okay gonjo people, here's my last column. i just wanted some reactions is all. but this is a quick version of my life story, which is really, um, interesting. no, it's like a made-for-tv movie. i'm not kidding. anyway, this is titled 'high on life' and talks about my life as a pot-smoking welfare mother. imagine how i am loved in this country. that's why hunter s. thompson pisses me off. just cause this kind of shit is sooo much easier on a man. female versions, well, we get called a bunch of dirty whores so much we just have to go around grabbing our tatas in public. but man. what a life. i wrote this when my son was on house arrest. it was brutal. High on Life with Kathy Jo My therapist said I have what he called "a high tolerance for abuse." That would explain how I was able to live on the welfare for 12 years and why I "brag" about it. But people think collecting woe-fare is my way of saying "fuck you" to society when it sure feels like society saying "fuck you" to me. It's like being helped by a filthy-rich relative that makes you kiss his ass for it. A relative who spends a zillion dollars on his friends and blames you, who receive only a pittance, for his money troubles. Seems people think the taste of shit is sweet upon the lips. And I guess having a high tolerance for abuse is enabling me to try and explain why I've been on welfare so long when people will regard the sad facts of my life as nothing more than excuses. People never stop to think that I *must* have had good reason. But no, the feeling, even among you naughty liberals, is that being on welfare is a get-over. No one cares how it happens. The problem is that we envy people who don't "have to work" because we all know having a job sucks. A decent job can be a source of self-esteem but I've never seen a "will work for respect" sign around someone's neck. How many people would work if they didn't need their paychecks? You'd find something to do but you'd never have another boss. Yet you go to work. I collected welfare instead of getting some shitty job that pays the bills, but I couldn't even hope for one of those with my past. I accepted the shame of being on "relief" because I was grateful to have my baby, but I was not willing to put him in day care when he was an infant to save the taxpayers' money. I was not willing to abort him because I didn't have a career. Was I really supposed to care more about what society thought than the future of my own son? And how dare people expect me to do what they *think* they'd do? Some really spent souls envy me. They act like suffering is a precious asset that makes it okay to total your parent's car or live on welfare, like we ruin our lives for their amusement, not because of how we grew-up. Could be I was genetically disposed to be brutalized by men and hang out in titty bars, but Gee Wally, maybe my environment was a factor. Nah. I'm just a natural born whore. And when you're done reading this, don't feel *too* bad for thinking so little of me ~ for assuming I spent my sexless, lonely "youth" on busses (last winter was vintage bus misery) while living on the lowest income our society allows a non-aborted baby and its parent, on some decadent holiday. But next time you see someone in a bad way, please assume s/he's a good person with good reason who needs a break. Even if you don't think the reason's good enough (this is the tricky part). Still, why would a Jo-getter like me not have a jobby-job? For starters, I had a bad childhood. *Bully,* you say! We all suffer and the solution is to get over it. Again, I KNOW THAT WE ALL SUFFER. But you can't compare "getting over" being sent to your room for not eating your peas to "getting over" being beat to the floor for reasons you'll never remember. I'm not going to punish you with the details. *I-suffered-worse-than-you* battles can get pretty ugly. And I've heard much worse, especially among other welfarians. But after 16 years of therapy, I knew I would never be "normal," never have any real sense of self-worth or safety that I wouldn't have to fight for ~ even compliments feel like violent lies. I live in a state of panic. So yes, I am, um, *angry.* And even though I just graduated from Carnegie Mellon with University and College Honors and won their highest awards for my poetry, there are still people in the world who continually make me feel like a dirty whore. People who support Rick relax-your-throat-muscles Santorum. Saying I was a welfare-aholic was perfect. Noble tax-payers think we get strung-out on drugs or go on welfare just to piss them off, that a little will power is all we need. My first source of will power came when I found out I was pregnant in a local drug rehab. My life was no longer my own so I had to start caring what happened to me. I was 21 (1982), just returned from hitchhiking all over the country, had quit high school, had already been to jail and convicted of a felony and the only steady job I had was mud wrestling. I had two huge tattoos on my arms (and this was when having tattoos still meant you were a whore), and had a gash on my arm from a recent abscess I had from shooting dope. I was still losing my mind from a bad acid trip. My soul came out of my body and told me I marked