Poverty

Poverty is relative and most of mine weren't the kind of poor that covers you like a mist of despair caught in the sinews and shiny bones of a hard life, little food and no love to show for it.  

They came from the work ethic of make do, never show the classlesness that surrounded the 'half-crown gentry' but buy the best you can in furniture and household goods - it didn't matter that the "good room" was never used as long as it was there for show or when the minister called or somebody died and needed to be laid out.

As a child I became aware of the clash of cultures my mum's side with the staunch Presbyterian, cake making and hushed voices and my dad the WWll army officer she met while he was stationed up the road, bright, bruised and highly intelligent with a menial job living in Northern Ireland light years away from his Birmingham roots.  Even as a small child I remember in great detail the tension and the rows and the interference of my aunts who always seen my mum as delicate and of not making old bones.  I also understood what shame was and meant.

Thinking back, he was proud, angry that my mum accepted handouts from her Aunt who had all the trappings of wealth and none of the happiness that it could bring. He didn't like the closeness or the exposure of his failure to provide and he couldn't cope with my mum's manic depression and all its trappings.  So he upped sticks in 1966 and we were abandoned.  

His plan, according to my sister who was at 16 to my 10 was that the Aunt would take us all in under her roof and make us grateful for her charity.  Bless my mum, ill as she often was, she knew that this wouldn't be a life for us - yes, we would be fed and clothed and I would be fat with a good coat, sturdy shoes and a number of Sunday costumes for Church that would be hot and uncomfortable. Oh and I forgot to mention, an uncle (her husband) who I learned much later wasn't as wonderful as I thought - indeed my Great Aunt on her death bed was able to say to me  that my dad "never liked  your Uncle having you on his knee when you were a wee girl" - even she knew, but like many families the proclivities of its members were open secrets and never discussed. 

Instead, my mum did her best in an era where we stood out as a long parent family and our neighbours were a mix of offering help and shunning us. I was bullied by the teenage lads next door - I thought as I was told that my dad had gone to England to get work only they knew he was living with his new beehive haired girlfriend 3 miles down the road and they had a bun in the oven - my half brother who I have never spoken to though have seen over the years from a distance. His mother, who was a shop assistant in the Newsagent's my dad managed was already carrying on with the cook in the local army barracks but when he moved out to the next posting, she left her unsuspecting husband and tied her apron strings to a new post. 

Back in those heady days of Poor Cow and Carnaby Street small town Northern Ireland wasn't quite so swinging and this was also long before the days of income support. My poor mum had to go to what was termed the Cruelty to Children and then be assessed for National Assistance. I remember her waiting every Saturday morning for the franked mail in a special envelope and a postal order from my dad £4 and 2 shillings - if it didnt come before the post office closed it was bad; if it didn't come at all it was worse as that meant having to ask family.

My Mum did her best to ensure I didn't miss out by that time my sister had given up the idea of university despite being quite brilliant having achieved a scholarship to the local grammar school - she experienced a different kind of poverty to me. She joined the civil service and her pay brought the joy of ice cream on a Thursday night and for me I think it was the start of my poor relationship with food and the fall and rise of comforting eating.

I became a warrior, the family protector the one who fought social security people who humiliated my mum even at 12 I was a formidable foe for anyone who messed my mum about. Anger and humiliation stays with you, in my view you get a chance to channel it for good or bad; looking back at a time I was very bad but got better when I was good.

I don't forget having little nor do I forget the bullying and sarcasm of some of the girls at school including some that had less than I had - deflection is a great banner.  I dealt with it by using my sense of humour, my wit and intelligence; I had great mates most of them boys and they had my back. I did well at school excelled at English and History; some great teachers but the sense of abandonment never quite went away and I spent a great part of my early adult life in "imposter mode" waiting for the tap on the shoulder " your kind aren't welcome here"  I have always been acutely aware of expected norms of behaviour and at times embarrassed for those who couldn't see that comments or behaviour put them in the poor box - just like me but I was better at covering it.

I am far from poor today and way off being anything like rich. I am the master of symbolic interaction and very few people get close enough to see the actual person. It's my choice of course and while I have lots of friends I don't do the house gatherings - not because I don't have a house it's a feature of my life from when we were ashamed to bring a friend in because we didn't have a television.  I kept up with things by reading newspapers it's surprising how you can feign having watched the latest Man From Uncle episode by reading the review in the 'Weekly News'. I remain an expert on Dr Finlay's Casebook as that was Sunday evening viewing at my Aunt's house looking back I see the young Dr Finlay as a champion of those with little - we need more of those people today.

I believe that poverty is a different beast today. I don't see it as having marked me for life but I do see that it invades my thinking and it took me to where I work now. While not quite a cloak it can be a sturdy coat that I wear when the mood takes me.

I think that every child regardless of her or his family circumstances deserves enough resources to eat, live and learn what is happening now in the UK is children being punished for being born into poverty and that is a crying shame.