52stories

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We were always poor, only I didn’t realize it until I was six.

I remember the time Benny and I went to the fair.

My mother had gotten some free tickets from the church on one of those rare occasions she went there to get groceries from the food bank. I still remember the glow of colored lights and the assortment of strange people, the smells of popcorn and animals, the sound of kids squealing and crying and the synthesized tunes from the spinning, flashing rides. We would watch parents buy cotton candy for their kids and hand it to them with fistfuls of tickets to be spent on various attractions. How I wished I was one of those kids, especially the ones who tugged on their parents’ arms, pointing and begging them to let them ride on the back of one of the magnificent ponies.

I would watch from the rail and expertly explain things to Benny on the many intricacies of pony riding. He would stare at them in amazement as I would tell him how little the fortunate kids on their backs probably knew. Sure, they were actually up there doing the riding, but it was all for show. They were beginners. They weren’t even that. I would frown indignantly at them as one squealed with excitement and another screamed in terror. The ponies walked the circumference of the fenced corral with mixed looks of boredom and annoyance and, as I told Benny, “would probably kick one of them off if they had the chance. That’s why they strap the kids on there so tight.”

I begged my mom to let me ride the pony, though she gave me some excuse about them being dangerous and smelly. “But I like the way they smell,” I lied to her. Some thoughts on pony riding safety tried to find their way into my argument until I realized that I really didn’t know much at all about the animal and I relented the debate to my mother.

I look back now and see how much she wanted to be able to give us those things. Several times that day we would ask for pretzels or look longingly at the games and she would peek inconspicuously into her purse and give us a sensible reason for denying us those pleasures, such as the lack of nutritional content or by pointing out the obvious rip off that it was.

It was on this day that I discovered we were poor.

As we all waded through the swelling crowd, the pudgy kid with chocolate on his face and a plush toy he had just won carried like a trophy under his arm plodded right through Benny. I shouted at him as I picked my crying brother off the ground, causing the larger boy to stop and scowl over his shoulder at me. I protectively stepped in front of my bawling brother as he cried and scanned the crowd for our mother.

The pudgy kid turned and balled his fist as he stalked back toward us, the stuffed animal still tucked under one armpit like a football while I dared him with my glaring stare.

“What you gonna do, you little poor white trash?” the pudgy kid said as he towered over me, poking me in the shoulder with his stubby finger.

“You knocked over my brother, you big jerk!” I said defiantly, jutting my chin upward.

“So what, you little trailer trash. How did a broke little white trash like you afford tickets to the fair anyway? Your mom must be pulling tricks on the side,” the pudgy kid said mockingly. And with that he pushed me to the ground and slumped away with my brother looking on in astonishment.

My mom came back from the brief separation finding me on the ground crying and Benny in a sniffling daze.

“Are you all right?” she said, rushing to pick me up and hold me as she repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“He pushed her,” Benny said.

“Who did?” my mother said, her eyes blazing. “Who pushed her Benny?!”

Benny pointed at the back of the pudgy kid, who was walking away while triumphantly tossing his stuffed trophy in the air to himself. With this our mother grabbed Benny’s hand and half dragging and carrying us to intercept the perpetrator, she stepped in the path of the pudgy kid, grabbing his wrist and pulling him close.

“Did you push down my kids?” She snarled inches from his face.

“Bu…I…,” he stammered helplessly.

“Let me tell you something,” my mom threatened. “It it weren’t for all these people, I would take you behind that building over there and end you right now. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood or I would drop you right where you stand. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” the pudgy kid said, locked in her gaze.

“Now you apologize to my kids right now, and you’d better mean it.”

He looked at us and fearfully said, “Sorry.”

“Now get out of here!” my mom hissed, sending the kid running.

“Are you okay?” she asked us again.

We nodded and I asked her, “Are we poor, mommy?”

“Is that what he said?” she asked. We nodded again. My mother kneeled down to hug us both and spoke quietly enough for only us to hear her. “We don’t have much money, but it doesn’t matter. As long as we have each other we will never be poor.”