Escape From Poverty

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A modern Pygmalion with twists.
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amyyum
amyyum
1,773 Followers

My apologizes to George Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion."

******************

Unless you've lived it, you have no idea what poverty is like. In that regard I believe that it has things in common with combat – at least that's what one of the few people from my youth that I respect told me. His name is Joe, he is a Vietnam combat vet having fought in the jungle for three years which gave him what I now know is PTSD and ultimately landed him in a wheelchair and living on public assistance. Since Joe knows being both a foot soldier in war and poverty I'll take his word for it that they are similar in both your inability to significantly control your circumstances, and how they mess up your mind.

My life in poverty – although I could never express it in these terms when I lived it – was a life of subservience. I had to depend on others to survive, whether it be the charity of others or hand-outs from the government. Living in subservience preys on your mind more every day. Unless you are an unusual or gifted person, over time living in subservience saps you of both initiative and hope. It is especially hard for a woman, like me, born Charlotte Grimes, since males in poverty often take out their frustrations on the women similarly situated – certainly in my case that was true.

I had it especially bad while in poverty because I have a pretty face and silky hair, and a slim figure with medium sized boobs. While those characteristics can help get one out of poverty – if you can avoid prostitution – they are a detriment when in it because you become a target of all of the frustrated hormonal men living in the same general squalor that you do.

The first time that I was sexually assaulted, two days after my eighteenth birthday, only serendipity saved me. While I fought hard it was a losing battle, but then for only the first time in a week a squad car came into our neighborhood with sirens blaring and my tormentor got scared and left, after smacking me good. I vowed that it would never happen again.

Joe and one teacher in High School – more about her later – were the only two people that I could ever get any worthwhile advice from. My mother became a whore to survive and lacked any common sense or judgment. My father – or so I am told – left when I was three or four, which from what I've heard about him was actually good news for me.

One of the few talents I recognized while growing up was the ability to do a good job in cutting anything with scissors – hair, dress patterns, and paper for the few school projects the pathetic, usually non-challenging schools that I went to, required. I hinted at the attack when I talked with Joe on the front porch of the tenement he lived in while I was cutting his hair – he was one of my barber "clients," and the only one who actually paid me something from his Welfare check. I only hinted at it because despite being confined to a wheelchair I knew that Joe would go after the perp and probably end up dead.

"Hey Charlotte," he was the only one to call me by my full name instead of just "Char," he said with a raised eyebrow. "You'd tell me if anyone tried to do that to you, wouldn't you, so that I could skin the fucker alive."

"Hey Joe, I know that you've got my back. But I really need to be able to defend myself. Got a suggestion?" I replied as nonchalantly as I could while trying not to cut his reddened ears along with his gray hair.

"I could teach you how to use a knife; do you have one?" he asked after a heavy sigh.

"No, I don't; just these scissors," I replied while snipping away.

"When you're done turning me into a good-looking guy, let's go inside and I'll give you one," was his upbeat response.

I don't know where Joe got the knife that he gave me – it was, according to him, the best one for me of the three different types that he owned. It was clearly not Vietnam vintage; he called it an "S30V." It was all black with a sharp point and a partially serrated edge, blade length 3.5 inches, a use length of eight inches, and a folded length of 4.5 inches. It weighed less than three ounces.

Joe taught me how to open the knife with one hand, the myriad of ways to hold it depending upon the circumstances and the type of damage you needed to do with it, the different types of slashing and thrusting movements, and how to properly conceal it yet have it ready for instant access. After a few weeks of working with Joe every other day or so he said that I was "Real good" with it; and I was confident.

When two guys jumped me about three weeks after I finished my lessons with Joe, they both left with serious – though not life-threatening – wounds. I made them both understand that if they tried to sexually assault me again I'd kill them – and I meant it. The word got out and no one bothered me again. However, I had to always carry the knife with me as a credible threat – which included to school.

Even though I was six months over eighteen years old, since I had a late birthday and had been held back for poor performance once (I "flunked" seventh grade) I was only a sophomore in High School. I got caught with the knife at High School, refused to give it up, and was expelled and reported to the police.

