My Childhood: Memories from Living a Life of Poverty

Poverty. 

The way a child views poverty is filled with faith - uncomplicated, simple faith.

After dad died, it was…rough.

I always knew we struggled financially but after the death of my father we struggled even more. I knew I wouldn’t get the things I wanted. It would be what I needed. Most of the time I was ok with that because I loved my family and my family loved me.

Love. 

I can feel that emotion, ‘love,’ very strongly even now.

We received monthly social security checks and food stamps. A family of 3 living off of less than $15,000/year. Most of our income went toward bills and paying off debt. And then $120-150/month in food stamps.

Food.

My mother always tried her best to stretch ingredients but oftentimes our meals were small and…whatever we could find. We would go to the local DCF every month and pick up our box of canned and boxed goods to supplement what we were able to buy with the food stamps. It was the cheapest of cheap foods. Sometimes dinners consisted of canned corn with mashed potatoes from a box. If I was feeling brave, I would cook up the canned salmon. Not sure to this day if it was really salmon...

I remember times when my sister and I would look around the house for loose change to buy a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk.

At the age of 10, I was worried about how and what we were going to eat.

I remember looking forward to school breakfasts and lunches but pretending to dislike it because I didn't want anyone to know I enjoyed it and didn’t have a filling meal the night before. 

Then there were days where we wondered how we would pay rent. Will we be homeless? Where will we live? Will family let us stay with them?

You may be thinking, “did you ask for help?” Sometimes. But we didn't want to ask because it was burdensome, embarrassing and shameful. 

It’s not, of course, but we thought that’s what people would think of us: burdensome, embarrassing and shameful.

I remember mummi washing our clothes in the bathtub and hanging it out to dry on the line. It had that outside smell - it didn’t smell fresh and clean like the other kids’ clothing. Sometimes we just wore the same clothes without washing it and made sure to wear it the next week so we weren’t picked on at school (kids can be cruel). 

I vividly remember standing before the Christmas tree and praying Santa would remember how good of a girl I had been. 

I would spill all of my wants to him: a bicycle; new clothes but just enough to get me through the week, it didn’t have to be too much, it never had to be too much; new shoes but just a couple;  a cool backpack; more money, maybe we could win the lottery somehow? and we would totally help other people in need we wouldn’t just keep it to ourselves; a new car or something we didn’t have to repair all the time because that costs money; all of the Indian ingredients and Indian things my mom could ever possibly want.

The list was long. A lot of it practical that benefited the family as a whole. 

I would always hope he would deliver and deliver well. I knew he wasn’t real but I wanted him to be real on Christmas day.

I remember having a lot of anger and bitterness that began around the age of 11. I would randomly start crying at school and need to talk with a counselor but didn't know what to say or how to say it.  I wanted to ask why. Why us? Why did he have to die? Why do we have to grow up so quickly? Why do I have to worry about adult things?  Why don't people help us (not many knew how desperate our situation was)? Why? It was like that little child that was always asking 'why' but never out loud only internally. Those unanswered 'why's' brewing in my heart and mind for years. Never talking about my emotions to anyone. Only internal dialogue. (Eventually I talked about it. Eventually the anger and bitterness turned into peace and forgiveness - for myself and others).

I remember I looked forward to school and church just to have a break from having to think about all of the problems we had at home and what was going on in my mind. 

We didn't have an earthly father but we did have a heavenly Father who took care of us. Whether it was through our family, friends, church, strangers and/or anonymous, our basic needs were provided for: food and shelter. 

When the question, "how are we gonna get through this month?" came up, at the last possible moment when we were at the very end of the rope, hopeless, God provided for us.

Always. I cannot remember a time where we went COMPLETELY without food or shelter. 

Our child-like faith was difficult to shake. 

Our dependence on one another and God grew into a love so deep that it became rooted into our core. Our soul. Our very being. 

My sister and I have talked about how we would not be the resilient, strong women we are today if we had not gone through what we did. We would not have the bond we have if we did not go through what we did.

The past is where we look to for strength in troubles we face nowadays. 

My sister.

What a beautiful soul. She endured so much. She has graciously allowed me to write about her. Here is a very small glimpse into her life at the time:

Not only did my sister have to return to school she also had to find a job (she had recently turned 16). She became: mother, father, daughter, sister, provider, teacher, mentor, money manager…let’s just say she was pretty much super woman.

Of what I remember, she did all of the dirty work. She took care of everything. In the beginning, when the situation was the worst we could imagine we didn’t know because she didn’t want us to worry.  

She took the worry upon herself. 

There are still things I find out to this day I didn’t know back then.

After graduating from high school, she worked part time, and went to school and took care of her mother and sister full time. Unfortunately, there were car problems and no extra money to fix it. So she had to drop out of school. She sacrificed her own desires, her FREEDOM, putting it on hold to take care of us. 

Her family. 

I remember her telling me that it was ok. She would go back to school eventually. That it would be best for us if she worked full time. Family was most important. Always.

That I better go to college, graduate, become rich and take care of her one day (that’s still in the works ;)). 

That’s the kind of person she is.

Selfless. 