myself (the tattoos) as punishment for an abortion I had the previous year. When I saw my ideal self, I felt a reverence for what I could be and was suicidal over the nightmare I had become. I wanted to die but my soul said I wasn't ready. A few months later I was pregnant again and knew I had to have my baby. Even though my grandmother called me a slut and my Pop Pop couldn't look me in the eyes. I was a *pregnant* whore with huge tattoos and no husband. I couldn't pull of the chaste, ruffly maternity look. In therapy, I had to make a list of good things about me. I said I could drive well. But I didn't have a car. But I was doing the right thing, blessings would come. Leo was born. After 30 hours of labor, he screamed for three months and never became the type of child to sleep or cooperate. Once he could walk, my baby-sitters started disappearing. And being a single mom is so lonely, seeing him walk for the first time alone, waking up Christmas morning, just two of us, feeling the absence of that third element. And I had to face teachers alone, the hospitals, all of it. That was my last pregnancy. And my last real boyfriend. I'd have rather gotten child support instead of welfare while I went to school. Why I didn't is a long, sad story. After all, it was *my* decision to have the baby. Anydamnway, I decided to wait until Leo was three to enroll at The University of North Side (community college). Learning was directed at empowerment, not getting your bullshit down pat so you can slip through life unscathed. At 6:30 a.m., me and Leo got our first bus. He even had his own headphones. I did really well and spent almost four years there but I had to learn what a sentence was, how to divide fractions. It was humiliating. My therapist said I should try and join Mensa. Funny. When people told me I was smart, I thought it meant they couldn't tell me I was beautiful. But he said maybe I'd meet an intelligent man. I scored in the 99th percentile on two tests. I wasn't crazy, I was a brilliant genius. I've been unbearable (and single) ever since. But at first, I tried so hard to be respectable, was clean and sober for years, had one of my tattoos seared off with a laser. I praised the Lord in public and was born again. And again and again. I just wanted to be *good.* To do the right thing for Leo. But one night while in a sexual-abuse group therapy session, I touched this swirling emptiness in me. I suddenly understood that something essential was taken from me. I still can't name it but I knew it was gone forever. Fine, I would live feeling like Kathy kick-me Jo but wanted a little relief. I started smoking pot in a few days and strangely enough, all the beauty I surrendered trying to be Jo-normal came back. I really was born again. The world was full of beauty and significance ~ not the dull wisdom of cynics. At the same time, I had my first taste of feminism (smells worse than it tastes). And thanks to Dr. John Eskridge, I realized that I could think anything I wanted. I finished an A.S. in General Studies with a 3.89 QPA and was selected to speak at commencements and made everyone cry. Then the president of the college asked me to speak in front of the faculty and staff. I got paid to talk. My life's dream. I didn't think I'd be a real writer until Leo grew up but wanted to at least study literature and make money. I started classes at Chatham as an English and secondary education major. And then the *Post-Gazette* did a two-page profile of me and Leo titled "To Hell's Angels and Back." It ran on Thanksgiving Day as a part of their *Rebuilding a Life* series. Funny ~ the Chatham people caught wind of my past and told me they would never recommend me for teaching certification. I cried so hard I couldn't breathe. No matter what I did, it seemed the world would never forgive me. But Sandy Sterner, an angel and my first writing teacher, told me that I had to quit laughing at myself and realize what I could do ~ write. And get paid for it no less. I applied to Carnegie Mellon because it was the top of the line. And because Jim Daniels taught there. His was the first poetry I ever read that really effected me (and for those of you who think a job is a source of dignity, read some of his poems). And CMU said "NO, JO!" I thought they had lost their minds. I proved I had academic "talent" and could offer the diversity colleges want so much regardless of the rigors of their homogenous selection process. I met with the Director of Admissions and told him the whole sordid story. He treated me with such genuine respect, I had tears in my eyes. The board thought I lacked consistency. I had to spend the fall at Chatham, taking half my classes at CMU. I also had to work at the Chatham Library because I ran out of student loan money. I traveled between campuses on busses and needed extra economics classes. I carried Visene because my eyes were so dry from not sleeping. But being in love with the Donny Osmond of Chatham College (an undoubtedly-married carpenter named Mitch with the rare combination of appearing to be good-looking and cool) kept me going (even though I never spoke to him). And I was indeed accepted at CMU. It took two and a half years to finish their programs. Being on