My Kids Might Not Remember Receiving Public Assistance, but I Do
Parents are constantly shamed for their choices. From how we feed our children to how we educate them, everyone has an opinion. The result? Moms and dads feel endlessly judged for the choices they make — even if they have no other options. This week, families around the country are sharing their inspiring, funny, honest, and heartbreaking stories with Yahoo Parenting in an effort to spark conversations, a little compassion, and change in the way we think about parenting forever. Share your story with us — #NoShameParenting.
“Young lady, you can’t buy the diapers and detergent with these,” the grocery store cashier yelled as I unloaded my cart onto the conveyer belt. “What are you trying to pull?”
“I know that,” I snapped back. “I do have some money.” Each shopping trip was a similar experience. The store and the name tag changed, but the attitude rarely did.
STORY: How It Feels to Be a Kid on Welfare
Even today, 18 years later, when I pass by an “EBT accepted here” sign in a store window, I flash back to the days when going food shopping meant assuming a temporary personality: a mom of an infant and a toddler with thicker skin and no tolerance for BS. Back in the ‘90s, getting welfare — what some called “free money” and “handouts” — was a full-time job for me. I had to hold my head high and act like being treated as an undesirable member of society didn’t bother me. But it hurt like hell.
STORY: More U.S. Children Are Living in Poverty Than During the Great Recession
In my early 20s, when I was married and pregnant with my first child, I had a vague understanding of welfare. However, I never thought I would end up receiving benefits because we couldn’t afford the cost of the hospital where I gave birth. I didn’t have health insurance because, while newly pregnant, I was laid off from my full-time job as a receptionist. My husband worked as a waiter, so I qualified for California’s state-funded medical insurance program, Medi-Cal.
When our son was 6 months old, my husband and I separated and I didn’t receive child support. So, my Medi-Cal caseworker encouraged me to apply for cash aid and food stamps.
I spent the following year standing in lines in overcrowded doctor’s offices for low-income patients and working at a childcare center (where my toddler was enrolled) at the community college I attended for a reduced rate.
I also began a relationship with a new man, and we had a child together. My boyfriend worked intermittently until he landed a full-time job as a deliveryman, and the four of us lived in the back of a small, two-bedroom duplex.
My mother lived down the street from the shopping center, and Sunday after church was her special time with her grandsons. That allowed me extra time to go food shopping, purchasing the allowable items during one transaction and the nonperishables in another. The cashiers took extra time handling my food stamps, holding them up to verify their legitimacy, which always drew attention. They counted out the books, sorted them by color, popped off the hardcover, which sent the heavy-duty staple flying, and tore off the perforated stamps one at a time.
I considered myself lucky to not have to load up my young sons all the time, exposing them to the dusty old government buildings with mile-long lines and state employees who treated me like I was a crime suspect rather than a mother who needed assistance. Then I’d leave the check-cashing buildings with books of colored food stamps similar in size to 3-by-5 Post-it notes, feeling labeled as irresponsible and poor, a parent without enough money to feed her children, only to be further humiliated by having cashiers dictate what counted as food. As if I couldn’t decipher between fresh vegetables and paper towels.
What I experienced, I experienced alone, so my kids wouldn’t have to.
Being on public assistance wasn’t the issue. I always knew it wouldn’t be a permanent way of life. But I didn’t want my kids exposed to the loathing and ridicule that I dealt with as a welfare recipient. I didn’t want them to internalize feelings of being “less than” before they even knew what that meant. Maybe I was projecting some of my own feelings onto the government employees and assumed they would in turn treat my children the same way they treated me. Yet why chance it when I had an alternate environment for them to be in? I thought I’d made the best decision given my choices and their ages.
When the welfare-to-work legislation of 1996 was implemented, I was allowed to finish my community college degree (funded by scholarships and grants) instead of being forced into a low-paying job solely to get me off of welfare quickly. I also signed a contract agreeing to complete my higher education in 24 months. During that time, I received a small sum per week — enough for groceries — and I worked part-time as a waitress.
“I’m impressed at how you’ve completed your requirements,” said Barbara, my caseworker, at our quarterly meeting. “You’re always so organized and prepared.” She was the first employee to treat me with respect and act as though she cared about my future.
Within months of graduating college as a 29-year-old mom of two, I was hired for a full-time receptionist position at a multimillion-dollar security company in South Pasadena, Calif. My full-time salary was $25,000 — the most money I had ever received.
My boys looked on as I did a happy dance and wrote Barbara a thank-you card: “Thank you for your hard work, empathy and compassion on my behalf. I am happy to inform you although I am still eligible for public assistance, I am no longer in need of it.”
For most of my sons’ lives, they had watched me work, struggle, commute, attend classes, and study. This was the perfect time for them to also observe a moment of joy and gratitude. —Sharisse Tracey
(Photo: Sharisse Tracey)
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