I told my whore of a mother that I would be at Joe's and that the cops could find me there. Both of the cops who showed up had fathers who were Vietnam Vets and they knew and liked Joe. He talked them out of arresting me and explained – I don't know how much of it was bullshit – to them that the knife was perfectly legal and that I had been molested in the past and needed it to defend myself. They gave me a warning and told me never to go near the school with it – of course since I had been expelled I wouldn't be anyway.

The only person at school who seemed to care that I was gone was Ms. Brooks, a teacher that I had for two years of English. She took a genuine liking to me, thought that – especially considering my background – I could communicate well and had a chance to succeed in life. She gave me all sorts of practical advice that most people in normal families would likely know by the time that they were ten, but that I didn't. One of the most important things she told me was that "Everyone has Opportunity knock on their door once in their life. You not only have to answer the door and invite it in but leave with it, and ride that one chance for everything that you can!"

After I was expelled Ms. Brooks came to my house and told me that was just a minor setback, and that I would get my chance in life and that she "expected" me to succeed. I had my doubts, especially since no one wanted to hire a High School drop-out – except to wash dishes, which I ended up doing at a medium-priced Italian joint, Giodona's, a two mile walk from my house.

******************

I met my future husband Matt at Giodona's. Like me he was a low-skilled part of the kitchen staff. Also like me, he had lived in poverty during his life. What attracted me to him initially was that he was friendlier than the other guys I knew and had a decent sense of humor – poverty had not completely beaten him down.

Once I was convinced – as convinced as I could be without getting expensive testing – that Matt was disease free I fucked him. The first two times was with a condom, but condoms cost money and aren't as much fun, so after that it was bareback but taking into account my cycle, one of the few worthwhile things that I did learn about in school.

Sex with Matt was not a Fourth-of-July fireworks display, tsunami, or earthquake type of event. It was nice – primarily because it allowed a temporary mental escape from the effects of poverty – but certainly never curled my toes. I had had only two other, short-term, partners by the time that I met Matt, and all three seemed to be primarily interested in getting their rocks off as soon as possible. I enjoyed it – but it certainly wasn't the earth-moving experience I had seen in movies or read about in books available in Ms. Brooks' English class, such as "Wilde Thing." I read that book before the principal pulled it out of her classroom saying that it was inappropriate for teens, even though I was over eighteen.

Matt asked me to marry him when I was nineteen, and even though I didn't feel what I had read about as "true love" for him, I hoped that marriage would at least be a respite from poverty, believing in the old saying that "two can live as cheaply as one." We got married before a justice of the peace at City Hall, with Ms. Brooks as my witness, and Matt's best friend as his.

Only after we got married, and I lost my job at Giodano's, did Matt reveal to me his brilliant "financial plan." "Hey, Char, if we have a kid then we can get more public assistance." I actually think that he thought that we could pull ourselves out of poverty by me getting pregnant. I was too stupid and desperate at the time to realize what bullshit that was and went along with it, and I was pregnant within about six weeks after I lost my job. Fortunately Matt was still working at that time, although for minimum wage, and we got Medicaid and food stamps, as well as rent assistance for our squalid apartment.

Some women are said to "glow" during pregnancy. Maybe if you have perfect pre-natal care, work with a trainer, and can afford all of the best foods, you glow. However given my situation during pregnancy I more "dimmed" than "glowed." I had a difficult time and felt fat and dumpy. It didn't help that Matt lost all interest in sex with me after the sixth month.

I was thrilled when my little girl Lisa was born, however. Lisa had all the necessary parts, was really cute, and we bonded instantly. It was difficult to care for her, however, given our poor financial situation and lack of any helpful family members. I don't know if it was because of that, or hormones, or both, but I developed what I later learned was postpartum depression.

My situation got desperate when Lisa was about three months old when I found out that Ms. Brooks had been killed by a stray bullet as she was leaving school in a drive-by shooting between two rival gang members.

Matt had no empathy for my situation. He did little to help with Lisa, couldn't understand why I was getting so upset about "some teacher" being killed, and had already started pressuring me to have another kid to help fulfil his genius financial plan.

