What a beautiful and haunting gem of a story. Thank you, Sherman, for writing and posting it. I start teaching a creative nonfiction class on Monday, with the first assignment coincidentally titled "Story of Origins," and I've added "Blue Light Special" to the inspirational readings for the students. No doubt your voice will be heard in their stories--and I hope a few will subscribe to your Substack.
Jeb, I assigned "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" in my literature classes. My students had NO idea Indian life was so difficult and fraught with danger, seen and unseen. I still re-read it from time to time.
Thank you for sharing this piece. This line went deep with me: Like many kids from dysfunctional homes, my brother and I knew how to camouflage our poverty and pain.
So many truths in this story but one that really stands out is the line about foster care. I supervised child abuse investigations, physical and sexual, and I hated having to put a child in foster care. It was sometimes inevitable when many times a child’s mother would choose to stay with the abuser. Foster care was hit or miss. Anyway, loving your Substack as I’ve loved your books.
When my mother was drinking I'd sometimes make myself a dinner of saltine crackers with butter on them, and a glass of milk. I was 4 or 5. When she'd apologize the next day, so sad to find out that's all I'd eaten, I told her I loved saltines, especially with butter on them. For years, it remained my comfort food. No wonder.
I grew up middle class. We never had a lot, but we always had enough. Spent too much of my life wanting more, today I know I have everything I need. Loved ketchup growing up but never tried ketchup soup.
This resonates with me. The Indian kids I grew up with, and my family, and my eight siblings all contended with food insecurity. We shared. Lots of times my mother made extra fried baloney or grill cheese sandwiches for the neighbor kids, some of whom were my Indian pals. And there were times, they shared food with me. Carol and her mother, a silent Blackfoot Indian woman fed me a great plate of fried corn beef hash with toast. It was a feast and I was grateful. Love this essay. It makes people who grew up under challenging circumstances feel not so alone in their memories of struggle and deprivation... When we were desperate for money, we'd sell the Cabbage roses that grew in our front yard, together with the bright yellow Dandelions that grew in abundance in our front yard... LOL...
I relate with hiding that your parents were sometimes neglectful and the fear of being sent to foster care. My older half-brother is part Cherokee. His dad would leave my mom in the dead of winter in Indiana with no car to go on drinking binges with his buddies. There was no food in the house but she had a rifle. Squirrel stew isn't half-bad when you're hungry. Mom eventually left my brother's dad when he tried to teach my brother to swim by throwing him off a dock into a lake. Mom learned a lot of herbal remedies from her Cherokee mother-in-law, which she cherished. If it wasn't for the alcohol and the what it did to her husband, she would have stayed with him. She ended up back in Florida, which is how she became pregnant with me. My brother later in his life reconnected with his dad, who died of a heart attack a few years later. Thankfully, Mom eventually stopped dating guys who didn't treat her right. When I was a teen, she married my step-dad, a Cuban who had a strong sense of responsibility toward his family. In our latter years, we had a lot more stability in our home.
I am filled with gratitude for my life and that I can look back on the places where I was neglected and see the good parts in them. Thank you for sharing your own stories.
I had a girlfriend who related how her mother -- after dividing a watermelon among children and parents -- collected all the rinds and boiled them for soup! Ketchup soup; watermelon rind soup: both speak of a poverty that can never be forgotten. It is also a poverty that persists to the present day and is ignored by those in power.
I recognize the catsup soup. Brought back memories long stuffed away. Thank you, Sherman. I think. ha ha ha. Amazingly evocative language here, my friend.
These two statements struck home:
Hunger and patience are not friends,
and the last one about kids and forgiveness. Truth
thank you, Timothy.
Your characteristic economy with words works so powerfully here. Such a happiness to have regular access to your voice.
Thank you, Elizabeth.
Agreed.
I want to remember the kindness of your neighbors, who bought your art so that you and your brother could eat.
Yes, they were very kind.
What a beautiful and haunting gem of a story. Thank you, Sherman, for writing and posting it. I start teaching a creative nonfiction class on Monday, with the first assignment coincidentally titled "Story of Origins," and I've added "Blue Light Special" to the inspirational readings for the students. No doubt your voice will be heard in their stories--and I hope a few will subscribe to your Substack.
Thanks for including my work in your class!
