When You Are Poor, Playing Ms. Pac-Man Is a Luxury
The resiliency of growing up poor
“That’ll be $23.54,” the clerk says. I look down at my knock-off Ked shoes. I’m 9 years old. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I wonder if my mom notices my reaction as she pulls out, not dollar bills, but food stamps. I wonder if she’ll be angry with me for being embarrassed.
A boy from my class at school stands in line right behind us. I want to shrink into the floor and disappear. No one else pays with food stamps. I am humiliated, ashamed. Being poor means I will never fit in at the wealthy elementary school that I attend. It’s the 1980s.
In the 1980s, 13–15.2% of the population lived below the federal poverty level in the U.S.
Many of us in the United States grew up poor. Many grow up poor now. Many adults risk living in poverty. In May 2019, half of all Americans were only one paycheck away from a financial crisis.
“Racial and ethnic minorities are more likely than non-minority groups to experience poverty at some point in their lives. In addition, children from families that receive welfare assistance are 3 times more likely to use welfare benefits when they become adults than children from families who do not receive welfare. Studies also report that migrant status is a risk factor for poverty.” US Office of Disease Prevention and Health Promotion
Poverty presents itself in different ways. Some live on the streets. Others only have a car as a home. Some work multiple jobs to make ends meet. Some live in shelters. Others cannot pay all the bills. Some depend on schools and churches for nourishment.
One part of my growing up poor meant I had generic clothes instead of the designer brands that my classmates wore. One day, my mom and I walked 2 miles to the mall to buy a special pair of pants for me to wear on a television interview with my dad.
My mom and dad divorced when I was five years old. My mom has depression and anxiety, which, at this point, made it near impossible for her to find a job. My dad wasn’t raking in big bucks as a disability rights advocate. They did not see eye-to-eye about finances, putting further strain on co-raising a child.
I lived with my mom for the bulk of my growing up. This meant that I lived in a financially unstable environment with a mother doing her best, but who hadn’t worked through many of her issues. As a first-generation college student, she earned a degree in Anthropology. What exactly do you do with that degree? I’m not sure.
My mom did her best to put one foot in front of the other. As someone who also deals with mental health issues, I empathize. As a child, it was sometimes a scary situation.
I loved the blue floral print on the white pants that came from the mall. I felt fancy walking into the interview, wearing those pants. My dad commented he didn’t like the design. I don’t think he knew how hard I had worked to get this particular pair of pants to wear on TV with him. He didn’t know how much my mom had gone out of her way to get me something special. I felt caught in the middle of a never-ending fight.
My dad has a visible disability. Children often called him a retard to my face, but behind his back. His mental capacity is perfectly intact — he has a Ph.D. in History, has written books, taught college, among many other accomplishments. My dad was not a complete person to my classmates. He was less than. He was not normal. And, therefore, neither was I. It was a difficult burden to bear.
Humiliation piled on my shoulders. No wonder I walked with my eyes cast downward, my self-esteem plummeting before it had much of a chance to grow.
At this time, at this school, in the 80s — most families were still intact. I was the kid from the broken family. I was the kid whose dad used a wheelchair. I was the kid whose mom was poor. The girl who didn’t know how to wear cute clothes or do her hair like everyone else.
I lived in the Bible Belt — in Oklahoma — with lots of white kids who looked like each other. Although I am white, I did not look like the other kids. My hair is a frizzy-wavy shoulder-length brown. My nose is crooked. My chin points out. I have a definite eastern-European look that these kids found “un-American.” One of the girls pointed this out in the bathroom one day. Another blow to my self-esteem. In kindergarten. I am half-Jewish.
At my mom’s, we didn’t have a washing machine or a dryer, so my mom and I would spend weekly trips doing laundry. I did not enjoy the details of washing up, but somehow my mom scrounged up quarters for me to play Ms. Pac-Man and pinball, adding an element of fun to the chore.
These arcade games allowed me a temporary solace from reality. They gave me moments of feeling in control, with happy sounds and bright lights — dopamine hits for my brain. Playing games was an escape and a luxury.
My mom and I lived in a rented house on a dead-end street. It was embarrassing to have my friends over. Their bigger houses loomed large, located in better parts of town. I had friends with two-story houses and swimming pools. They would judge my small house — and me — I feared. By high school, I had gotten comfortable inviting them over, but mostly we went to their houses.
My mom and I were, in a literal way, poor. We ate TV dinners, hotdogs with mac & cheese, and I often looked in cupboards that I found bare. This meant there weren’t lots of the grab-and-go snacks I preferred. There were window units instead of central heat and air. There was a wall furnace that we warmed our bums on each chilly winter. In other ways, we were wealthy. We experienced friendship, kindness, and anonymous angels who made our situation easier to bear.
Sometimes, we’d receive an anonymous envelope in the mailbox with cash inside. Maybe it meant we could buy enough groceries or pay the rent in full. My mom didn’t tell me a lot about her financial worries.
Eventually, my mom worked through counseling. She became more stable. She received assistance and support from a local government-funded program that helped her to re-enter the workforce through practical skills and an internship at the YWCA.
She ended up with a Master’s degree in Human Relations and a stable job as an academic adviser at our local university. She retired from that job not long ago, after 22 years working there.
Those of us who experienced a level of poverty growing up often come through it with greater resilience than our wealthier peers. For the smaller things in life, we are grateful. We know that good relationships, empathy, and generosity are more meaningful than money.
Growing up, I experienced the kindness of strangers. As adults who have come through the experience of growing up poor, we are more likely to pay that kindness forward. Our empathy muscle is strong. In this way, people who have come from high financial stability may benefit from working on becoming kinder and empathetic; to mindfully exercise that muscle.
When you are poor, playing Ms. Pac-Man is a luxury. You are often generous, empathetic, and resilient. Embrace these positive traits and know that you are wealthier than you realize. None of us know what tomorrow’s circumstances will bring. On those tomorrows, any one of us may be surviving on the love and kindness of strangers.
