The saddest Christmas story about poverty that you will ever read.

[Lyric]

When I was very small, I read an excerpt from this story while browsing through all of the reading selections in my school textbook. I was stunned--until I read this, and recognized the parallels to my own life, I had never realized that my family was truly poor. It changed my entire outlook on life, and that change led directly to the person that I am today. It might seem like a simple, sad, even depressing little story, but there is deep value within it. It's probably the most accurate, honest portrayal of a moment in the life of a poor American child that I have ever read--and I have personal experience from which to speak.

I hope everyone here has a wonderful, wonderful holiday. And please remember those who are less fortunate, especially the children, in your thoughts and prayers this season.

Edit: Changed the title to make it more clear what's inside.

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Fool’s Paradise

By Floyd Dell

It was not considered necessary to tell me anything about the financial status of the family. I was not able to make comparative observations in school because I was sent there immaculately dressed. And I knew that my mother regarded some of the children in the neighborhood as not nice enough for me to play with. I thought we were just a little bit more “respectable” than other people. I did not realize that in the currency of “respectability” a father who used to have a butcher shop was not quite on a par with a father who was cashier of the bank. My father spoke familiarly of the mayor and other city dignitaries. And, as I understood it, his membership in the G.A.R. made him one of what I felt to be the aristocracy of the nation—certainly on Decoration Day he was treated as such. So I had no idea that we were not the very flower of Barry “respectability.” There undoubtedly were plenty of things that might have enlightened me about our financial condition. But there was a deceptive parental softening and evasion of harsh facts for my benefit. A child, in their opinion, should be protected from unpleasant things. And the parental gloss marvelously protected me from the facts that were before my eyes.

So, next year, I didn’t know there was a Panic. The shutting down of the Barry woolen mills was in my young mind, as in my father’s talk, a political and not an economic tragedy. Grover Cleveland was to blame for it all. He was a Democratic President, and that was why he did it. Governor Altgeld was a Democrat, too—that was why he pardoned the Haymarket Anarchists. I wondered why democrats were allowed to exist.

That fall, before it was discovered that the soles of both my shoes were worn clear through, I still went to Sunday school. And one time the Sunday-school superintendent made a speech to all the classes. He said that these were hard times and that many poor children weren’t getting enough to eat. It was the first that I had heard about it. He asked everybody to bring some food for the poor children next Sunday. I felt very sorry for the poor children.

Also, little envelopes were distributed to all the classes. Each little boy and girl was to bring money for the poor, next Sunday. The pretty Sunday-school teacher explained that we were to write our names, or have our parents write them, up in the left hand corner of the little envelopes. I told my mother all about it when I came home. And my mother gave me, the next Sunday, a small bag of potatoes to carry to Sunday school. I supposed the poor children’s mothers would make potato soup out of them. Potato soup was good. My father, who was quite a joker, would always say, as if he were surprised, “Ah! I see we have some nourishing potato soup today!” It was so good that we had it every day. My father was at home all day long and every day, now; and I liked that, even if he was grumpy as he sat reading Grant’s “Memoirs.” I had my parents all to myself, too; the others were away. My oldest brother was in Quincy, and memory does not reveal where the others were: perhaps with relatives in the country.

Taking my small bag of potatoes to Sunday school, I looked around for the poor children; I was disappointed not to see them. I had heard about poor children in stories. But I was told just to put my contribution with the others on the big table in the side room.

I had brought with me the little yellow envelope, with some money in it for the poor children. My mother had put the money in it and sealed it up. She wouldn’t tell me how much money she had put in it, but it felt like several dimes. Only she wouldn’t let me write my name on the envelope. I had learned to write my name, and I was proud of being able to do it. But my mother said firmly, no, I must not write my name on the envelope; she didn’t tell me why. On the way to Sunday school I had pressed the envelope against the coins until I could tell what they were; they weren’t dimes but pennies.

When I handed in my envelope, my Sunday-school teacher noticed that my name wasn’t on it, and she gave me a pencil; I could write my own name, she said. So I did. But I was confused because my mother had said not to; and when I came home, I confessed what I had done. She looked distressed. “I told you not to!” she said. But she didn’t explain why.

I didn’t go back to school that fall. My mother said it was because I was sick. I did have a cold the week that school opened; I had been playing in the gutters and had got my feet wet because there were holes in my shoes. My father cut insoles out of cardboard, and I wore those in my shoes. As long as I had to stay in the house anyway, they were all right.

