It’s for the Trailer Park Girls
Here in a
little bit I’ll be driving to the USF campus to drop of some work/school
related paperwork. This marks the midpoint
of the family nurse practitioner (FNP) graduate program. Four semesters are down, four semesters to
go. I’m told the next four will be
harder than the last. If Florida can
avoid another Irma like hurricane season that’d be great! Meanwhile, my job with the state rocks on
with projects, action plans, SMART objectives, strategic plans, grant writing,
blood drawing, staff call outs, etc. The
pay is subpar, the bennies are phenomenal, the work is rewarding.
People
keep asking me what my personal goals are.
What am I after? Am I seeking more
money? Will I return to shift work and
cash in every differential bonus? Do I
want an easier gig? Am I a bleeding
heart, dedicated to a specific mission? Do I covet my bosses position with a
desire to make powerful decisions? Will
I climb corporate or political ladders, strategically moving till I reach some point
that finally says, “I made it”. No, no,
no, & no…..I am not status driven. Oh,
I am driven just not by conventions. Then
why do I keep going back to school? I do
it for the trailer park girls, the project section-8 girls. I do it for the one who still lives in me. I keep going to college because all the
statistics say I won’t.
We were
poor. We were electricity gets turned
off, heat the bathwater on the woodstove, clothes frozen on a clothesline,
frigid air seeping through floor cracks, it’s time to move again, blocks of
government cheese, food stamps, popping the clutch to start the car, mustard
sandwiches, free school lunch program, 2 or 3 new school outfits at King’s or
Kmart poor. There was some violence and
substance abuse. There was no money ballet
or gymnastics classes. In middle school, I begged for Nikes like the cool
kids. It didn’t even matter they had to
last the whole year. 25 cent shoe paint
from a yard sale kept them white. I lived in a trailer or an apartment all of
my youth. In Concord, we lived in in
reduced cost apartments (aka, section-8 project). And so, who cares? Poor is not a crime. I’ll tell you who cares. Well-off kids care,
they notice. Society cares. It makes you notice, too.
My parents
were so young, so tempestuous. It could
hardly be helped. My parents will read this and feel sad. They needn’t.
They were wonderful parents in so many ways. Poor is nothing to be
ashamed of. I know that now. My mother couldn’t drive the first 5 years of
my life. Do you realize what a gift that
was? I had my mom all to myself, every day. Reading was our daily staple. My dad taught
me how to fish, start a fire, bleed breaks, and I damn sure know the difference
between a crescent wrench and an Allen wrench.
My dad used to tell me all the time that I was a leader. He’d say, “never be a follower Amy, you are a
leader”. Now that may have been his pep
talk for all kids. I just believed
him. I believed him so much that when
mean kids picked on me I just figured they didn’t know it yet.
Not many
people know this but I did not graduate from high school. We moved to Dade City when I was 15, mid-school
year, after a failed few months stint in Starke, Fl. When I was 16 my parents were at a cross
roads in their marriage and various nameless unhealthy habits. Old money, old
family names, Dade City noticed this trailer park girl more than anywhere. At least it felt that way. I quit school not to escape the work but to
escape the judgement, to escape not fitting in.
I applied directly for my GED, which required special permission from
the school board due to my age. The
initial age waiver request was denied.
The second was granted. I started
PHCC in fall 1990 that was prior to my high school graduating class turned
their tassels in summer 1991.
I have
failed at countless ventures. I have
failed in relationships. Failures are
necessary. Failures are learning opportunities so long as you don’t give up. Actually,
go ahead and give up temporarily. Pout
and lick your wounds. Rant and rave a
little at some real or perceived injustice.
Cry, have too much wine with a friend. Then get up, get dressed, get
going poco a poco (bit by bit). Trailer
park girls are tough and smart. Project girls have more potential, more depth,
more failures. We’ve seen and been
subjected to things children should not.
We know our disadvantages are obvious.
We know what the statistics say.
I keep going to college because I hope to empower girls like me. I want to tell these girls they can. They are leaders, not followers. They can go to college. They can work hard. They can make a difference in this
world. Be the difference you want to
see. Don’t say it, be it because you
can!
I will
never be done. There is no end to my
journey. It’s not a race though, I’m reasonable with time. I’m the girl who
says, “you want to bet, watch me”. The thief
of joy is comparison, right? I promise I’m
good. Berating the mind in small doses
is healthy. I am good and kind and loving and fair and hardworking and I
believe. I am all these things despite what anyone thinks or says of me and so
are you! Let's hear it for the trailer park/section-8 girls everywhere!