Poor, White, and my last name is Brown
I've spend a lot of time thinking about writing a memoir about my life, particularly about my experience growing up poor and in a broken home and then rising out of that. I've even written a draft of an opening chapter. I've been reluctant to pursue it with real energy for two reasons: fear that it would be a waste of time because few (if any) people would be interested in reading it, and-more significantly-fear of hurting or offending certain people based on the retelling of various events in my life.
Other than my close friends and coworkers, I don't believe most people really understand the extend to which poverty and dysfunction defined much of my childhood. I'm not going to go into any major details here, but what I would like to do is share a few brief memories to give a glimpse into what I experienced as a child. Maybe if I garner encouraging responses I will pursue writing more.
... ... ...
Story 1: When I was in first grade I won a contest I didn't know I entered. As a winner, along with a handful of disheveled kids, we were taken from school with chaperones to a local shopping center. We got to go on a clothing shopping spree! I got to pick out some new socks, underwear, pants, a shirt, a jacket, a hat, and gloves of my own. I was the luckiest kid in school to be able to have a whole new set of clothes as the winter approached.
I was not embarrassed at all. What is actually embarrassing is that I didn't realize that the reason I was selected (NOT randomly) was because I was poor and the school system didn't want me to be under-clothed during the winter, until I was out of college and recalled this story to my wife. I didn't know that I was poor. I didn't even know that there was a thing called socioeconomic statuses.
Story 2: In this story I was in kindergarten. One weekend afternoon, my sister (one year older than myself), my little brother (two years younger), and I went on a mission. My memory may be deceiving me on this detail, but I believe my sister had done this before with a grown neighbor. Here's what we did-under the supervision of no one: we rode a few blocks up the road behind the apartment complex we lived in that year to a fancy restaurant called Long John Silver's. We went through the drive-thru and asked for free crumbs, which we were given. But that's not even the best part of the story. The best part is this: my sister and I were on bicycles and my little brother was on a big wheel. A BIG WHEEL! How this didn't come to the attention of the local social services is a mystery to this day.
Story 3: The final story is also from first grade. We were in a different part of town in an old house we rented. Several blocks away from our house was a little private mini convenient/grocery store called The Dilly-Dally. My siblings and I used to ride our bikes all around town, so one time (it may have happened more than once-my memory fails me here) I went on another mission. This time I was under the order of my mother and armed with a note to give to the Dilly-Dally clerk. The note said 'please allow Travis Brown to purchase me a pack of cigarettes.' It was signed by mom and probably notated that they should be Marlboro Reds. Unbelievably, the clerk took my money and handed me the cigarettes like it was a normal transaction. I was six years old. I took them back to mom like it was a routine day. I'm not entirely sure that it wasn't in terms of its absurdity.
... ... ...
This is simply a glimpse of the kind of stories I'd wish to record in a memoir. There are a number of more painful and, honestly, quite sad plot lines and occurrences that would make up the book if it was presented in full candor. I would need to have some serious conversations with family and friends before every pursuing making my full story public. I think that I will write a memoir one way or another, but it is difficult to decide if it would be worth trying to publish. I would love to hear from the wisdom of others if this would be a worth-while pursuit or it would even pique anyone's interest.
*this post title represents a phrase I heard my parents use to describe our family growing up.
Other than my close friends and coworkers, I don't believe most people really understand the extend to which poverty and dysfunction defined much of my childhood. I'm not going to go into any major details here, but what I would like to do is share a few brief memories to give a glimpse into what I experienced as a child. Maybe if I garner encouraging responses I will pursue writing more.
... ... ...
Story 1: When I was in first grade I won a contest I didn't know I entered. As a winner, along with a handful of disheveled kids, we were taken from school with chaperones to a local shopping center. We got to go on a clothing shopping spree! I got to pick out some new socks, underwear, pants, a shirt, a jacket, a hat, and gloves of my own. I was the luckiest kid in school to be able to have a whole new set of clothes as the winter approached.
I was not embarrassed at all. What is actually embarrassing is that I didn't realize that the reason I was selected (NOT randomly) was because I was poor and the school system didn't want me to be under-clothed during the winter, until I was out of college and recalled this story to my wife. I didn't know that I was poor. I didn't even know that there was a thing called socioeconomic statuses.
Story 2: In this story I was in kindergarten. One weekend afternoon, my sister (one year older than myself), my little brother (two years younger), and I went on a mission. My memory may be deceiving me on this detail, but I believe my sister had done this before with a grown neighbor. Here's what we did-under the supervision of no one: we rode a few blocks up the road behind the apartment complex we lived in that year to a fancy restaurant called Long John Silver's. We went through the drive-thru and asked for free crumbs, which we were given. But that's not even the best part of the story. The best part is this: my sister and I were on bicycles and my little brother was on a big wheel. A BIG WHEEL! How this didn't come to the attention of the local social services is a mystery to this day.
Story 3: The final story is also from first grade. We were in a different part of town in an old house we rented. Several blocks away from our house was a little private mini convenient/grocery store called The Dilly-Dally. My siblings and I used to ride our bikes all around town, so one time (it may have happened more than once-my memory fails me here) I went on another mission. This time I was under the order of my mother and armed with a note to give to the Dilly-Dally clerk. The note said 'please allow Travis Brown to purchase me a pack of cigarettes.' It was signed by mom and probably notated that they should be Marlboro Reds. Unbelievably, the clerk took my money and handed me the cigarettes like it was a normal transaction. I was six years old. I took them back to mom like it was a routine day. I'm not entirely sure that it wasn't in terms of its absurdity.
... ... ...
This is simply a glimpse of the kind of stories I'd wish to record in a memoir. There are a number of more painful and, honestly, quite sad plot lines and occurrences that would make up the book if it was presented in full candor. I would need to have some serious conversations with family and friends before every pursuing making my full story public. I think that I will write a memoir one way or another, but it is difficult to decide if it would be worth trying to publish. I would love to hear from the wisdom of others if this would be a worth-while pursuit or it would even pique anyone's interest.
*this post title represents a phrase I heard my parents use to describe our family growing up.
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