportunity. But this time of abundance would prove to be short-lived.
When I was six years old, my grandfather passed away of a sudden, massive heart attack. My grandmother was unable to run the family business on her own and was forced to close the restaurant. Working for pay was strictly forbidden in her family of origin, and managing the restaurant was her first and only job. Closing the business was devastating for her. She sold their house and moved into a small apartment across town.
My parents had divorced when I was very young, and my father became my primary caregiver. Having been the manager of the bar at the family restaurant, he was now out of work. He hadn’t completed his college degree so opportunities to earn a living wage were slim.
I can only imagine what life was like for my father as the eldest son in a traditional Chinese family, divorced in his early 30s, raising a young daughter on his own. As I reflect back on what I experienced under his care, I seek to have empathy, to accept that he did the best he could because the truth is, all I knew back then was chaos.
When I was young, we had a lovely home in a beautiful neighborhood with tree-lined streets, surrounded by other young families. My father lost our home in foreclosure and neglected to mention to me that we’d be moving. He picked me up from school one day and when we walked into the house, I saw that our belongings had been packed into boxes. We sat down on two boxes facing each other in the living room. He told me that he hadn’t been able to pay for the house and that we’d have to move. He gave me a few minutes to say good-bye to my closest friend in the neighborhood.
A slum apartment complex in a “good” part of town was where we settled. It seemed important to him that I be able to attend school with middle-class kids, and this place was the best he could do in the area. My nine-year-old mind was still reeling from the sudden change when a sewage leak soon disrupted my endeavors to get adjusted to our new home. The raw sewage flooded our basement apartment, destroying or severely damaging everything we owned. The managers of the complex relocated us to another basement apartment on the property, but offered no financial compensation or assistance to my father, who had to trudge through the muck to retrieve what was salvageable. I will never forget having to walk through the brown, stinking, soaked carpet to search for my school backpack. The odor followed me at school the rest of the week.
In our new apartment, we tried to act like it was truly a fresh start, that what had happened to us was a temporary setback, not to be discussed or dwelled upon. Things weren’t much better after we relocated. Dad had tremendous difficulty finding steady work that would allow him to support the both of us. Always a night owl, he mostly held bartending jobs, arriving home in the wee hours smelling like cigarette smoke and sleeping well into the day. After he enrolled in our state’s food assistance program, he would go grocery shopping late at night on his days off. The food stamps had to stretch through the entire month, so protein was scarce in our home. As a teenager, I was so underweight that one of my teachers asked me if I had an eating disorder.
It was around this time that I started to notice the differences between my life and that of my peers. The other girls had professionally styled hair and manicures, seemingly living a carefree existence. My hair, coarse and unruly, often reached the middle of my back because I could not afford a salon haircut. The high school I attended had a diverse student population, so while I was a minority, there were still many other Asian students, but they were middle-class. In fact, they almost seemed more self-assured than anyone else, confident of their college prospects, the wind at their backs. Not only was I not fitting in with most of my peers, I wasn’t fitting in with the Asian kids, either.
It dawned on me that my family had been poor for several years at that point and we were stuck. We were failing to live up to the standard that Chinese families are supposed to achieve. I felt ashamed and hopeless.
My living situation was an obstacle to any semblance of a normal adolescent social life. I remember having a few crushes on boys at school, but most didn’t know what to do with me. I was cute and had a sense of humor, but it was obvious that there was something “off” about me. I had a painful level of self-awareness and knew full well that I couldn’t expect much attention from the opposite sex, or at least, not the kind of attention I wanted. I had a few wonderful, close friends, but could not invite them over to my home. Heating was kept to a minimum in order to save money, and mildew flourished in our damp apartment in the Pacific Northwest climate. The smell permeated the old mattress, my clothes, my schoolbooks. It was inescapable.
In all of this, my father did not seem bothered. We never acknowledged or talked about living in poverty. Rather, Dad seemed to believe that we were temporarily embarrassed middle class people who would see our situation improve with a lottery win or some other miracle.
Eventually, I was old enough to get a job, my own apartment, and attended university through the help of Pell grants and student loans. While landing an entry-level job fresh out of school was difficult, I made my way alongside my college boyfriend, whom I would marry. After landing a well-paying job in local government, I was able to earn an advanced degree. My husband also excelled in his career, and we soon began to enter the middle class. As our salaries progressively increased, we had fewer concerns about buying expensive food or taking vacations. I started to feel like I was leading my life the way that my Chinese grandparents would have expected and I was proud.
When the time came to buy our first home, my husband was all in. On paper, I knew it made good financial sense and I was tired of renting. But our conversations on the topic always raised my heart rate with anxiety rather than enthusiasm. I forced myself to move forward researching mortgage options and lining up the necessary paperwork.
On the evening that we finalized our home purchase, I was overcome with conflicting emotions. There was the sense of pride and accomplishment of finally having my own place. But at the same time, I also realized that my only frame of reference for the concept of homeownership was foreclosure. A home was something to lose, not an asset that provides security and long-term wealth.
Over the years, I have come to realize that I have certain quirks that are born out of the drive to escape my past. Because I was always ashamed of my living conditions, my house is always company-ready. When I donate to a food drive, I only give the absolute best because I don’t want another poor family to have to settle like we did. Determined to never shiver again, I turn up the heat as high as I want in the winter. I visit the dentist on a rigid schedule to make up for the many years of toothaches from neglected cavities. I’ve acknowledged that I’ll likely spend the rest of my life running from the hopelessness and despair of my past.
My chosen profession has led me to a social circle that is overwhelmingly middle and upper-class. In some ways, I fit in, or can at least blend in enough to pass. But I notice the tell-tale signs of someone who has lived comfortably from the time they were born. There are the more obvious, like feeling entitled enough to send a dish back at a restaurant if it isn’t prepared just right. Or taking long vacations that span multiple continents. There is an ever-present element of competition and rivalry.
I feel little nagging twinges when I’m reminded that I’m not one of them. Sometimes, I even feel like an impostor. Most of the people I know exist in a context that I can’t imagine. At the same time, I try to remind myself that I deserve my seat at the table as much as anyone else.
While I believe that those close to me would not judge me for my humble beginnings, I have nonetheless felt very reluctant to speak openly about my background. Lately, I’ve begun to question why. To be sure, my experience growing up put a chip on my shoulder and led to feelings of anger at the world. But I’m also proud that I picked up some valuable adaptation skills along the way. I’m very resourceful because I never had exactly what I needed when I was younger. As an adult, I excel at finding creative workarounds for problems and that ability has served me well in many ways. I was taught the value of hard work by my grandparents, and I know the rewards that follow that level of determination.
Experiencing poverty should not be a source of shame for anyone. Nor should the habits and eccentricities that one picks up as survival mechanisms, even as their financial circumstances improve. As I move through the world today, I try to be more forthcoming about my backstory. Not just that I grew up in poverty, but that the experience has left a lasting impact that influences how I live, make decisions, and view the world. I hope that by talking about it boldly and honestly, others will, too.
Anita Gallagher lives with her husband and cat in Tacoma, Washington. She is a third-generation American of API descent. She holds Bachelor of Arts degrees in Political Science and Criminal Justice/Sociology from Washington State University, and a Master of Business Administration from Colorado State University. Her professional pursuits include government relations and public policy. She is a new writer and publishes work on Medium.