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In 1965, at the end of the second term when I was in the tenth grade, my dad lost his job in the oil fields of Oklahoma. Oil production was slowing in the mid-1960’s so there were no more jobs to be had in his area of expertise and there were no career re-training programs like there are now. We moved to a very small town where it was cheap to live and rented a house across the creek from my grandparents farm for $30 a month.
The only job my dad could get was a job working on commission selling “orange drink” – not orange juice, but a drink more like Kool-Aid – door to door. It took him quite a while to find that job, and he didn’t even earn a paycheck for it most of the time. My mom got a job cooking at a café fifteen miles away. Her hours were from 5:30 AM to 5:30 PM and her pay was $5.00 per shift. That works out to sixty cents an hour. I turned sixteen that spring.
At my new school, there were a total of eight sophomores in my class. I liked school and made good grades, and because of the dearth of competition, I also lettered in track and softball that spring. With only eleven girls in the entire school, grades 9-12, it was not hard to find a place on any of the sports teams, all we had to do was show up…
Most of the kids in that school lived beneath the poverty level. I don’t remember what the dollar amount poverty level was when Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty started but I do know that the first minimum wage was set at $1.60 per hour. When Mr. Palmer, our high school principal found out how our family was struggling (my mom and dad never asked for help, so I don’t know how he knew) Mr. Palmer called me into his office and offered me a job in the cafeteria through the Neighborhood Youth Corps, part of the War on Poverty program. Depending on what work needed to be done, I worked every day for at least an hour before school and for at least two hours after school doing jobs like sorting beans, washing and making salads, stocking the milk bins, sweeping, mopping, and waxing the cafeteria floor. The work was physical and not exciting, but not nearly as hard as what my mom was doing. When I worked the minimum of fifteen hours I made almost as much as my mom made working a six-day-72-hour week.
During the summer months, I babysat my younger brother and sister and cooked breakfast and lunch for them as well as the family’s evening meal so my mom, who was on her feet all day long, didn’t have to keep working after she came home. I did our laundry and took in ironing from people around town, charging $1 for a dozen pieces, I worked in the garden and scrubbed the big cooking pots at the local café two nights a week for seventy-five cents an hour. Restaurants, then as now, are not required to pay their workers minimum wage. When school started again in the fall and I began earning minimum wage again, I felt rich! When your family is broke, people feel awkward and you feel that you have make up for their discomfort by apologizing for living.
That fall, I managed to stay on the honor roll, letter in basketball and volleyball, represent my school in the Fairest of the Fair competition at the State Fair, appear in the Christmas pageant and keep my job washing pots in the restaurant. My mom demanded a raise at the café, so they fired her. The good thing was that Mom was able to stay home and take care of the little ones again. I also stopped taking in ironing. Dad began getting temporary jobs as a laborer, so he was bringing in some money, but he still didn’t have a job that he was proud of and he became very depressed.
One night I came home and Dad was crying really hard. My dad almost never cried—the only time I had seem him cry was when he had to sell our nice Ford station wagon and buy a clunker that was so embarrassing to be seen in that we would all sink down low and pretend we didn’t notice anyone who waved. Dad was as low as a person can get that night and when I walked in his eyes were puffy and blistered looking. Mom and my brother and sister were all trying to cheer him up, but nothing was working.
He howled in outrage, “We don’t have a life anymore. I never asked anybody for anything. I worked hard all my life and here we are now–on welfare…” he fixed his gaze on me…“and you know that it’s all your fault, don’t you?”
I said, “We aren’t on welfare, Daddy! I have a job! I work for the money I get; that’s not welfare.”
He sneered, “My daughter is paying our bills off a government program that Martin Luther King and Lyndon Johnson cooked up together. It’s welfare and it’s worse than welfare!” He cursed a blue streak; Dad was a mighty cusser. “It’s communism!”
That’s when I realized that he was deeply, personally angry with me but I did not understand why. I sensed that anything I said would not be taken well, so I said nothing.
He said, “I’ve started thinking that if I don’t get a job by Christmas, then all of us would probably be better off dead.”
Mom grabbed him and gasped, “No, no, honey. Don’t say that! Don’t even think that!”
My little brother and sister started crying, too, and they both piled on him and showered him with their innocent kisses, “No, Daddy, no! Don’t cry, Daddy! Be happy, Daddy! We love you! Don’t be sad.”
They all had their arms wrapped around him and they couldn’t see his face. He glared at me out of those red-rimmed eyes and I knew that he meant every word and that he was still thinking about killing us all. I lost all respect for him in that moment, when I realized that his pride meant more to him than all our lives.
I stopped going home after work and went to my friend’s house instead. I knew that there was nothing I could do except to keep working and keep doing what I knew was right. I still paid the rent, but I stayed off his radar because I didn’t trust him. Lucky for our family, he found a job before Christmas.
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