Owning My Story

When I was a kid, we had very little money.  My dad abandoned our family.  My mom had four kids.  She worked hard and stretched dollars.  We drank powdered milk.  We had no sleepovers.  We wore second-hand coats that the Salvation Army delivered to us in the winter.  My sister hated wearing those coats, someone else's name inscribed in black marker on the collar, like a scarlet letter.

By the time I reached high school, I knew we had less than others.  I lived in a poor neighborhood.  I walked to school.  I didn't have spending money.

And to top it all off, my mom was a massage therapist.

In those days, massage was also a code word for prostitution. There were no day spas for the ladies who lunch, with tattooed massage therapists and clove-scented towels.  There were massage parlors and there were medical massage therapists.  And both were called "masseuses."  My mom was NOT the prostitute variety.  She was a registered massage therapist, giving massages in a clinic owned by a doctor.

But that didn't stop people from snickering when I said that my mom was a massage therapist. 

Shame walked with the little-girl me.

I became very good at covering up my life.  I didn't say Pine Hills.  I didn't say massage therapist.  I didn't say divorced parents.  I didn't say poor.  I didn't say stepfather.  I said west Orlando, physical therapist, my dad.

I thought I should make my life more "normal."

Much later, a grown-up me went to a friend's book club one summer night.  This was maybe a year after my son was diagnosed with autism.  My friend wanted to give me an oxygen mask, help me get out a little.  Her book club ladies were really lovely.  Open, friendly, expansive.

Except one woman who had a moment.  It turns out she was from Florida, so naturally we asked each other which part.  Orlando? Both of us? Cool.

Her: Which part of Orlando?
Me, vaguely: The west side.
Her, persistent: Like where?
Me, pausing: .... You know Rosemont?

Rosemont, at the time we grew up, was a new, wealthier, nicely manicured neighborhood, right next to Pine Hills.

But by then she smelled weakness.

Her: Which school did you go to?

Well, there was no way around this one, but I was proud of my academic success.

Me: Evans.

There it was out.  Evans was smack in the middle of Pine Hills, clearly establishing my class.

Her, smirking: Oh, you went to Evans.
Me, looking for an exit: Where did you go to school?

I honestly don't remember what she said.  It was definitely higher status and she let me know it.  Someone else approached us.

Innocent stranger: Oh, are you both from Orlando?
Her: No, she's from Pine Hills.

Seriously?  A grown woman was making fun of me for growing up poor?

That's when I had to sit down and think about this.  There is no shame in growing up poor, fatherless, working class.  The end.  Without me explaining or adding anything else, no other biases of class, intelligence, education, or sophistication should be assumed.

And yet, it's done all the time.

My mom was an excellent massage therapist who thrived in her job.  She was creative.  She was an artist who painted oils, drew pastel portraits in her spare time.  She made a Japanese-style table out of an old door, complete with floor cushions, painted oil drums black and turned them into side tables, sewed faux snakeskin curtains, painted the windowsills black, and hung black beads in the doorway.  It was a happening scene.  She sewed our clothes and taught us how.  She lived through the birth of five children, the death of my six-month-old sister, and my dad leaving us.  She owned a house at a time we could have been homeless. 

Our circumstances were tough, but not shameful.

This is about me owning my story.  This is my story.

It's an honest story.  Proud, strong, determined. 

Feel no shame, little-girl me.  
 
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