America the poor: A Wanderers Tale, Volume One

Chapter 3: Being poor in western New York

So, I grew up in extreme poverty. We've already established that. Very little food, no clean laundry, ridiculed in elementary school, being resentful, rejected by other kids in every way possible, resulting in a very unhappy young boy. Not exactly a recipe for a normal life. In hindsight, maybe it truly was destiny that I was to become who I am? Perhaps, in the words of Thanos, I was "inevitable".

I wonder about this often. Like I was gambling, but the game was automatically rigged against me from the start. Playing with loaded dice,coming up with "snake eyes" everytime. The house always wins, therefore logically, I have to lose. They say that the victors write the history.

What's known is therefore skewed, and biased, and definitely not the truth. Rarely do we hear from the losers, their voices are silent, and unheard, which is a great shame, because to hear the real truth or any event, whether it be a war, a battle, a conflict, or merely an argument.

We really need to hear all sides, every view, otherwise we are deceived, or misinformed, and the reality of the situation gets buried, and will never be known.

So, maybe that's what my story is, a losers story, a unique one to be sure, but still one of the failures of our society. Either an underachiever, or a damned unlucky guy, take your pick! No purpose, no goals, no reason to exist except to continue existing. I knew early on that I wasn't considered "ordinary", or normal in any way.

As a very young kid, I had an amazing ability to read early, and comprehend what I was reading. I was reading by the age of two, and by 7 was reading authors like Stephen King, Clive Cussler, Gary Jennings, and others of their ilk Definitely not normal kid reading material.

When I was a bit older, my mother mentioned I had a very strange habit. To this day I have no idea why I would have done this as a little tyke, but apparently I used to like cutting off power cords from discarded appliances found in the garbage, bring them home, strip the wires, plug it in, and zap myself with electricity on purpose.   

 She knew about it because once in a while, this would actually blow the power fuses for the apartment we were living in. I suppose I was addicted to being electrified. It's beyond my comprehension now, but I must have had my reasons at the time.

Of course, I have no memory of any of this, but i've also heard from other members of my family about my mother's complaints that "little Johnny was blowing out fuses again." her words of course. So it was certainly true. Since I can't remember this at all, I cannot explain why I did this, or what motivated me, but an oddball habit certainly.

My real solid memories truly start much later, as a young boy: Perhaps around second grade? My mother got remarried, her third husband, as well as her third failure. His name was John as well. Turns out she had a fetish for that name. Her first husband was also named that, as well as my own name. From what I've been told, my actual father left her well before I was born into this planet. Knowing my mother as I did, I completely understand why he did, although I may have turned out different if he had stuck around. Who's to know?

Alternate pathways in life may be a fun diversion, but there's no certainty as to how things truly would have ended up. I know only a few small things about my true father, and of course it's all hearsay. He supposedly had an amazing talent for drawing by hand, so good in fact, he could have made a lot of money from selling his work. Not paintings, but uncolored hand drawn works only, using pencils, nothing else. Also, he hated paying taxes, so much so that many jobs he refused to even work unless the pay was only in cash and off the record. Of course this aspect, I completely understand, and empathize with. Taxes are not my favorite thing in modern existence, they seem unnecessary, and punitive to me.

But that's the full extent of what I know of him, besides the fact he was 100 percent spanish, supposedly actually from spain, at least from what I was told. Since my mother's side was scottish, that makes me 50/50 scottish/spanish. I'm a "mutt" I suppose. Interesting mixture certainly. Best and worst of both races. I have the spanish hot temper, and the stubbornness of the scots. but the unique intellect is all mine!

So I was brought up with a single parent, and not a very good one. My mother was considered a "black sheep", and I was always at her mercy. However, she was not known for being very merciful. I would regularly get beatings, and rough ones too.

Everything from extension cords to smacks with a baseball bat, and even an attempted murder of me with a sword.

Of course, I probably wasn't considered a "good" son either. However,as I've said, we are the products of our pasts, and the results of those pasts are almost inescapable, like a train on a track, we cannot turn, all we can do is follow our preset tracks, with varying speeds, but limited choices. We are who we are, and must act accordingly, as I did. Choice does exist, but we still are limited to acting within our own natures, as we do. So our paths are set, to a great degree. Determinism at its finest.

We can choose the speed and timing to meet our eventual outcomes and fates, but they belong to us, we must meet them sooner or later, regardless of our choices. Our destiny awaits us. Whether we welcome it is another discussion altogether.

So, as a young american boy, living in abject poverty, from a broken family, my eventual fate was already sealed, maybe long before I was ever born? All I can do is describe the path I was laid on, and followed up to now. I have cloudy memories of being moved from place to place, one dingy apartment to another so often we could qualify as gypsies. Just business as usual for my mother and me. I didn't make friends, nor acquaintances, but I was great at making enemies for some reason.

I didn't do anything bad enough to qualify for all the hate I acquired from other kids, just being different seemed to be enough for them. Although if the hate in the neighborhood kids got bad enough, I would retaliate in small but annoying deeds,and I usually enjoyed them at that point.

We never stayed in one place long enough to accomplish anything socially. Friends take work and time, but enemies are easy, and take almost no effort. Just kinda happens for some of us, like rain, no control, no stopping it, yet it happens all the same. All we can do is deal with it, and hopefully bring an umbrella.

So, never popular in school, and even less popular at home. I was friendless, alone, except for my mother, who actually despised me. For what, I could never figure that out. Maybe it was the fact that personality and intelligence-wise, we had nothing in common, nothing at all. She had a lot of emotional problems,extreme psychotic anger, and other serious mental issues. Towards me, her attitude was either rage, ignorance, or complete apathy. No love lost there, and it went both ways of course.

I was a unique kid, with a quirky aware mind. My mother was just the opposite, blunt, crude, prone to lashing out, without thought or consideration. I was a scalpel, she was a blunt sledgehammer in comparison. Total polar opposites in every way. I never understood her, she never understood me. We just tolerated each other out of necessity.

Whenever I came back from one of my very long walks, there was a 95 percent chance she'd be on a couch watching sitcoms, or just staring into space. Never a kind word, only complaints or anger at who I was and what I turned out to be.