If you're reading this and know her, do me a favor? Please give her a hug, high five, a card, send her a message, anything to show your appreciation of her because she is truly someone who deserves it :) 

When I think about living a life of poverty at a young age I remember not worrying but rather having simple faith. I remember wanting safety and security for my family and I. Not material things. I wanted us to love each other and for us to be happy where we were and with what we had. Not be sad because we lacked. I remember these things and hope I will hold fast to those same views throughout my adult life.

My Childhood: Death of a Patriarch

(I've been thinking about this for a while. Thinking about whether or not I should write about my childhood/life. Then whether or not I should write about it in my blog. It's one thing to write about my life in a journal. It's another if I write about it for the world to see. We all have stories of life to share that can help one another - good and bad. 

I've also been thinking about how this could bring about complete healing from my past. I often appreciate people's authenticity, honesty and openness and how it must give them some kind of freedom from their struggles - past or present. I know it has for me.)

Let's visit my 5 or 6 year old self and start from there. I felt like a victim for a long time, well into my young 20s. I think it's ok for a child to behave as such but only for so long. There must be healing and closing a chapter on life and moving forward. Please keep in mind I am remembering these memories from a young age and interpreting it as such - now that I am older, a little wiser and more mature, I interpret it to mean something much greater and cohesive and purposeful. 

Little Bela was a tom boy who loved to play outside, invent games, laugh, beat up boys and then use the excuse "I'm a girl so you can't hit me," be an annoying little sister, tell on people, and pretend to be sleeping so my puppa would pick me up and tuck me into bed all the while my sister glaring at me and telling him "she's not asleep." Those were some good memories. The years between 0-9 were some good, innocent, childhood memories (and some not so great - it wasn't perfect) that I cherish and hold fast to because my childhood ended abruptly.

Tragedy happened and my sister and I grew up very quickly at the tender ages of 10 and 15. My father died at the young age of 51 from a massive heart attack. The story: he went on a walk with his brother to our small town lake. He told my uncle he was tired and needed to sit down. They sat on a bench on the lake and he rested his head on his shoulder. My uncle thought he fell asleep and when he nudged him he realized my father wasn't sleeping. (We revisit that bench at the lake sometimes).

He was unconscious for a long time for a man who had had a heart attack, 15-30 minutes maybe, with no intervention. So he had anoxic brain injury, kept alive via ventilators. At the age of 10 and 15 we became adults. More responsibility was placed on my sister since she was older.

I remember going into Shands (where I eventually ended up working as an RN) and seeing his body lying lifeless on the hospital bed, talking to him hoping he could hear my voice, holding his hand. Looking at the tubes attached to his body. I remember the smells - like a hospital, can't quite describe it but just that it was unfamiliar and not pleasant. I didn't understand that this was it for him. There was hope in me that he would wake up and whisper my name, "Belu, I'm ok. I'm here."

I remember my mummi couldn't process what had happened so the support of strong family members came to our side. He was kept on the ventilator and other life-sustaining drugs/methods so family could fly in and say their final goodbyes. I remember sitting at THE TABLE. The Table was where my sister, mom and I sat along with a couple of doctors and a few of our family members and we sat around and talked about the future. The future being, "to pull the plug or not pull the plug." The doctors were sensitive to my questions, "can he still hear me when I talk? Can I say goodbye?" With sensitivity and knowing I was a young child looking for the answer "yes," they said, "yes." At such young ages we were deciding the fate of our puppa (with the help of family). I went to his bedside, caressed his forehead, talked with him and told him how much I had loved him, said my goodbye, and found out early morning the next day he died.

A shock wave. More like, unbelief. It was surreal. Was he really...dead? Maybe he left the hospital and was actually part of a secret mission and all of it was pretend? He was going to come back even if it took years.

Thoughts from a 10yo. I definitely had those thoughts well into my teen years.

The funeral. So many people came. I don't really remember that day too well. There are two vivid memories I have: pulling the lever up with my sister to have his body burned and turned into ashes - officially saying goodbye forever - and sitting in my cousin's car and asking "when I get married, who will walk me down the aisle?" (That question has since been answered ;)).

There is a picture of us and our family members who came down sitting around in the living room. All of our expressions...blank. Mostly staring. Not really looking anywhere.

Questions: Family: how are we going to move forward? who will take care of them?
                  Child: how am I going to go back to school? What will I tell my friends? Will I be able to
                             go on the trip to Washington D.C.?

Details I don't remember too well.

What happened after isn't so great. Memories not so wonderful. My mummi lost someone she loved and depended on tremendously. Her mind and body could not handle the mental trauma so her functioning came to an all time low. We went to stay with family for a few months (probably the most difficult memories that caused a lot of anger and bitterness to well up within me because it was something that no child should go through after losing a parent which have, thankfully, been forgiven and mended). Different family members stayed with us for months. Each helping us significantly in their own ways like when my sister told me that our uncle really helped her out by guiding her through our parents' finances and how to handle it all.

Then it kind of died down from there. If you have been through a loss you know what I mean. A lot of support in the beginning and then it trails off either little by little or all of a sudden. Which just means getting back to life. Moving forward.

Trying to close that chapter and begin the next one.