I stayed cooped up in the house, without any companionship. We didn’t take a Sunday paper any more, but the Barry Adage came every week in the mails; and though I did not read small print, I could see the Santa Clauses and holly wreaths in the advertisements.

There was a calendar in the kitchen. The red days were Sundays and holidays; and that red 25 was Christmas. (It was on the Monday, and the two red figures would come right together in 1893; but this represents research in the World Almanac, not to memory.) I knew when Sunday was because I could look out of the window and see the neighbor’s children, all dressed up, going to Sunday school. I knew just when Christmas was going to be.

But there was something queer! My father and mother didn’t say a word about Christmas. And once, when I spoke of it, there was a strange, embarrassed silence; so I didn’t say anything more about it. But I wondered and was troubled. Why didn’t they say anything about it? Was what I had said I wanted (memory refuses to supply that detail) too expensive?

I wasn’t arrogant and talkative now. I was silent and frightened. What was the matter? Why didn’t my father and mother say anything about Christmas? As the day approached, my chest grew tighter with anxiety.

Now it was the day before Christmas. I couldn’t be mistaken. But not a word about it from my father and mother. I waited in painful bewilderment all day. I had supper with them and was allowed to sit up for an hour. I was waiting for them to say something. “It’s time for you to go to bed,” my mother said gently. I had to say something.

“This is Christmas Eve, isn’t it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

My father and mother looked at one another. Then my mother looked away. Her face was pale and stony. My father cleared his throat, and his face took on a joking look. He pretended he hadn’t known it was Christmas Eve because he hadn’t been reading the papers. He said he would go downtown and find out.

My mother got up and walked out of the room. I didn’t want my father to have to keep on being funny about it, so I got up and went to bed. I went by myself without having a light. I undressed in the dark and crawled into bed.

I was numb. As if I had been hit by something. It was hard to breathe. I ached all through. I was stunned—with finding out the truth.

My body knew before my mind quite did. In a minute, when I could think, my mind would know. And as the pain in my body ebbed, the pain in my mind began. I knew. I couldn’t put it into words yet. But I knew why I had taken only a little bag of potatoes to Sunday school that fall. I knew why there had been only pennies in my little yellow envelope. I knew why I hadn’t gone to school that fall...why I hadn’t any new shoes...why we had been living on potato soup all winter. All these things, and others, many others, fitted themselves together in my mind and meant something.

Then the words came into my mind and I whispered them into the darkness:

“We’re poor!”

That was it. I was one of those poor children I had been sorry for when I heard about them in Sunday school. My mother hadn’t told me. My father was out of work, and we hadn’t any money. That was why there wasn’t going to be any Christmas at our house.

Then I remembered something that made me squirm with shame—-a boast. (Memory will not yield this up. Had I said to some Nice little boy, “I’m going to be President of the United States”? or to a Nice little girl, “I’ll marry you when I grow up”? It was some boast as horribly shameful to remember.)

“We’re poor.” There in bed in the dark, I whispered it over and over to myself. I was making myself get used to it. (Or—-just torturing myself; as one presses the tongue against a sore tooth? No, memory says not like that-—but to keep myself from ever being such a fool again: suffering now, to keep this awful thing from ever happening again. Memory is clear on that; it was more like pulling the tooth to get it over with—-never mind the pain, this will be the end!)

It wasn’t so bad, now that I knew. I just hadn’t known! I had thought all sorts of foolish things: that I was going to Ann Arbor, going to be a lawyer, going to make speeches in the square, going to be president. Now I knew better.

I had wanted something for Christmas. I didn’t want it now. I didn’t want anything.

I lay there in the dark, feeling the cold emotion of renunciation. (The tendrils of desire unfold their clasp on the outer world of objects, withdraw, shrivel up. Wishes shrivel up, turn black, die. It is like that.)

It hurt. But nothing would ever hurt again. I would never let myself want anything again.

I lay there stretched out straight and stiff in the dark, my fists clenched hard upon Nothing.

In the morning it had been like a nightmare that is not clearly remembered—-that one wishes to forget. Though I hadn’t hung up any stocking, there was one hanging at the foot of my bed. A bag of popcorn and a lead pencil, for me. They had done the best they could, now they realized that I knew about Christmas. But they needn’t have thought they had to. I didn’t want anything.

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:cry:

[fizzgig]

1. that is beautifully written and heartbreaking, thank you for sharing it