I Help Raise Your Kids for $18 an Hour. I Can't Afford to Keep My Job.

It's 1:30 in the morning. My cat—the one I didn't ask for—woke me up. Now I can't sleep. So I'm writing this instead.

I have the best job in the world. That's not sarcasm.

Every school day, for 3-4 hours, I hang out with about a hundred kids. I play. I observe. I look out for the behavioral foibles that five and six year olds are experiencing. Then I go home, reflect, and figure out how to show up better tomorrow.

I am a fun, but disciplinarian, teaching role. My job is to be a well-regulated adult. To not get in their way as much as possible. To be present.

I love these kids. I love being part of their lives.

And I cannot afford to keep this job.

The Math

I work about 17 hours a week. $18 an hour. On a good month, with no school breaks, I make about $1,000.

That's roughly what someone on SSI disability would get. Except I commute. I maintain a vehicle. I pay for gas to drive in rush hour every day. I do the emotional labor of secondhand parenting.

My rent is 150% of my income.

I don't have a grocery budget. I don't eat out. I don't go to concerts. I couldn't afford to enroll in health insurance this year. So if something happens to me—an injury, a sickness—I am on my own.

My response is to live very cautiously. Very carefully. To never get sick. To never get hurt. To never need anything.

The Walking

Earlier this year, my car's engine failed. To keep showing up for the kids, I had to self-organize carpooling and public transit. Some days, a co-teacher would drop me off within city limits, and I'd walk the rest of the way to the bus station. A few miles. Nothing crazy.

One evening, I was walking to catch the bus. Two miles. Side of the road. And I saw a family I care for—parents and kids—coming out of a nice dinner at a restaurant. They got into their nice car. They drove home.

They didn't see me.

If they had, maybe they would have offered a ride. Or maybe they would have looked away. Because I was walking on the side of the road, and that's what people who live in cars do. That's what people with 'Poorlio' get. The contagious disease where if you look me in the eye and say hello, your tits might fall off.

I'm glad the kids don't have to walk on the side of the road. I'm glad they have a safe place to live and a loving family. I'm a little older. I can weather the adversity.

But I'm tired of weathering it alone.

The Begging

I had to beg my faith community for help getting around and eventually to fix my car. I'm grateful. But that assistance only becomes possible when my life is in complete immolation. If I reach out with concerns about the direction of my life—preventative, not desperate—the level of tangible care just isn't there.

So I outsource my financial dread to a third party. I live on the generosity of others.

But you can only beg for donations so much before people start asking, why do they always have their hand out?

The Other Side

I am close to the other side of this hell. I have an online business I'm building. I have an interview for another job today—one that won't leave me walking on the side of the road.

But there's a possibility that if I get this job, it might mean I can't show up for the kids anymore.

And that would crush me.

But I need to put on my oxygen mask first.

What I Want You To Know

This is life in America right now for a very precarious economic class. The subsistence working class. The people who show up every day to care for your children, your elderly, your sick—and who cannot afford to care for themselves.

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm writing it because no one talks about what it actually costs to be the person who shows up.

I show up. I'm regulated. I'm slept. I'm fed. I'm emotionally leveled.

But I am also one broken car, one missed week of work, one medical emergency away from being on the street.

And I am not alone.

What Comes Next

I don't know if I'll get the job. I don't know if I'll have to stop showing up for the kids. I don't know how I'll afford rent next month.

But I know I'm not going to stop writing.

Because someone needs to name what this looks like. The walking. The 'Poorlio'. The math that doesn't work.

Maybe you're that person too. Maybe you're reading this and thinking, that's me. I'm the one walking on the side of the road. I'm the one who can't afford to keep the job that I love.

If that's you: I see you.

And I'm sorry we're both here.