Why I’ll Never Stop Writing About Being Poor, Even When I’m Rich
By: Kerry Kore
Tags: Life Lessons, People, Money, Poverty, Life

Why I’ll Never Stop Writing About Being Poor, Even When I’m Rich

Three recent events that remind me of my duty to those still in poverty.

Image by Alfred Quartey / Unsplash

I decided to stop writing about poverty last year when my frenzy of research drove me to hopelessness and despair. I’d amassed pages of quotes from books and newspaper clippings and a deep rage burned within.

I imagined publishing all I’d learned, giving the ‘poor people’ intelligent and fact-based ammunition to use to start a revolution. I wanted to start my own underground publication as a platform for the ‘underclass’ — those who are reliant on government support because they are raising children alone or are mentally or physically incapacitated and are unable to join the mainstream rat race without giving up their sanity. They are the voiceless many. It was the first time I’d felt truly passionate and alive in a long time — perhaps this was my calling in life!

Then I imagined the ‘people in power’ finding out it was me who started the uproar and using me as a scapegoat. Maybe they’d rake up my troubled past and my mugshot and stick it in the papers. The scenarios played out in my head for days and I worried about what this would mean for my son. Was it right to sacrifice myself for the masses when my main priority was raising my son in a calm and steady home?

I suddenly remembered the Law of Attraction — what you think about comes about. All this attention on lack and poverty would surely drive me even deeper into it! What good was all this rage for anyway?

Another humbling insight was that I’m lucky to be getting money from the UK government at all. Plenty of countries don’t provide support to single parents, which means many suffer abuse just to keep a roof over their heads and the children fed.

Yes, I should just be grateful for what I have — put up and shut up.

That was the end of that project — until these three things happened in the space of a few months:

The Working-Class Writers Workshop

A local poet who I admire created a workshop to discuss how working-class people are often left out of mainstream creative opportunities, and how to build confidence. The course was free but with limited places, I requested the space and got it. I felt pleased I was being included and for once, having no money hadn’t stopped me from joining a writing course. It was me and seven others. I’ll cut straight to it and share what happened.

After a good talk about being working-class (which I was before I had my son and became homeless after the breakup) we were asked to spend 5 minutes writing down our experiences of being poor. Each of the other attendees read their pieces out, and without wanting to sound judgemental, I wanted to laugh. They all seemed pretty well-off to me — finely dressed and polished. Their stories were about childhood situations or poor people they’d noticed, like the Big Issue seller on the corner, or not being paid travel and accommodation to attend writing events where they would share their work.

My turn comes — I read what I’ve written: How I sometimes have to ask the cashier to delete items off the till for me because my card has been declined — while people stand behind me waiting their turn, or sometimes how I just leave it all there and walk out trying not to cry. How I’m too anxious to leave my son in childcare and too depressed to motivate myself to work, how the vicious cycle of poverty keeps me low. How I used to steal nappies when my son was a baby and would always be looking over my shoulder, waiting to be arrested. How ashamed I feel using the food bank when things are really bad. How I sometimes boil the kettle for hot water to do the dishes and wash because the gas has run out, and I need the money I have left for milk and bread. How I had an abortion rather than bringing another child into poverty. How I feel like an outsider looking in on old friends who socialize with their kids at every soft play session and event going - not being able to afford the bus and admission fees but also having too much pride to ask them to pay for us.

When I finished reading and looked up there was silence and a look of horror on each of their faces. Maybe I’d gone too far. I always go too far. I hadn’t known that all their poor stories wouldn’t really be poor stories. I thought we would all be on the same level. That’s when I realized I’m not working-class at all, my place isn’t here — it’s even lower — I’m actually a member of the rarely mentioned ‘underclass’.

It really highlighted my place in the world.

They were all lovely, of course. They said my writing was ‘raw’ and ‘brave’ — but it was just the truth. I do wonder if they felt embarrassed for me, or embarrassed for themselves for thinking they had it bad, with their cars parked outside.

Thinking about this now, I want to create my own workshop with the same theme, but specifically for ‘underclass’ poor people — who are actually living it, those reliant on welfare. Those who aren’t even on the first rung of the social ladder. We will meet in a park so we don’t have to rent out a building. Maybe we’ll even do it around a campfire on the beach.

The ‘Cool’ Rocker Living in a Victorian Town

I’ve lived in my beautiful town for two years now. I appreciate it every day — the architecture, the sea views, sheer cliffs, and the lovely community. I’ve often noticed a tall rocker guy, mid 40’s, who sits on one of the benches overlooking the beach. This one day, my son was at his dad’s and I decide to go and sit and ponder on a bench. I walk past the rocker, say, “Hi” and keep walking to a bench further on. Five minutes later I hear someone say, “Do I know you from somewhere?” It’s him, the Rocker. I say I’ve lived here two years but come from a town further up the coast and he sneers a little. Turns out he used to live there too, but now owns a 3-story Victorian house on the street behind me, has two businesses and plays guitar in a popular band. I ask the name of it but don’t want to offend him by saying I’ve never heard of them.

He asks what street I live on, I give him a brief description (not telling him the actual number) and he sits on the fence opposite me and crosses his arms, “Ahh, one of the green doors!”