The state of mind that I was in one Thursday when I was in the midst of my postpartum depression was likely the worst of my life. I was grieving over Ms. Brooks' death, and Matt and I had had another fight about me getting pregnant again, and I had no hope for the future. I despaired.

I tried to snap out of it – not realizing that it is impossible to "snap out" of depression – by doing about the only thing that gave me joy; taking Lisa on a walk to a park in an upscale neighborhood about three miles away from my dilapidated apartment. I had a used stroller that Joe had given me that was entirely functional and after I nursed Lisa we set off on our journey.

Unfortunately, the trip to the park not only didn't help my mood, it darkened it. I saw other kids happily playing, with their joyous parents nearby chatting each other up, and I realized that my child would likely never be able to enjoy the carefreeness of youth since her every day would be a struggle to survive – just like it had been for me. With tears in my eyes I walked over to the elevated bank of the river that defined the western boundary of the park with Lisa in my arms. I do believe that most likely I would have jumped in and both of us would have drowned, since I didn't know how to swim and of course Lisa would be helpless. I was stopped by a hand on my arm.

I turned to look who was holding my arm and saw a well dressed woman with perfectly coiffed hair and expertly applied makeup, likely in her fifties. It was clear that she was one of the "haves," and a classy one at that.

"Miss, you look so forlorn," she said in a kind and pleasing voice. "Is there something that I can do to help?"

There was something about her face that made me trust her; maybe because she was an older better-heeled version of Ms. Brooks.

I tried to mouth something. No words came out. I started bawling and shaking. She led me over to a nearby bench and sat down with me.

"My name is Emma; what's yours?" she gently said as she held my arm with one of her hands, and stroked Lisa's head with the other.

"Char-o-lette," I was finally able to utter through my tears.

"And who is this darling little creature?" she asked with a big smile as she lightly pinched Lisa's cheek.

"L-L-L-isa," I stammered, trying as best I could to pull myself together.

She looked stunned for a second, then recovered. "I used to have a daughter who looked very much like you do, and a little granddaughter as cute as Lisa, but they were killed in a car crash. My heart is heavy with their loss, but you would really help me if you would let me help you. Tell me what's bothering you," she said in a sad but genuine tone.

Somehow hearing her sad tale, and sensing real compassion in her voice, I was able to pull myself together. Within a few minutes I was telling her about my despair, opening up to her like I never had before to anyone else, including Joe and Ms. Brooks. As I related one desperate circumstance after the other she held my hand and lightly stroked it. She was a really good listener, saying little, always making eye contact, and when she did speak it was with obvious understanding – as much understanding as someone who had never lived in poverty herself could have, anyway.

Once I had finished my tale of woe Emma smiled. "I think that one thing that you need is a good meal. Would you let me treat you to lunch at my house? I'll drive you back to yours when we're done."

"I-I-uh, don't want to impose," I stammered.

"I would really like you to – it would make me feel better and allow me some more time with your beautiful little girl," she replied with a big smile.

"OK, I guess; thanks;" I replied.

I put Lisa in her stroller, Emma walked next to us as she directed me toward the parking lot, and when we got there she led us up to a big fancy car with a guy in a uniform standing next to it who kindly said "I see that you have some friends Mrs. Williams."

"Yes, John," she replied in a sing-song voice, "Charlotte and Lisa will be joining us for lunch.

I had no idea what kind of car it was. I was trying to figure it out as John folded up my stroller and put it in the trunk and then opened up one of the back doors for Emma, Lisa and me to enter. It had a fancy silver hood ornament of a winged lady. The interior was ornate, with plush leather seats and wood trim on the doors and barrier between the driver John and the three of us. It was all that I could do to not ooh and aah, but Emma helped me out by making small talk and asking me what types of food that I would like for lunch.

When the car turned into a driveway, past an automatically opening gate, I thought that it was some sort of fancy restaurant or country club. In fact, it was Emma's house. Make that mansion; the first that I had ever seen except in photographs. I no longer could contain my wonder as my eyes bugged out of my head and I involuntary uttered "Whoaaaa!"

