Friday, September 09, 2005
BLESSED ARE THE POOR
My frequent critic has bloged on his understanding of the poor. I'm fascinated and offended by his interpretation. Apparently he has not known many poor people.
I grew up the only child of a widowed mother. Yes, we were poor. Our income was limited to social security payments--a total of $176 a month. We did not stink. My mother did not spend money on cigarettes or beer. She made my clothes out of hand-me-downs from relatives. She did not take a job, not because it was beneath her pride, but because she was a strong believer in the need for a child to have a visible parent. She did not blame conspiracies for her situation. I did not run riot.
Was she a crashing bore? Her friends didn't seem to think so, mostly because she was interested in them and they knew it, and because she seldom talked about herself. She never believed anyone owed her anything. She did not radiate anger. In fact I don't remember her ever getting angry at anyone.
She relied on God when the money was short, and she often said that God put money in her wallet. When something had to be done, she did it herself, including spading and planting a large vegetable garden, taking care of the yard, painting the house, installing the heavy storm windows in the fall. I saw my mother tackle jobs that women didn't do in the 1950s, and she didn't complain.
When I graduated from college and bought a car, she didn't want it to sit out in the elements. A friend offered to build an addition to the garage, but would not dig the footer for it. She and I did that. When we needed a Christmas tree, she dug one up from my grandfather's farm, and together she and I pulled the tree across the field by resting the dirt ball on a shovel. We laughed together many times about how foolish we must have looked dragging that tree across the field and the road.
My mother was 5'3" and weighed about 120 lbs. yet her strength defied her size.
In my first full-time job I got to know a lady on the cleaning staff who would come in to work before I left. Her name was Mary. She was black. She always smiled--was always cheerful. She was poor. She had faith and she shared it. On most days she was the bright spot. She never did any of the things that a certain blogger has characterized as the habits of the poor. Her faith strengthened mine.
The world is full of poor people who make do with what they have, handle funds in a proper way, do not neglect their families and responsibilities, and don't get in your face with their situation. I guess that's why middle class people who want to write about the poor haven't noticed them.
Blessed are the poor.
