Privileged

Sometimes, I think that parents really missed giving their kids a reason to earn things:

Teaching Children to Earn Privileges -- powered by ehow

As a child from the projects/welfare system, I know what it means to have to earn things that you want.

Most of my shopping trips were to Goodwill and Aldi's.

Nowadays, people do those things just for "fun" or to find something eclectic.

That, of course, are what the privileged do... they take something that poor people do just to get by, and make it a fashionable trend.

My mother was barely a teenager when she had me.

What people don't know is that she wasn't an orphan, or didn't have a physical father, at all.

She had... what I can only imagine... was something reminiscent of a man who once was better and had taken a serious turn for the worse.

It was the 1970s, and women's rights were just an inkling of a discussion in the midwest.

East St. Louis was full of poor people from Mississippi looking for employment and a better opportunity.

I'm sure that my mother would have gladly taken a job that was even part-time and could pay the bills.

But seeing that childcare wasn't even a government subsidy at that time, she was forced to stay home... in the projects.

Seeing that she was underaged, and would be for a while, her choices of employment were limited, as well.

So, what about the relatives?

They were struggling, just like my mom. And didn't have room to accommodate much for a tiny woman and her tiny baby.

My dad? Well, let's just say that a 15-year-old boy in 1976 who's father is a policeman isn't exactly jumping up and down to claim a baby, let alone, take care of one. He'd have to admit that he even had sex, in the first place.

So what does this post say about privilege?

Well, many people have it, and don't know it.

Even, at times, I had it... and saw how easily I forgot.

I once had a job that paid a great salary, with excellent benefits, and lived so far below my means that I could afford a hefty car payment.

And it took me all of about 6 months to completely forget that I was and had been poor.

I went out to eat weekly with friends.

I hung out in places that people that could afford things like me would go.

I started just buying things, and not thinking much about the cost or even if I "really" wanted it.

I became, rich... well, wealthy.

I started to understand what it was like to not have to think about sacrificing food for a bill.

I started to understand what it was like to just "hang out" and buy drinks without worrying about their costs.

It was quite riveting, actually.

And just as quickly as I became accustomed to the lifestyle, I slowly started to realize that I had become so far away from people, places, and things that I knew... that I was really almost speaking a totally different language.

So, I regressed... I got back in line, not talking much, and doing even less.

And then, one day, my nicely-salaried job went away, and I was thrown into the abyss of unemployment.

What I wanted didn't matter anymore.

I had to scrape by, eating half PBJ sandwiches, drinking sugar water, and trying to find a place that would accept me.

3 years I spent searching... and then I became deeply depressed.

I started to cry almost every day, I stopped talking to anyone that wasn't my significant other.

I stopped going outside.

I just sat there, day-in and day-out, staring at the walls.

I had done it once before in college... and then I came home on the brink of my 4th year.

I had my tail between my legs, feeling ultimate failure, and having been told, multiple times, "You're just going to be a college dropout, you'll never go back" by the very person who even introduced me to the university, I felt like ridding the world of my existence.

I had already been perpetually depressed and suicidal in the past, and all I could think about is how sweet silence would be for a while.

If it weren't for my significant others, I think I would have perished.

And if it weren't for my naivety with suicidal methods, I would have gone long before the significant others came along.

I still remember the teasing from high school, and the echos from college of those that despised and ridiculed me.

I did my best to just tell the thoughts to stay away, but the tape recorder in my head keeps playing their song every time I get depressed.

So, I go silent.

I stare into the abyss.

And I did so for those 3 years until I finally realized that I had to do something.

I got up, found a job, and stayed employed.

I put my best foot forward and held a sort of esteem about myself.

I still battle depression, now, but I also know that getting help is no longer a shameful process as touted by the mass African-American community.

Getting help is essential.

And seeing a psychologist is no longer a "white thing" in my mind.

It's not just for the privileged.

It's for everyone.