I’ve been seeing in the news and reading, too, how our politicians are trying to get votes by claiming to be poor. First we have Hillary Clinton writing about how she came out of the White House broke, then some other dill-head (Joe Biden) talking about how he’s the poorest member of Congress – and the list goes on, growing, I am sure as more and more politicians leap on the bandwagon before it passes by.
But the truth is these people haven’t a clue what truly poor is. They can’t talk to me about it not until they’ve lived the life of the poor, when they’ve been there . . .
I’m talking about living in a cardboard box, or walking past a Denny’s at night – seeing all the diners within, and smelling the bacon . . .
That’s what nearly broke me. I’d been three days without eating (and was on my fourth) – walking past that big row of Denny’s windows, watching the diners inside – pushing away their plates half loaded with food . . .
and then the waft of smell . . . of bacon.
and me without a penny to my name, and no prospects of getting one.
They can talk to me when they’ve lived like I do: on a stipend of $1,132 a month (for my services to the government, and being a long paying taxpayer). Or when they’ve gone 6 months living in a roach motel with four other friends (two of them children), sleeping on the rug because the children got the bed, and using sideways boxes for drawers . . .
living with the roaches running over your head at midnight . . .
having to steal food to feed them kids (not mine).
But at least I was honest enough not to steal any for ourselves (the grownups).
When the politician can look me in the eye and honestly say yes, he had to resort to stealing food to feed his children (but not himself), then I might start to listen to him.
When they can tell me the surprise you get when you find out you’re too poor to file for bankruptcy (as I did) – facing a $10,000 lawsuit, no car, no job . . . no home (all for a wreck in which my insurance had lapsed, but I didn’t know tho’ the agent assured me it was good when I had called them . . .)
When the lawyer cuts you a break on the cost . . . though you have to fill out all the paperwork, which consists mostly of page sized “X’s” because you have no assets, nor bank accounts . . .
When the judge looks at you and says:
“It says here, son, that you got nuthin’ but the clothes on your back and three dollars and seventy five cents in your pocket . . .”
Then you can come to talk to me about being poor.
Politicians. All full of answers for someone, but mostly their answers are for them, not us.
~ signed ‘me’, once upon a time one of those working poor you’re always trying to identify with.