"Don't be overwhelmed, Charlotte," Emma said as John opened the door and first Emma, then Lisa and I, exited. "It is just a house – bigger than most but nothing to be stunned by."

I was too flabbergasted to respond.

We made our way through the foyer – which was significantly bigger than the apartment that I lived in – to the kitchen where we were greeted by Maria, the cook, a friendly, portly Hispanic woman in her forties. Maria made a big fuss over Lisa, which caused me to think that she couldn't be all bad even though everything I had been taught about Hispanics was negative. White trash had to feel superior to someone.

"Maria, let's have something for lunch that will be good for a nursing mother. What do you think?" Emma said.

"I've got just the thing," Maria replied in virtually unaccented English; "we have lean roast beef sandwiches on whole grain oat bread with lettuce and low fat mayonnaise, a brown rice pilaf with mushrooms and oranges, and then fresh blueberries in low fat yogurt for desert."

"Sounds yummy as well as healthy, doesn't it?" Emma chuckled as she turned toward me.

Since I had never heard of "pilaf" and couldn't remember ever having had roast beef, or yogurt with fresh fruit in it, before, I decided to just say "Sure does," and see how it came out.

Emma and I sat on the pool deck sipping lemonade as we waited for lunch to be served. When Maria told us it was ready Emma asked me "You don't mind eating in the kitchen, do you?"

"Where else do you eat?" flashed through my mind, but there was no way I was going to be a smart ass so I said "That would be really nice." By this time I had concluded that this was the "Opportunity knocking" that Ms. Brooks had told me about, and I was going to do everything possible to ride it as far as I could.

I couldn't fucking believe how good the food tasted. It likely was the best meal that I had ever had in my life, and here it was just lunch for Emma. I was a little embarrassed by the sly smiles Emma gave me when watching me eat – I'm sure that she had never seen anyone inhale food so quickly. Maria was very pleased that I clearly loved the food and had a healthy appetite, and even after I ate two sandwiches, two bowls of that pilaf stuff, and another two bowls of yogurt and blueberries, she still offered me more.

"No thank you," I replied – even though I could have eaten more. "I'm sorry to scarf it down like that, but it was clearly the best meal that I've ever had."

That elicited a hug from Maria and a chuckle from Emma.

Lisa started making noises like it was her turn, and we went back onto the pool deck in the shade while I nursed her and chatted with Emma.

Emma had a way of drawing information out of me – she could have been a good prosecutor. Feeling full and having Lisa sucking on me while I sat in a chaise lounge I honestly answered every question Emma had.

"You need to be on birth control pills, and you need some counselling for your depression," Emma forthrightly said once Lisa had her fill and Emma was enjoying herself burping Lisa.

"I'm sure that you're right, Emma," I replied with a great deal of embarrassment, "but Matt wouldn't allow the first, and I don't have money for either, anyhow."

"Let me make a call," Emma responded, handing a cooing Lisa back to me. "Finish your lemonade – I'll be right back."

Emma returned five minutes later to find both Lisa and me with our feet in the pool, and Lisa gurgling happy sounds. I thought I saw a tear in Emma's eye when she saw us, but if it was there she quickly recovered and said "I'll have John pick you up at your house tomorrow at ten in the morning and bring you back. My concierge doctor will be here when you arrive, along with a specialist from his office, and we'll see what he can do to help."

I thought that a "concierge" doctor was someone like an OB/GYN, never having hear the term before, but didn't want to show my ignorance by asking.

"Emma – you really are too nice to me. I-I-uh, I don't want to impose on your hospitality," I hesitantly replied.

"I want you and your darling little girl to be in front of your apartment building at 9:45 tomorrow morning – don't be late. I won't hear of you not showing up. You're helping me as much as I'm helping you. Plus, don't you want another of Maria's lunches?" Emma responded with a big, warm smile.

I know that my eyes lit up at that. "Thank you," was all that I could get out, getting slightly choked up.

I rode in the front seat with John back to my house – he had installed a baby seat in the back. "Where did you get the baby seat?" I asked him, fortunately after Emma had given me a hug goodbye and we had vacated the area.

amyyum
amyyum
1,773 Followers