Working Class People
My parents’ were not wealthy. They were not even middle-class. They were not poor, either. They were working class people: they were willing to work any kind of job if it meant they could put food on the table. They sacrificed luxuries to provide for us kids. They were ideal parents, always putting the needs of their children before any personal desires.
But the Eighties in Appalachia were a time of despair. No matter how hard my father worked he was only able to find temporary work. He bounced from trade to trade without ever being able to settle into one. Mom worked as a secretary anywhere she could find a job. Neither were too proud to work.
We always had a roof over our heads, but we did not have the luxuries others seemed to be enjoying. We had a black and white television… even in the Eighties. My parents drove used cars that were unreliable: Dad became a great mechanic. We did not have air conditioning because it cost too much. Sometimes my parents would have to choose between bills to pay. They always let the water go because our neighbors were family and we could carry water in empty milk jugs. We did not have a Nintendo until the Sega Genesis came out. We were the last people I knew to get a VCR. Sometimes the bicycles we rode were used bikes that Dad fixed-up for us… they always looked good as new.
Most of my clothes were hand-me downs or second-hand yard sale acquirements. I never paid much attention to it until my sixth-grade year. Jeremy, the class bully, made fun of my clothes and soon the entire sixth-grade class joined in. I spent my days humiliated about the condition of my wardrobe… Mom and Dad could not afford to buy me new clothes, but they scrimped and saved until I was able to buy a couple of new outfits so that I could feel good about myself.
My borderline-poor childhood taught me how to survive. My working-class parents taught me all about the power of self-pride, elbow grease, and determination. Then I would watch two people who had no chance in life make their own. Dad went to college and struggled through, delivering pizzas while Mom worked as a secretary at the local college. When I was in the third grade he received his diploma and teaching license. Then Mom began taking classes around her work schedule. It took her eight years, but when I graduated high school, she graduated college (also with a teaching degree).
Youthful Hope
I began college hopeful and convinced that I could do anything I put my mind to. The American Dream had taught me that anything is possible if a person is willing to work hard enough. I was willing to work. And work I did. I had an on-campus job in the library and an off-campus job at a burger joint. After having watched my parents accomplish their goals, I knew I could accomplish mine.
Yet, despite my parents having professional jobs, we were not yet middle-class. Both parents were still paying on their student loans and they could not afford to help their children (three of us, all reaching college age in a six year span). I wanted to attend West Virginia Wesleyan College, but after a year I left, feeling dejected by the world I so desperately wanted to be a part of.
Forced to attend my parent’s alma mater, I was unhappy with the school. West Virginia State University did not offer the major I had wanted. State did not have a “college feel.” It was a commuter school with a student population dominated by non-traditional students. Commuter students were often ignored and there was little involvement on campus. I was working at a fast food joint, living with my parents, and going to my last choice of schools.
I dropped out; disgusted with the direction my life was taking. I was beginning to realize that I did not have a choice. I would not be able to be anything I wanted. I began to realize that my parents had become teachers out of convenience, not out of desire. Dad was (and is) a great teacher… but it was a profession that was available when no other was. Mom, also a great teacher, never found a full-time teaching job and became a bookkeeper and glorified secretary.
Descent Into Hell
It was no wonder I married the first man who offered. He was wealthy (from an inheritance and not from any personal success), and he acted as though I were the only woman on earth. At first, anyway.
We had a whirlwind courtship and I did not notice the red flags that were being raised: he bounced from job to job, always looking for a way of shirking responsibility; he did not want me to know his family or friends; he expected to know every detail of my life, but was hesitant to reveal his; he was jealous of my love of books and of writing because I was not paying him enough attention; he made my friends and family his own and then drove a wedge between them and me.
I feel for you.