Tales From the ‘Hood

Kids Who Grew Up Poor Remember These Things

My List of Stuff That Only Us Poor Kids Knew About

If you grew up poor, there are many things you probably remember about the experience. I realized as a child that things were somewhat different in our home than in the homes of my friends. It’s funny to think back on it now, as an adult who’s much better off financially than during childhood.

Much funnier than actually being poor back in the day. Trust me, I’ll never forget some of these things no matter how old I get.

Granted, we didn’t have it nearly as bad as some kids. We weren’t destitute. We weren’t “A house full of skinny kids” poor. We always had a roof over our heads, even if it was an apartment. There was food for each meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We had clean, albeit non-name-brand clothes to wear. Things certainly could have been worse.

My father was a pastor by trade. Though he was a bible college graduate, that didn’t exactly translate into a comfortable yearly salary at most of the small churches he pastored. As the mother of two young boys, my mom stayed home with us, clipped coupons as well as our hair, and didn’t hold a job outside the home until we were teenagers.

She did the best she could with what she had to work with. But some of the things she did were somewhat suspect. Let me tell you about several things I remember that only people who were raised poor could relate to. Tell me if any of this sounds familiar to y’all.

We once caught her sneaking powdered milk into our generic brand Frosted Flakes. It was so gross. Little pockets of powdered milk would burst out from the surface of our sugary cereal bowl. I started wearing goggles at the breakfast table to protect my baby blues. My father vetoed Project Powdered Milk and increased my mother’s grocery budget by a couple of bucks a week.

We didn’t always make it easier on her. I’m certain we asked for more than a few things during our grocery shopping trips that she just couldn’t afford to get. My little brother also famously outed her one trip, yelling, “YOU CAN’T BUY VITAMINS WITH FOOD STAMPS, MOM!” After that, she started grocery shopping alone.

On school days, we’d get dressed, putting on the finest fashions that one could purchase from K-Mart. I still have a romanticized view of K-Mart to this day because it was our primary shopping destination. I wrote a blog a couple of months ago about when the blue light special ruled the world:

Though there were no name-brand articles of clothing purchased there, and our Traxx shoes cost less than $10, K-Mart kept us looking decent. At least we had clothes that fit and were clean until we messed them up. That was good enough.

Until junior high, that is. That’s when we started caring about how other kids perceived us. Peer pressure started rearing its ugly head and we became aware that our K-Mart fashions were lame. As Tom Cruise told Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man, “Let me clue you in on a little secret, Ray. K-Mart SUCKS.”

K-Mart was a lousy place to shop for shoes and jeans, the two things that most defined you as cool or not as a junior high kid. But we didn’t mind it for socks and underwear. I never was more appreciative of this than when my mother tried to sneak used underwear into my dresser drawer.

That still creeps me out. Sure, it was washed and folded neatly, but I was no dummy. I knew my usual Fruit of the Loom brand, and when these new tighty-whitey foreign invaders surfaced, looking frazzled by a long journey from the Salvation Army, certain questions had to be asked.

Those got thrown away. Pops dusted off his wallet and increased the panties budget. Yes, my mother called them “panties” for all of our childhood years at home. I thought I wore panties until I was 21.

Certain symbols of poverty also screwed us over around this age. My mother used to get blocks of free government cheese for our family. The boxes they came in were the perfect rectangular size for storing our baseball cards. This was cool until we’d bring them to school to trade with our friends.

“HEY! Nice government cheese box! At least there’s one benefit of being poor!”, some jackass kid yelled in our direction. My other friend Russell had the same matching cheese box for his cards. At least we had each other for comfort. Poor kids gotta stick together.

We had an end-of-the-school-year banquet before I graduated from 8th grade. I didn’t own a second pair of shoes. Luckily, my dad and I were the same shoe size for a couple of years. I wore his pricey black Clarks. Damn, those felt good compared to what I was used to.

Growing up poor wasn’t always bad. Because we didn’t get to go out to dinner frequently, it was more of a treat when we actually went. Trips to McDonald’s meant more because they were rare. The Hostess Bakery thrift store allowed my mother to bring home treats that we loved, even if the fruit pies were a bit hard on the ends.

I know they did the best they could and I appreciate the struggle more now than when I was a kid. I remember tears in my mother’s eyes when our station wagon broke down right before we were due to visit my grandparents in Wyoming. A CV joint repair wiped out their entire vacation budget, so we didn’t go.

I know they knew we were disappointed. They wanted better for us, certainly.

One of the saddest memories I have around that time was going to my friend Steve’s birthday party. My dad dropped me off at Steve’s large home, and he ran out, dressed to the nines with a collared shirt and a vest. When he picked me up after the party, he made an observation:

“Your friend Steve sure dresses nice. And so do his friends.”

I nodded my head, not paying that much attention. “Yeah.”

He continued, “Do you like the way he dresses? Would you enjoy wearing stuff like that?”

This caught my attention. I knew what he was getting at. I was a smart, insightful kid, even in grade school. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him feel bad. So I answered, “I guess. But it’s not a big deal.”

He stared ahead as we drove down the road for a minute or two. I hoped he wasn’t going to tear up or something. I hated that I knew what he was probably feeling, in the moment. He finally spoke.

“Cool. Well, let’s take care of that when we can.”

I appreciated him saying that. Even though I had my doubts that we’d ever be in a different tax bracket, it was nice of him to want that for his son. I didn’t want to be a burden or the cause of my parents’ financial struggles.

Things did improve eventually. While I never got a pair of Air Jordans until I bought them as an adult, we did get Nikes that were on sale. I started being able to get Ocean Pacific board shorts instead of my mother sewing a pair for me. Having stonewashed Levi’s 501s was another big moment for a semi-poor kid.

Looking back, none of that stuff really mattered. Because we were raised well and always had enough food, attention, and love, we did just fine. And being raised poor gave me a good outlook on life as an adult. It taught me not to be so materialistic like many people in our country.

I appreciate what my parents did for us with the little they had. And it’s funny to think about these memories again, some 35 years later. It’s always good to remember where we came from and what led to us building a strong work ethic as adults, for our own children to be comfortable. &:^)

© 2024 Jason Provencio. All rights reserved.