I remember the first time I received charity. Which, in my mind, was considered a handout. That’s what my father would call it. Someone in my community had nominated me. I received notification by mail with scarce information. It felt like a covert operation. It felt wrong. Only date, time, and location to receive my handout. I was so confused. Did someone think I was poor? Why was this happening?

   It was almost winter, 2011. I was a young mother in my mid 20’s with 3 grade school children. I spent my parenting days volunteering at their school. I did as much as I could, substitute teaching, lunchroom lady, PTA, sports organizer. If there was a need I stood up for the task.

   The days at school with my children are some of the best memories I have. In the beginning I did it because I trusted no one with my children. Literally not a soul. I wanted full, unreserved access to my children at all times. No matter what. They will never experience what its like to not have the safety and comfort of their mother. Which felt selfish to me. However, guilt is in my nature. Or maybe it was selfish. My original intent was to make sure I had full access to every part of the school. Keys and all. Which I achieved.

   As a woman its in my bones to want to nurture, love, protect. As a woman who was never given safety, its also a non negotiable. Although, I’m not sure if I knew that then. Even now, 25 years later, it feels like a privilege I’m not supposed to have. Just like the charity I was about to receive.
  

   Following the letters instructions I drove to the school gym. I was there to collect Christmas presents donated by other parents for my children. Walking through the doors I was immediately flustered. I started explaining to the first person I saw that there was a mistake. My children do not need these. They will have plenty of gifts, please pass them along to another child. I was so uncomfortable I felt as if I would faint. The volunteer gently rejected my pleas and started handing over 3 enormous trash bags full of gifts. I was instantly worried they wouldn’t fit in my tiny car. Grabbing the bags along with a workers help I exited the gym to head home with the handout.

   Driving home I started brainstorming plans to gift the toys to someone in need. The guilt was consuming me. My children had more than enough. They were blessed with the most loving family from their fathers side, to the point I would say they were spoiled. From my perspective, in some ways, we had it all. To others not so much.

   Looking back now I find humor in how oblivious I was. I was absolutely poor. Still am. If you consider having no money as being poor. Driving in the carpool line, dated, compact car, stuffed full of children. The tuition checks bouncing. Always scrambling to get what we need. I see now what I didn’t see then. My brain was only protecting me. As it does now, blinding me from the contrast of my father building his 5th home while I beg strangers on the phone to not take away my handouts.
The toys were re-donated.