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Hello, ladies and gentleman and thank you for joining our little show. Mr. Obama, Mr. McCain, we’ve saved you both a seat in the front row so you don’t miss a minute of it! I apologize for the lack of refreshments. I think we might have some leftover packets of Kool-Aid from making popsicles last summer and there’s always water from the kitchen sink. Just make yourselves at home.

We’d like to welcome you to our presentation of ‘A Night With Poverty’. Its not so much a show as it is a storytelling, if you will. We’re going to take you on a quick journey this evening. We’re going to show you a peek into a world that everyone knows exists but hopes they’ll never have to visit. Now don’t be fooled by the curtain with the smiles and sunshine painted on them. Those will disappear as soon as the show begins and you’re welcomed, reluctantly, into Poverty’s world.

So settle into your seat and let’s begin.

Our story starts with Poverty as she prepares to leave for the afternoon to pick up her youngest child from school, praying there’s enough gas to get there but not really certain since the gas gauge is broken. Poverty taps her pant pockets to make sure the change she found on the desk earlier is in there…just in case.

Poverty takes a quick peek out the window to make sure that’s not the landlord’s lawn mower she hears. He’s the last person she wants to see right now. Fortunately, its a lawn service mowing the churchyard next door.

She heads out the door and into the car, and begins her half hour drive towards the school. Yes, the school is a half hour away. No, this was not Poverty’s choice. Poverty begged the Court to let her take the child to the local school in the town where the child lives but apparently this particular Court is not bound by the US Constitution and has forced Poverty to drive the child to this school until the Court gets around to ruling on a two year custody battle. Poverty has tried to get help from the little one’s dad who, through some jurisdictional loophole, hasn’t had to pay child support since January, but his only response is that he can’t because his budget is tight.

In the meantime, Poverty struggles to pay for gas. She drives along the highway, coasting as much as possible and praying the whole time even though she’s not so sure anyone is listening. Then her phone goes off, letting her know she has email. A quick check at a red light lets her know that someone sent her $4 via PayPal, a refund for an overpayment. Sweet! That’s a gallon of gas! Enough to get Poverty and her child back home.

Then a text message. Its Poverty’s mother letting her know that she gets paid tomorrow so she’ll send some money to get Princess - that’s Poverty’s little girl - a birthday present. Princess turns 6 on Thursday. Poverty texts back: “Can you afford an extra $20 for gas and a book from her school book order?” Mom can but it won’t be until tomorrow. Poverty hears that Winnie the Pooh voice in her head saying “think, think, think” trying to figure out another way to get Princess that book she wants since the form is due tomorrow.

Mom sends what she can - $10 - and for a moment, Poverty has hope with a little glimpse of faith mixed in. It had been less than 30 minutes since she gave the whole prayer thing a shot and she had $14. Not bad!

She makes it to the school and shortly after the bell sounds, Princess comes running towards her yelling “Mommy!!!” which makes her teacher smile and brings some sunlight back into Poverty’s world.

Poverty and her Princess make it home safely. Poverty prays again as she checks her email for any responses to her efforts to find work - any work - only to come up empty. Then another lead. “Please, please, please” she thinks to herself as she fires off another email. Meanwhile, Princess is on the other computer, “I’m working” she says to Poverty, “to help you buy stuff.” The comment is both sweet and sour. Its sweet that Princess wants to help and its sweet that she wants to work on the computer like her mommy, but the fact that she knows Poverty needs help is so sour she can’t even stand it.

A quick thank you to a friend for the lead results in a chain of desperate pleas from kind strangers for help. Poverty finds herself both touched and ashamed, wishing it was her reputation that earned the referrals rather than pity. Then a response from the lead comes. The wage is much lower than Poverty had hoped for and she’s torn between the voice that says “Charge what you deserve!” and the one that says “Take what you can get!” Its not much different than the other voices, the one that says “Go get a real job!” and the one that says “Why would you want to do that? You’d spend half your paycheck on gas money, you’d only get two hours a night with the Princess….besides, do you really want to give up on one of the few dreams you’ve had??”

With a heavy sigh, Poverty gets up from the computer and heads to the kitchen to figure out something for dinner. She silently thanks her mom, who grew up poor in rural Georgia, for the advice about keeping stuff that doesn’t spoil on hand. The powdered milk was a good idea. So were the instant mashed potatoes. Of course, this stuff was supposed to be used for emergencies….acts of God, not acts of Government.

Making do with what she can find and being careful not to use too much since she doesn’t know how far it will have to stretch, she whips up something resembling a meal.

She ends up with this. A hamburger patty on white bread - its the cheapest - and bland, instant mashed potatoes. Yum.

Poverty hears Princess wandering into the kitchen, so she ducks down and sits on the floor, pretending to be rearranging whatever is in the cabinet in front of her so Princess doesn’t see her crying.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

Damn.

“Nothing, baby. Whatchya need?”

“I’m hungry,” she says.

I know, sweetie. I know. Sorry, this was the best I could do. As expected, Princess takes a few bites before she decides she’s done. Compared to the healthy meals Poverty usually fixes, this is like eating paper.

She clears the table and settles in on the couch to read with Princess, forcing a smile. She promised herself no more tears after hearing Princess say, at the dinner table, “Mommy, I don’t want to hear you cry anymore.”

Ok, baby…I’ll try. For you, I’ll keep trying.

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