welfare was actually a sign of prestige there. It's not in Carrick. Somewhere on the 54C I went from being a parasite on society to a proletariat hero. All this while keeping my apartment immaculate, plants watered, going to parenting groups, getting Leo a big brother and treatment for his ADD. All on busses. Sometimes I'd start dinner and forget my bookbag was still hanging off my back. What a gal. In May I received a B.A. in both creative and professional writing. While on my way to graduate, Leo walked with me in the procession. I knew what it meant for us. And there I was, someone who had read Foucault. I heard the damn Kiltie Band and started crying. After I got my degree, I saw my mom and couldn't keep the tears back as I hugged her. She was there from the beginning. And believe it or not, I kept crying, thinking about other people who just sink into all the bullshit. The people who didn't get big brains. Such a strange fortune. I will never forget that. I hope. I mean will I become a pseudo Jo if I end up a brilliant famous writer and the mother of Adam Duritz's children? Say it isn't so, Jo! Until then I wish someone would give me a j-o-b. I can write well if I have to. And I did design using a Macintosh platform for the Carnegie Mellon University Press. I received the highest grades in my classes at a school whose student body prided itself on how little it slept while raising a hyperactive child by my little ol' welfare self. I work well on my own and have excellent organizational and communication skills. I can design and sew clothes, fix a VCR and a sweeper, lift a 200 pound man on my back. I even did an internship at The Neighborhood of Make Believe organizing Mr. Rogers' (who really is very, very kind) fan mail. I am a quick learner and have been known to work like a dog. Call Jo, 431-4912. I kid you not. Patrons are encouraged as well. I do want to have money, even fantasize about being able to write a check at the Brentwood Giant Eagle (that's really in Carrick) where the cashiers card you when you use food stamps, even after you've been going there for years. Brutal. Plus, I want to rent a movie, want to put lipstick on in the rear-view mirror of my shiny car while blasting Pearl Jam on the radio. And I have to find *something* to do until I become a pop culture icon . . . Sadly enough, you're going to hear even fewer "success" stories like mine. I was only able to finish at CMU because I had less than two years to go when the laws changed. Now I'm told there's a list of vocations you must choose from involving no more than two-year degrees (for many, this is all they need to get started but I needed a least a Bachelor's in order to change the world). You can do something else but you won't get child care or transportation money (each teacher must sign a welfare attendance sheet everyday you're in class to get it, but hey, what's a little more humiliation, what's another public reminder of what a loser you are? After all, it pays well). In Pennsylvania, you can only get welfare for three months a year unless you have children under the age of six or some other "excuse." But the money is there, especially at community college. If you keep going, you'll have to go into debt but that's powerful motivation to make good grades. And if you're mad because you picked a practical career but want to be a writer, well now's good a time as any to go for it! Suffer as much abuse as possible to earn tortured-writer points but be prepared to gain weight so you'll have room for the scars you'll have accrued. Go ask your father to beat the fuck out of you, date men like him and have a baby that everyone tells you to abort. Work like a dog in school and go into debt for $25,000 while being accused of being selfish and lazy. Have bank tellers count out your money like you're retarded. Be accused of breeding for dollars while never having sex. Oh yeah, and then you'll have to thank everyone for how lucky you've been. And here's another happy fantasy, imagine if we woke up tomorrow and all the welfare recipients had jobs. Oops! Then all the caseworkers would be on welfare! I bet some of them would pray for caseworkers who'd understand how it feels to be on the other side of those desks. Regardless of what Harrisburg legislates, caseworkers decide what you do and don't get. And so many of them act like that money is coming out of their paychecks. Where do they think *their* paychecks come from? And a world without welfare would mean people accepted that the concept of the nuclear family blew up in our faces. People actually pride themselves on the fact that they don't care about anyone else, that they only take care of their own backyards. Lots of good that will do when the neighborhood collapses around you. But when I take over the world and make pot smoking mandatory, we won't be happy when we know someone else isn't. And then we'll all be happy! Aw. It brings a tear to my eye to think about how utterly desperate I must be to have said that. But how could I *not* believe in miracles . . .. ? copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer "how can a thing be wrong if it's done with love?" Suzie Atkins' response when questioned about her part in the Manson Murders