Listen: true news of a welfare mother

Humanist, Sept-Oct, 1995 by Jodeen Wink

I often wonder how "normal" middle- or upper-middle-class women would handle this if it happened regularly to them?

Sometimes I have fantasies that I'm married to Ward Cleaver. I call him at the office and say, "Ward, dear, the state is harassing me. Please call our lawyer friend." Then Ward and I sue the state for millions. We sue them for sexual harassment. We sue them for discrimination and prejudice. We sue them for invasion of privacy. We sue them for slander. We sue them for coercion. But most of all we sue them because it feels so very good to sue them. We sue them like there's no tomorrow. We sue them until their callousness, incompetency, and corruption are printed across the front pages of every newspaper in the state and they never do this to any woman again because we have exposed them and people everywhere are shaking their heads in disgust and the state is finally so very ashamed of itself

Anyway, I have this wonderful house in Minnesota. Actually, it's the upstairs of a house and it only has four tiny rooms, when what we really need is six--there are four of us, after all--but that hardly detracts from its won derfulness. I used to have a 300 pound military desk someone gave me because they knew I liked to write a lot. Well, that monstrous desk wouldn't fit up the stairs to this pretty house, so I gave it away to my former landlord's daughter who had her eye on it. It was a kind of appeasement because I felt I owed them $300 that I was sure I'd never have any time soon. Now they own it, and at a dollar a pound I figure we're even up. (I have fantasies about being able to call Ward at the office and tell him, "Ward, dear, would you please write a check to the old landlord?" Ward and I have a healthy bank account, of course. We won it in a lawsuit!)

I couldn't keep the desk, so every thing that was in it is now piled against the riving room wall--neatly piled, I must say. I know I'll have to get another desk sooner or later, but the next one will have to be a good deal more efficient. No more 300-pound military desks for me. After all, I'm a lone woman with three children. I have a lot to keep track of and I simply cannot keep that which becomes too cumbersome.

With this in mind, I've been going through all the papers that used to occupy the heavy thing--all the old stuff I'd managed to bring with me from the old place; the place that had no heat in winter, no running water, no nice paint; the place where April came seeping through the walls and January came sifting up between the cracks in the floors; the place where I could afford to live--and also the judgments that came with it.

Thinking about the things I've lived through, and about the things I fear having to live through again and again, I'm not surprised at all that I'd write hateful pieces about being on welfare. I don't blame myself for being angry. I'm still angry. But I must find a friendly way of expressing this--some sweet, amiable sort of way that's not too hard to take. My professor was right: I must be gentle with my readers. After all, I want them to listen.