Today I sat down and started scribbling in one of my notebooks. I decided to start writing down the beginning of my fictionalized autobiography. Yes I said fictionalized. I will be writing this thing but I doubt it will really go too far. I had been tossing around the idea with some author friends and thought I should try to write a bit. My life has been odd in places and what I thought I would title this is: Poverty is Color Blind.
See I grew up in a poor neighborhood in a mostly white state. While we hear a lot about poverty of minorities there are a lot of people who are poor who look just like a normal middle class white person. This isn’t being written as an oh poor pitiful me or as a slap to anyone who has grown up in places that are harsher than even where I did, but as a nod to those of us who grew up poor in the far northeast. A lot has gone on in the past fifty years and this is a fictionalized take on being poor, white, female and different.
Well here is a little bit of what I have written down.
Fifty years ago I was born on a cold afternoon in January. Luckily rush hour in the second largest city in New Hampshire was nothing like it is today. If it was I would have bee nborn inside my father’s car. Instead I started my life in one of the two hospitals in the city. It no longer exists in the same spot but times do change.
the middle 1960s were a turbulant time in the country but as a child I saw little of it. we were poor white trash in the view of a lot of people. My mother is a fine woman but at the time she had very poor taste in men. My father was a criminal. Mostly petty confidence man stuff. It seems he could talk people into believing he could do things. when he didn’t he came home and took it out on my mom or he disappeared for months at a time.
As consequence my mother was a working mother of two children, myself and my older brother. While she worked my grandmother took care of us. As much as I loved my grandmother, she was a bit cold. A strong and independant woman, she too had to raise children mostly alone. While I learned many things from her, things that helped me become who I am, there was one thing she didn’t hand out much, hugs.
Just a little bit of what will probably take me ages to write. This tale will closely parallel my own life but I plan on switching up things like names and places. This is a totally different type of story for me. So don’t expect it soon but I will put it out just like I plan on doing my very own cook book.