I’m so naive, I think he’s just as impressed as I am by where I live — it has a sea view, it’s an excellent street! I nod “Yes, yes a green door — you know where I mean then?” He shakes his head and tuts, “All the green doors are social housing. The sooner they get bought out for private use the better. What we need is people from the likes of York and Harrogate [posh spa towns] to buy them as holiday homes.”

My mouth hangs open in disbelief. It takes me a minute to realize he’s deadly serious. “So you just want a town full of snobs then? You don’t think poorer people who can’t afford to buy should live here?”

At that moment a young man in a tracksuit walks past and the Rocker nods his head towards him, “That’s the sort of person I’m on about, chavs who [he puts on a ridiculous accent] talk like that and walk like that and leave rubbish everywhere”.

“You’re assuming that because he’s wearing a tracksuit he’s good for nothing and not worthy of being in the town?”

He looks taken aback for a moment, but not for long.

“Most of them are druggies and lower the tone of the town, they spoil it for everyone else”.

“Well, I’m one of those people. When I first moved here I was a mess, just out of an abusive relationship, I had a shaved head, was addicted to weed — moving to this beautiful place gave me a new lease of life, I wanted a better and safer life for my son than my hometown. Do you think poor people shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy this?”

He looks me up and down then says, “But you’re not a commoner, you don’t sound like a commoner”.

As glorious fate would have it, I pull out a book I’d thrown in my bag at last minute, titled ‘Common People’ edited by Kit De Waal [honestly, you couldn’t make this shit up] and wave it at him, “Yes I bloody well am a commoner and proud of it, I'll never forget my roots. I’d rather be in social housing than an ignorant snob!”

The book — my image

Just then my friend comes along and saves me from a more heated discussion. I wonder about my instinct to pick that book off the window ledge after not looking at it in months, and how excellent it felt to wave it at him to make my point.

The Arrogant Businessman Who Exploits His Staff

Last week my friend took me out, she’s newly single and needed a wing-woman. I wasn’t keen on drinking but she was and insisted. We ended up in a local ‘lounge-bar’ where she knows the owner. My friend is a business owner herself and likes the finer things in life: champagne, botox, holidays abroad. I don’t begrudge her this because she’s a beautiful soul, humble, and kind to a fault. She’s been through a lot to get to this point of stability, so if she wants to hang out in the posh places I’m happy to go — but I don’t blend well.

We sit at the owner's table on the decking and watch a queue of well-dressed starlets and fitness buffs waiting to buy cocktails while we get the VIP treatment: pink fizz, blankets. We’re watching the sunset over the sea and are joined by the owner's business associates and friends. It’s a beautifully designed place — fairy lights all over, nicely spaced layout. You can just smell money and good quality perfume. My friend fits in just fine, while I feel like an imposter — will I ever shake my poor-girl image? will my teeth ever be as white as theirs?

I try to make conversation with the owner, who is sitting next to me (and 4 years younger by the way). He either blatantly ignores me or gives one-word answers. Very aloof and deep, I assume, yet he’s all eyes and ears for my friend. Can he just tell I’m a nobody?

More drinks go down and the sun is long gone. They’re all discussing money and business, and I ask the owner, “So, apart from business what do you do for joy?” He takes a gulp of his drink and replies, “Shag my bar staff", then laughs. Everyone else around the table laughs too. I wait until they start talking again and get up and go for a smoke. When I return they’re still talking about incomes and profits and after a while of feeling a knot in my stomach and words pushing up through my throat I say, “Apart from making money what are you all passionate about?” The table falls silent.

I say “If I had loads of money I’d open a campsite to help suicidal people". The owner scowls, “Sounds more like a concentration camp to me" — they all snigger. I go for another smoke and my friend follows me to ask if I’m alright. She assures me it’s all just banter and that it was a good question to ask, the owner's brother had said so when I left.

I should have stopped drinking then and gone home but my friend had her eye on the owner's best friend and was going nowhere. A few more cocktails down and the owner looks across the table at me and says, “I can see me and you fighting by the end of the night". I put my drink down and say, “Come on then, let’s go down the beach now…” he laughs and makes a snide remark to the guy next to him and I hear rapey undertones…

“Look me in the eye and tell me what you just said to him!” He laughs and mumbles something, but won’t repeat it or look directly at me. Next thing one of his doormen is standing at my side. I look over at the owner, “Really? You’ve got your bouncer over because you’re too cowardly to deal with me yourself? Wow"…I’m shaking my head at him, the bouncer steps closer to my side. I push him away with one hand and tell him to get out of my personal space: “Social distancing!” but really I’m quite intimidated. There’s a stand-off moment, the owner is clearly enjoying it so I get up and say “I’m leaving" and walk out. My friend follows with her new guy a few minutes later, asking me to return but I tell her, “I’m never setting foot in there again, on principle, the arrogant prick…” and we get a taxi home.

The experience left me feeling like an imposter, stupid somehow, but once my hangover cleared I realized I don’t want to fit in with those people anyway. I also decided that if I ever get rich I’ll go about business a whole lot different to him. Those bar girls (or boys…who knows?) are unlikely to turn down his sexual advances if they fear losing their jobs and thus their incomes. What a predatory git!