#Growing up poor in america code#

In all fairness, they did not know about me, either.'Īll of the schools that I attended from elementary through high school were average at best and failing at worst. 'I did not know there were real kids, not just those on TV, who had more and were being prepped for success. We were raising ourselves, emotionally and intellectually, figuring out our places in the world on our own.

My brother and I stayed out of our mother's line of sight, and that is how she preferred it. There was also a safe filled with thousands of dollars of cash, marijuana, and cocaine stashed in my mother's bedroom. There were men moving freely throughout our house, refilling their stock to sell on the streets. When my mother met her boyfriend, our lives changed dramatically, seemingly overnight. My teachers, seeing my eagerness, created independent-learning circles away from the others so that I could continue to excel without distraction. When I parachuted into a new school, I would do my best not only to catch up to the lesson, but to exceed it with bonus assignments. It was a place away from the chaos, both physically and mentally, where I could create myself anew. Somewhere between the local community center and my elementary school, I figured out that I was bright and that school could be one of the few things in my life that I could control. Did the television belong to us? Was that our car in the driveway? What was in the refrigerator? I believed they were trained to see us as criminals, not worthy of help or support. They were suspicious and scribbled notes on their writing pads as they walked through surveying our house and belongings. On occasion, they would conduct a welfare check to make sure my mother was telling the truth about her circumstances. I learned that accepting the checks meant that we were open to scrutiny by the state and social workers. We survived on the once-monthly checks that arrived in the mail and on food stamps. After she and my father split, her main source of income was 'The County,' as she called public assistance.

My mother had long since quit her job at a convalescent home changing bedpans, washing laundry, mopping floors, and serving food because the next-door neighbor could no longer take care of my brother. However, by the end of the month, we ate rice and butter at nearly every meal and drank sugar water. At the start of the month, the refrigerator and shelves overflowed with milk, cereal, chicken, grits, Oreo cookies, and fresh fruit. The most I could find was a stale box of taco shells on the back shelf and a lone bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator. Medium for sound other Other physical details sound.Our cupboards were bare. Label Growing Up Poor in America, PBS Publication

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#Growing up poor in america code#

Streaming video file encoded with permission for digital streaming by Infobase on January 20, 2021Ĭarrier category online resource Carrier category codeĬarrier MARC source rdacarrier Color multicolored Configuration of playback channels unknown Content category two-dimensional moving image Content type codeĬontent type MARC source rdacontent Control code fod1000237661 Dimensions unknown Extent 1 online resource (1 video file (53 min., 15 sec)) Form of item online Governing access note Access requires authentication through Films on Demand Media category computer Media MARC source rdamedia Media type code.Place of publication not identified, PBS, 2020.Label Growing Up Poor in America, PBS Instantiates