North Side

Being a poor kid in the South was somehow different than being a poor in the North. I grew up poor in a small town in Southeast Kentucky. Sure there were plenty of wealthy families but I didn't really realize they were rich and or that I wasn't.


In the late 70's to early 80's we all went to the same church... And no one looked any different sitting on the pews. We all went to the same school... And you were scolded just the same no matter who your parents were. Rich or poor you still bought your groceries at Earl Andersons. Earl had a thriving business in an old block building. The same two cashiers worked the registers for as long as I could remember. The same butcher always greeted you by name and sliced your bologna. The floors creaked and groaned as you walked the isles and you couldn't help but notice the high and low places. Everyone went to Earls but you'd never know he had a dime in the bank.


My clothes came from bales of clothes my Grandma and her friends would buy.. They would cut the bands and sit around in lawn chairs on the front porch sipping sun tea and sort through the clothes... gossiping... laughing... sharing... just the way they did when they broke beans or worked corn. I went to school in second hand rags ...no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. I always felt just as good as anyone else.


I had been to Elkhart many times and lived in many places. But for the most part I had been around kids from families like mine... not a lot in the way of worldly possessions. But when I enrolled in North Side Junior High I realized very quickly that there were lines drawn between those who had and those that didn't. I wore fake leather shoes a size to big... I didn't know the difference until the kid next to me pointed it out. My clothes were out of style and didn't match... I didn't know until the girl in front of me turned around to tell me. My hair was fine and stringy.. not because I was nasty... like the kid in gym said... but because my father was Cherokee and both my hair and skin were naturally oily.


I shrank inside myself... I remember a teacher calling me aside and telling me that my pants had too many holes in them.


Yes I was small... poorly dressed... probably not as clean as I could have been... and I looked different and sounded different than most. In spite of that I managed to make some great friends. They were all from families of modest means... though they did a much better job of assimilating than I did. I didn't know how to assimilate... before that time I had only know the unwavering acceptance of a small town. But I was accepted just as I was... by a few and I am thankful for them... They may not know it but I think of them often.


I wish I could go back in time and talk to that little boy. I'd tell him to keep his head up... I'd tell him that one day he'd be strong and confident. And that it didn't matter how cruel the other kids were. I'd thank him for taking their slings and arrows without anger and without fighting back. I'd tell him to be grateful to them... because the lessons they gave us made us excepting and tolerant. They taught us to look beyond the exterior of others. They taught us to find value in others. I'd tell him that one day he'd me me and I am not afraid.