Jeb, I assigned "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" in my literature classes. My students had NO idea Indian life was so difficult and fraught with danger, seen and unseen. I still re-read it from time to time.
Thank you. Beautiful sad essay. Love the line “strangers mistook forced maturation for precociousness.”
Thank you, Marguerite.
Thank you for sharing this piece. This line went deep with me: Like many kids from dysfunctional homes, my brother and I knew how to camouflage our poverty and pain.
Thank you, Joan.
So many truths in this story but one that really stands out is the line about foster care. I supervised child abuse investigations, physical and sexual, and I hated having to put a child in foster care. It was sometimes inevitable when many times a child’s mother would choose to stay with the abuser. Foster care was hit or miss. Anyway, loving your Substack as I’ve loved your books.
Thank you, Jim.
So goooooood. Hunger and patience are not friends. That’s the only theology that a poor kid knows. ⭐️
Thanks, Jenny.
This takes me back to making rice with grape jelly. Bon appétit should do a “things desperate children make“ issue.
A sad magazine, that one.
When my mother was drinking I'd sometimes make myself a dinner of saltine crackers with butter on them, and a glass of milk. I was 4 or 5. When she'd apologize the next day, so sad to find out that's all I'd eaten, I told her I loved saltines, especially with butter on them. For years, it remained my comfort food. No wonder.
I love saltines. Still do.
Children are incredible. Saltines and butter sounds delightful. We could break out the fine china and serve a dry white. To resilience 🥂
I grew up middle class. We never had a lot, but we always had enough. Spent too much of my life wanting more, today I know I have everything I need. Loved ketchup growing up but never tried ketchup soup.
Ketchup soup is very salty!
As are tears, and blood.
Forgiveness is life. It comes in many shapes and sizes. You done good.
Thank you, Sandra.
This resonates with me. The Indian kids I grew up with, and my family, and my eight siblings all contended with food insecurity. We shared. Lots of times my mother made extra fried baloney or grill cheese sandwiches for the neighbor kids, some of whom were my Indian pals. And there were times, they shared food with me. Carol and her mother, a silent Blackfoot Indian woman fed me a great plate of fried corn beef hash with toast. It was a feast and I was grateful. Love this essay. It makes people who grew up under challenging circumstances feel not so alone in their memories of struggle and deprivation... When we were desperate for money, we'd sell the Cabbage roses that grew in our front yard, together with the bright yellow Dandelions that grew in abundance in our front yard... LOL...
Turning desperation into capitalism...and vice versa.
I relate with hiding that your parents were sometimes neglectful and the fear of being sent to foster care. My older half-brother is part Cherokee. His dad would leave my mom in the dead of winter in Indiana with no car to go on drinking binges with his buddies. There was no food in the house but she had a rifle. Squirrel stew isn't half-bad when you're hungry. Mom eventually left my brother's dad when he tried to teach my brother to swim by throwing him off a dock into a lake. Mom learned a lot of herbal remedies from her Cherokee mother-in-law, which she cherished. If it wasn't for the alcohol and the what it did to her husband, she would have stayed with him. She ended up back in Florida, which is how she became pregnant with me. My brother later in his life reconnected with his dad, who died of a heart attack a few years later. Thankfully, Mom eventually stopped dating guys who didn't treat her right. When I was a teen, she married my step-dad, a Cuban who had a strong sense of responsibility toward his family. In our latter years, we had a lot more stability in our home.
I happy your family found a good path.
I am filled with gratitude for my life and that I can look back on the places where I was neglected and see the good parts in them. Thank you for sharing your own stories.
You know what? I felt inspired to write a short story from my childhood. With some of the fears hedged in by the beauty. Thanks again for sharing your stories! https://chandagriese.substack.com/p/the-ocean-and-the-river
I had a girlfriend who related how her mother -- after dividing a watermelon among children and parents -- collected all the rinds and boiled them for soup! Ketchup soup; watermelon rind soup: both speak of a poverty that can never be forgotten. It is also a poverty that persists to the present day and is ignored by those in power.
I didn't know that about watermelon soup.
I recognize the catsup soup. Brought back memories long stuffed away. Thank you, Sherman. I think. ha ha ha. Amazingly evocative language here, my friend.
Thank you, Sharron.
I'd love to see those pictures! And, then to be rewarded with chips and candy surprises.
Thanks, Susan.